The Ideology of Classicism: Language, History, and Identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Untersuchungen zur Antiken Literatur und Geschichte) issue 1862-1112

Nicolas Wiater The Ideology of Classicism

Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte Herausgegeben von Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, Peter Scholz und Otto Zwierlein

Band 105

De Gruyter

The Ideology of Classicism Language, History, and Identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus

by

Nicolas Wiater

De Gruyter

Ph.D. dissertation, Bonn University, 2008

ISBN 978-3-11-025658-1 e-ISBN 978-3-11-025911-7 ISSN 1862-1112 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wiater, Nicolas. The ideology of classicism : language, history, and identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus / by Nicolas Wiater. p. cm. − (Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte, ISSN 1862−1112) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-11-025658-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN 978-3-11-025911-7(ebk.) 1. Dionysius, of Halicarnassus − Criticism and interpretation. 2. Classicism − Greece − History. I. Title. PA3967.Z6W53 2011 880.91.001−dc22 2011010091

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2011 Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin/New York Typesetting: Rhema − Tim Doherty, Münster Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ⬁ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany. www.degruyter.com

For Pamela, Tino, and Fabi

Preface This book is a revised version of my Ph.D. dissertation which was accepted by the Philosophische Falkultät der Rheinischen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn in 2008. I am grateful to my referees, Professor Thomas A. Schmitz and Professor Konrad Vössing, and the other members of the examining board, Professor Dorothee Gall and Professor Otto Zwierlein, for their criticism and support, and to the editors of the Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte, Professor Otto Zwierlein, Professor Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, and Professor Peter Scholz, for accepting my manuscript for publication in the series; in particular, I wish to thank Professor Nesselrath who read the entire manuscript with extraordinary diligence and care and intercepted more than one error. To Professor Zwierlein I am most grateful not only for recommending this manuscript for publication in the UaLG series but also for his extraordinary support and encouragement over the years. Many thanks also to Katrin Hofmann and Dr Sabine Vogt of de Gruyter for their prompt assistance in bringing the manuscript through the final stages of publication. Many people have contributed to this book with their advice and support. First and foremost I would like to mention Professor Thomas A. Schmitz, to whom I owe more than could be expressed here. The longer I work in Classics, both as a researcher and a teacher, the more I realize how much I have learned from him. It was his work on Greek literature under the Roman Empire which first roused my interest in later Greek literature in 2004, when I wrote my Masters thesis on Diodorus Siculus, and the years since have been the most intellectually stimulating and rewarding of my life. Among many other things, Thomas Schmitz supported my application for a doctoral scholarship from the German National Academic Foundation (Studienstiftung des Deutschen Volkes) which gave me two years in which I could pursue my research on Dionysius of Halicarnassus without teaching obligations and administrative duties. I am grateful to the Studienstiftung for their financial support during this time, especially during the wonderful year as a visiting research student at Pembroke College, Cambridge. I would like

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to express my gratitude to Professor Simon Goldhill and Professor Richard Hunter for discussing my ideas with me and for their manifold support both during my time at Cambridge and afterwards. Furthermore, I would like to thank my parents, Susanne and Alfred Wiater, without whose support this book would never have been written, as well as my godfather and his wife, Heinz and Ute Kutzner, and my grandparents, Josef and Lydia Müller, for their generous and constant support and interest in my work. Jamie Sutherland read the manuscript at an earlier stage and greatly helped me with my English. Among the numerous people who have, in one way or another, contributed to this project, I would like to single out the following three: Fabian Meinel and my partner, Pamela Hutcheson, who read the entire manuscript, discussed my argument with me, corrected my English, and provided moral support. Tino Schweighöfer, my oldest and closest friend, was, as always, an unfailing source of encouragement and sanum iudicium. The only adequate way to show them my gratitude and affection is to dedicate this book to them.

Table of Contents

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Introduction: The Aims and Methods of This Study

........

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1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’ – A Novel Approach to Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1.1 Dionysius’ Classicism as a Cultural Phenomenon . . 1.1.2 Dionysius – an ‘Augustan’ Author? . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.1.3 A Cultural Identity Approach to Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2 The Conceptual Framework of Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . 1.2.1 Criticism as a Struggle for Authority . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2.2 Dionysius’ Critical Method as Heir to the Tradition of Classical Rhetoric . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2.3 The Power of the Text: Creating a Discursive Tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.2.4 Criticism as Constituent of Communities of Intellectuals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1.3 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

47 52

2. Reviving the Past: Language and Identity in Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

60

2.1 Introduction: Language and Time in Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2 FilÏsofoc
1 1 8 18 29 32 40 44

60 65 65 77

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2.3 Language and Power: Getting the Romans into the Picture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.1 Greeks, Romans, Barbarians: Dionysius’ Interpretation of Augustan Rome . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.2 Dionysius’ Interpretation of the Roman Present in Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.3 Greek or Roman? The Ambiguity of Dionysius’ View of Augustan Rome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3.4 Coda: How Historical is Dionysius’ Model of History? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. History and Criticism: The Construction of a Classicist Past

92 92 100 107 110 116

. . 120

3.1 ‘Metahistory’ avant la lettre: Dionysius on Historical Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2 Deconstructing Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.1 Identifying with the Past: Why Herodotus Succeeded where Thucydides Failed . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.2 Classicist History: Theopompus’ ‘Isocratean’ Approach to the Past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2.3 Between History and Criticism: Re-writing the Melian Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3 A Greek Past for the Roman Present: The Project of Dionysius’ Antiquitates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.1 EŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c: The Archaeology of Roman Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.3.2 Identity and Difference: Be Roman, Go Greek? . . . 3.4 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

121 130 132 149 154 165 171 198 223

4. Knowledge and Elitism: Being a Classicist Critic . . . . . . . . . . . 226 4.1 >Anàgnwsic Trofò LËxewc: Reading and Distinction in Dionysius’ Classicism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2 ‘Authentic Reading’: Becoming a Classicist Critic . . . . . . . 4.2.1 The Failures of Scholarship Past: Redressing the Balance between Theory and Practice . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.2 Misreading Tradition: Deconstructing Chrysippus . . 4.2.3 Refuting the Idea of a ‘Natural Word Order’ . . . . . .

230 235 235 239 243

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4.2.4 On Literary Composition : A Normative Aesthetics of Classical Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.2.5 Dionysius’ Writings: A Classical Course of Education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3 The Mysteries of Education: Being an Elite Critic . . . . . . . 4.3.1 Knowledge and Elitism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3.2 The Mysteries of Knowledge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.3.3 Classical Politicians and Classicist Readers: Knowledge and Leadership . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.4 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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246 257 263 264 267 270 277

5. Enacting Distinction: The Interactive Structure of Dionysius’ Writings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279 5.1 Criticism as Dialogic Interaction: Creating an ‘Imagined Community’ of Classicists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2 Strategies of Distinction: Out-Group Reading . . . . . . . . . 5.2.1 ‘Objective Critic’ vs ‘Subjective Critic’: The Peripatetic on Trial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.2.2 The Aesthetics of Criticism: Dionysius vs the Platonists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5.3 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Conclusions References

281 297 303 310 348

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361

Indices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387 1. Key Notions, Persons, Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387 2. Greek Terms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391 3. Passages Discussed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392

1. Introduction: The Aims and Methods of This Study 1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’1 – A Novel Approach to Dionysius’ Classicism 1.1.1 Dionysius’ Classicism as a Cultural Phenomenon Ever since Bonner’s study of the development of Dionysius’ thought, now a classic itself, scholarly interest in the rhetorical works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus has increased steadily.2 70 years after the publication of Bonner’s treatise, Dionysius’ linguistic and rhetorical theories seem to have been exhaustively explored; scholars have examined Dionysius’ conceptual vocabulary (and its consistency), such as Schenkeveld’s and Damon’s detailed analyses of Dionysius’ notions of aesthetic evaluation, especially his use of älogoc a“sjhsic, Vaahtera’s study of ‘Phonetics and Euphony in Dionysius of Halicarnassus,’ 3 or Pohl’s study on the Çreta– and qarakt®rec t®c lËxewc.4 Dionysius’ critical methods too attracted attention: Viljama examined Dionysius’ analysis of sentence structures; 5 de Jonge focused on the use of metathesis, the technique of re-writing a passage from a Classical author, 6 and assessed Dionysius’ importance as a historian of linguistics. 7 The linguistic-historical approach to Dionysius’ works culminated recently in de Jonge’s dissertation ‘Between Grammar and Rhetoric. Dionysius of

1 Geertz (1973) 5. 2 Bonner (1939); earlier studies of Dionysius’ critical works, or aspects of them, are, e.g., Blass (1863); Roessler (1873); v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1899); Kalinka (1924) and (1925). 3 Schenkeveld (1975); Damon (1991); Vaahtera (1997); cf. also Görler (1979). 4 Pohl (1968). 5 Viljama (2003). 6 de Jonge (2005a). 7 Id. (2005).

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Halicarnassus on Language, Linguistics, and Literature,’ 8 the most comprehensive study to date not only of the sources of Dionysius’ ideas, but also of how he combined theories from such various strands as musical, grammatical and rhetorical theory, and (mainly Stoic) philosophy in his own, original system of thought. Dionysius is concerned with questions of grammar, rhetoric, and the aesthetics of speech, and every scholar working on his œuvre has to be familiar with this linguistic side of his. But even a study like de Jonge’s, which takes Dionysius seriously as a theoretician of rhetoric in his own right, represents a shift only in the evaluation of Dionysius as a thinker, but not in method. With his predecessors de Jonge shares an approach to Dionysius which remains reconstructional in purpose: he, like the other representatives of the linguistic approach, attempts to identify the sources on which Dionysius drew,9 which elements he adopted from each of them, and how he used these elements as the constituents of his own approach. The individual studies adopting the linguistic approach thus differ from each other mainly in the degree to which the authors allow for Dionysius’ influence on the material he found in his sources. Such an approach neglects (and maybe has to neglect) the fact that the various rhetorical, grammatical, musical, and philosophical theories which Dionysius applied in his criticism were not an end in themselves, but served a purpose beyond satisfying a purely intellectual interest in classical language and literature. de Jonge rightly remarks that ‘Dionysius’ views on literature are always subservient to the production of (rhetorical) texts through imitation of classical models,’ 10 but he does not inquire further into the reasons for Dionysius and his addressees’ desire to write ‘Classical’ (or what they thought to be Classical) texts: 11 focusing on the What and the 8 de Jonge (2008); as I was writing this study, de Jonge’s book had not yet been published. I am very grateful to Dr de Jonge for sending me a copy of his study and granting me invaluable insights into the results of his research. 9 de Jonge’s approach should not, however, be confused with traditional nineteenth-century source criticism from which he rightly distances himself ([2008] 7–8). He explicitly rejects the attempt to speculate about concrete sources; instead, he defines as the aim of his study to ‘point to the possible connections between Dionysius’ discourse and that of earlier and contemporary scholars of various backgrounds’ in order to ‘draw a general picture of the set of ideas and technical theories that were available in the Augustan age’ (ibid .). 10 de Jonge (2008) 7. 11 As ch. 2 will show, ‘Classical’ is a highly symbolically charged term for Dionysius with not only aesthetical and stylistic but also moral and political implications. His conception of ‘Classical’ rhetoric is therefore very different from ours. Hence whenever reference is

1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’

3

How, the linguistic approach neglects the Why. The emphasis on mimesis as the aim of Dionysius’ criticism thus pushes the problem only one stage further back: understanding the purpose of Dionysius’ evaluation of the style of the classical authors helps us accept the fact that his at times harsh criticism of such authors as Plato or Thucydides is so different from our own. Accepting that Dionysius’ criticism served a specific purpose enables us to study his ideas and methods on their own and to appreciate Dionysius’ intellectual achievement, instead of criticising him for his lack of taste. 12 But it does not help us to understand this desire for mimesis itself which motivates his criticism and thus leaves a crucial element of Greek classicism unexplained. This study proposes a different way of looking at Dionysius’ classicism. Rather than as a linguistic, I will approach Dionysius’ classicism as a social-cultural phenomenon. This approach rests on the assumption that the fact that a group of Greek and Roman intellectuals in the first century BCE attempted to speak and write like authors who had lived three hundred or so years before their times is a phenomenon which requires explanation. Underlying this approach is a ‘semiotic concept of culture’ 13 and human interaction which was developed by the cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz. Following Max Weber, Geertz describes man as ‘an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun,’ culture constituting those webs. 14 Human actions are never neutral, but acts of communication; they carry a significance which needs to be interpreted by the recipient whose re-action will be determined by this interpretation. Human action is ‘symbolic’: made to Dionysius’ particular notion of the ‘Classical’ and the world view bound up with it, ‘Classical’ will be written with a capital ‘C’ in order to distinguish it from other uses of the term. In the same way, ‘Classicists’ will designate those intellectuals who adopted Dionysius’ Classicist ideology as opposed to ‘classicists’ meaning ‘modern scholars of classics.’ ‘Neo-Classicists’ did not seem an appropriate term to refer to Dionysius and the members of his community because they conceived of themselves as genuinely ‘Classical’ (see ch. 2.2 below), an aspect of Dionysius’ self-definition which the prefix ‘neo’ might obscure to a certain extent. Consequently, ‘Classicism’ with a capital ‘C’ will refer specifically to Dionysius’ conception of classical language and way of life as opposed to other ‘(neo-)classicist’ movements at other times, for example in 19th-century Germany. See the discussion below, pp. 48–49 with n. 148. 12 de Jonge (2008) 7; however, de Jonge correctly points out that the latter attitude has been abandoned in recent scholarship (ibid. 8–9). 13 Geertz (1973a) 14. 14 Ibid. 5.

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1. Introduction: The Aims and Methods of This Study the peculiar and distinctive character of interaction as it takes place between human beings [is] the fact that human beings interpret or “define” each other’s actions instead of merely reacting to each other’s actions. Their “response” is not made directly to the actions of one another but instead is based on the meaning of one another’s actions. This mediation is equivalent to inserting a process of interpretation between stimulus and response in the case of human behaviour. 15

The meaning of actions is understandable only from within the particular context in which they are performed. This context is culture: culture provides the parameters in which human beings expect each other’s actions to be interpreted: As interworked systems of construable signs (what, ignoring provincial usages, I would call symbols), culture is not a power, something to which social events, behaviours, institutions, or processes can be causally attributed; it is a context, something within which they can be intelligibly – that is thickly – described.16

Therefore understanding human interaction depends on understanding how members of communities interpret each other’s actions. The anthropologist makes actions of members of a foreign society understandable to the members of his society by explaining the principles according to which the members of the foreign society invest their actions with meaning. Geertz calls this process the ‘thick description’:17 ‘descriptions of Berber, Jewish, or French culture must be cast in terms of the constructions we imagine Berbers, Jews, or Frenchmen to place upon what they live through, the formulae they use to define what happens to them.’ 18 In the past, archaeological and historical studies of the ancient world in particular have greatly profited from cross-fertilization with anthropological methods: reading the Odyssey with the system of gift-giving explored by Marcel Mauss, Moses I. Finley offered exciting new insights into the society of the Dark Ages; 19 Eric R. Dodds’ The Greeks and the Irrational explored Greek religion applying, among others, anthropological theories of shame and guilt cultures; more recently, Leslie Kurke has furthered our 15 Blumer (1962) 180; cf. Cohen (1985) 42: ‘any behaviour, no matter how routine, may have a symbolic aspect if members of society wish to endow it with such significance.’ This approach to human interaction ultimately goes back to George Herbert Mead and is now known under the name of ‘symbolic interactionism,’ a term coined by Herbert Blumer in 1969; see the overview in Rose (1962a) and the contributions collected in Rose (1962). 16 Geertz (1973a) 14. 17 Ibid. 6. 18 Ibid. 15. 19 The World of Odysseus (New York 1977).

1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’

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understanding of the social mechanisms lying behind Pindaric praise poetry on the basis of native Indian potlatch. 20 This list could be extended considerably.21 Yet, apart from the novel ways of looking at individual areas of ancient culture and society such as age-setting, agriculture, burial-rituals, the family, gender-protocols, law, sexuality, slavery, and drama provided by anthropology, 22 ‘the greatest value to the classicist in the dialogue’ with anthropology, as Finley pointed out, is ‘the cultivation of an approach, a habit of thought – I might say a methodology.’ It seems to me that an investigation of Greek classicism can profit from this last aspect in particular. Anthropological studies remind us that the overwhelming influence of ancient culture on Western thought and civilisation can engender a sensation of familiarity with the ancient world which blinds us to the differences separating our culture from antiquity. In some aspects of ancient society these differences are blatant; Greek pederasty, the role of women, or slavery are obvious examples. In these cases comparison with other, non-Western societies can help us understand these phenomena. Intellectual activities such as studying classical Greek language and literature, by contrast, are more problematic because we seem to share these practices with the ancients. Here anthropology warns us against such cultural ‘false friends’ by reminding us that similar practices in different cultures can be deceptive as their respective meaning depends on the context in which they are performed, rather than on the activity being performed itself. To a Greek scholar from Halicarnassus, studying and teaching classical Greek grammar and rhetoric in Augustan Rome has an entirely different meaning than the same activity has to a twenty-first century Western European scholar. An in-depth discussion of the similarities and differences of classics and anthropology is beyond the scope of this study. Nevertheless, I would like to suggest certain aspects in which the work of an anthropologist attempting to give a thick description of, for example, Balinese cock fight can be viewed as comparable to that of a classicist investigating Greek classicism in the first century BCE.23 I hope that such a comparison will help to clarify my approach to Dionysius’ classicism. Anthropologists and classicists alike aim to interpret actions of members of a foreign culture and to make 20 The Traffics in Praise. Pindar and the Poetics of Social Economy (Ithaca 1991). 21 See the discussion of anthropological methods in classical studies by Humphreys (1978), esp. 17–30; Cartledge (1995a); Finley (1986); cf. French (1982); Kluckhohn (1961). 22 These and other topics are listed by Cartledge (1995a); cf. Finley (1986), 116–117. 23 The example of Balinese cock fight is from Geertz (1973b).

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them comprehensible to their audiences. An important difference is that anthropologists seem to be in a more advantageous situation than classicists in that they focus on societies which are contemporary, but separated from them by space. Classicists, by contrast, deal with a society from which they are separated by time and space. Therefore anthropologists can rely on first-hand evidence for their interpretations: they are able to travel to Bali and watch a cock fight while classicists have to reconstruct the performance of a Greek drama, or the activity of Greek and Roman intellectuals, from literary and archaeological evidence alone. This difference notwithstanding, both disciplines appear to be similar in that the very interpretation of the foreign culture, the ‘thick description,’ depends in both cases on informants from within the society which is being studied: the classicists’ informants are texts and archaeological evidence, whereas anthropologists rely on observations which they seek to contextualize by means of statements of people. Again, anthropologists seem to be in the more advantageous position because they are able to ask specific questions and thus obtain more comprehensive information. But this information itself must be evaluated by the anthropologist because even an informant from within a foreign society does not, and cannot, provide the one correct explanation of a phenomenon but only his own interpretation of it. A classicist’s and an anthropologist’s work might therefore be regarded as similar in the one fundamental aspect that both seek to render foreign cultural practices familiar to themselves and their recipients by interpreting interpretations, i. e., by providing a ‘thick description’ of the practices of a foreign culture on the basis of partial and selective information from within this foreign culture.24 Classicists and anthropologists thus seem to differ mainly in the kind of sources on which they draw, but the process of interpretation, which is carried out by each of them, is similar: it has a similar aim, it employs similar methods to achieve this aim, and it is subject to similar imponderables. 25 24 Cf. Geertz (1973a) 20; ibid. 15. 25 Cf. Lévi-Strauss (1949) 18: ‘the fundamental difference between the two disciplines [history and anthropology] is not one of subject, of goal, or of method. They share the same subject, which is social life; the same goal, which is a better understanding of man; and, in fact, the same method, in which only the proportion of research techniques varies. They differ, principally, in their choice of complementary perspectives. History organizes its data in relation to conscious expressions of social life, while anthropology proceeds by examining its unconscious foundations.’

1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’

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The purpose of this book is to provide such a ‘thick description’ of Greek classicism, an interpretation, that is, of what meaning Dionysius and his readers attributed to reading and writing classical texts within their culture. Therefore the question I will pursue in this study is why it made sense to these intellectuals at this particular time and at this particular place to attempt to speak and write like classical authors. 26 An explanation of this phenomenon cannot be provided by an analysis of Dionysius’ critical and aesthetical categories, his criteria of evaluation, or by tracing similarities and differences between Dionysius’ opinion on classical texts and those of other critics, such as Ps.-Demetrius’ On Style or Philodemus’ essays. It must be sought in the way in which these scholars imagined their literary and rhetorical activity to be connected with their social and cultural surroundings, in their interpretation of the world, and of the role they ascribed to themselves in it, their self-definition. Such an approach is concerned with what may be defined as Dionysius’ ‘imaginary universe’ 27 which endowed his literary criticism with meaning. Recently, two studies have shown how fruitful it is to approach Dionysius’ critical writings from such an angle: Hidber’s Das klassizistische Manifest des Dionys von Halikarnass. Die praefatio zu De oratoribus veteribus: Einleitung, Übersetzung, Kommentar and Porter’s ‘Feeling Classical: Classicism and Ancient Literary Criticism.’28 Hidber shows that Dionysius’ Classicism implies an interpretation of Augustan Rome as the continuation of the Classical past and that Dionysius conceived of himself and his educational programme as the successor of Isocrates and his conception of civic identity. Porter draws attention to the importance of the reading experience for a ‘Classicist’s’ 29 construction of identity: Classicists saw reading classical texts as a means to overcome the temporal distance between present and Classical past and, in this way, to feel classical themselves. These studies have demonstrated that Dionysius’ literary criticism is bound up with a particular world view and a conception of identity; they have provided important insights into constituent elements of Dionysius’ ‘imaginary universe,’ and suggested ways of how to explore it. But their scope is necessarily limited: Hidber deals with only one, albeit programmatic, text of Dionysius’, and Porter 26 For an attempt to locate Dionysius within the culture of his times see Hurst (1982). 27 For this term see White (1969) 623; cf. Gehrke’s ‘imaginaire,’ which he glosses as the ‘Vorstellungshorizont einer Gesellschaft’ ([2005] 51). 28 Hidber (1996); Porter (2006b); cf. id. (2006a). 29 On my use of this term see above, p. 2 n. 11.

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confines himself to the role of the reading experience. Moreover, neither of them develops a theoretical framework in order to define their approach to Dionysius’ Classicism, to base their findings on a solid methodology, and to create a foundation for further investigations. Thus while paving the way for a fresh view on Dionysius’ criticism, they call for a comprehensive, systematic study of Dionysius’ Classicism as a social-cultural phenomenon. The present study aims to fill this lacuna. It will discuss Dionysius’ Classicism from the angle of cultural identity and explore the outlook on the world which is bound up with literary criticism and the study of classical texts and language. Dionysius’ criticism, I will argue, makes classical Greek language and literature constituents of a conception of Greek identity in Augustan Rome. Such an approach will, I hope, not only offer us a novel way of looking at Dionysius’ criticism; it will also permit us to re-evaluate Greek classicism as an integral part of the intellectual culture of Augustan Rome. In the following section I will explain the concept of ‘Augustan culture’ that underlies this study and offer some suggestions as to how discussing Dionysius’ literary criticism might influence our way of thinking about this concept. In section 1.1.3 I will then develop a theoretical framework which allows us to address Dionysius’ Classicism as a discourse of cultural identity.

1.1.2 Dionysius – an ‘Augustan’ Author? Based mainly on the works of Galinsky, Wallace-Hadrill, and Barchiesi, 30 our approach to the ‘Age of Augustus’ 31 has undergone what could be called a ‘discursive turn.’ 32 We have given up the idea of a uniform image of society and culture in Augustan Rome the different elements of which can easily be categorized as ‘pro-’ or ‘anti-Augustan.’ Instead, the prevailing notion of ‘Augustan culture’ is now that of ‘a time of transition, of continuing

30 See Galinsky (1996); (2005); the series of articles by Wallace-Hadill (1988); (1989); (1990); (1997); (1998); and, most recently, his comprehensive study (2008), esp. 3–37 (ch. 1: ‘Culture, Identity, and Power’); Barchiesi (1994), esp. 1–44. Other important works on the subject include the contributions collected in Powell (1992); Elsner (1996); cf. Phillips (1983). Further titles relevant to this subject are cited in my discussion of the relation of Dionysius’ historical work, the Antiquitates Romanae, to its Augustan context below, pp. 206–223. 31 For this term see the title of Galinsky (2005). 32 Cf. Barchiesi (1994) 8.

1.1 ‘Webs of Significance’

9

experimentation’ 33 in which many institutions ‘were in a state of nascence and evolution.’ 34 Augustan society is no longer seen as controlled by a monolithic ideology which the princeps sought systematically to impose on all different spheres of society, but as a complex and ‘dynamic tension’ between ‘authorial intent’ (identified by Galinsky as Augustus’ auctoritas) and ‘latitude of response’: Augustus and his conception of rulership represented a ‘strong center of ideas’ which ‘encourage[d] creative response and interpretation’: 35 We are not dealing with a political, let alone cultural, model that involves constant top-down commands and Augustus as the sole agent. Instead of a rigidly hierarchical “organization of opinion” in particular, the emphasis is on the initiatives of many, especially in the areas of art and literature. 36 […] [Augustus’] actions suggested the broad themes […]. These themes were expressed, elaborated, and extended by individuals in their own way. By connecting them with other themes of their own choice, these participants extended the range of references even further. 37

The present study builds on this notion of ‘Augustan’ culture as a dynamic dialectics of different discourses (social, political, cultural, etc.) and the ‘master discourse’ of Augustus’ imperial ideology, which evolved by mutually influencing and shaping each other. The most important consequences of this new approach are, first, that we have realized that Augustus’ power was as much shaped by the different discourses as it sought to shape them: the notion of the principate itself was not a stable, monolithic given, but evolved and changed through the dialectics with other discourses. And second, we no longer view Augustan power as a process of actively imposing a political programme, or ‘propaganda,’ as it is often called, 38 on society. This does not mean, of course, that Augustus did not endeavour to influence different spheres of society and even use political reprisals to achieve his objectives – the fate of Ovid or Gallus clearly contradict such a view, and it is hard to imagine how Augustus could have achieved any kind of stability and control 33 34 35 36

Galinsky (1996) 9, following Feeney (1992). Ibid. 8. Ibid. 12. Ibid. 13; cf. ibid. 20: Augustus’ rulership was not based on propaganda but ‘a reciprocal and dynamic process in which the emperor’s role is hard to pin down’; therefore, Augustus’ auctoritas was ‘directly reflected’ in, yet not imposed upon ‘literature and the arts, including the coinage.’ 37 Ibid. 37. 38 Cf. the essays collected in Powell (1992).

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without a certain political pressure. But the crucial point is that Augustus did not exert such pressure systematically to suppress elements of contemporary society that did not fit some sort of a predefined and unchangeable set of rules. Consequently, no attempt should be made to explain the politics, culture, and society of the first century BCE as the result of any such ‘master plan’ of the princeps and discuss their different elements in terms of ‘pro-’ and ‘anti-Augustan.’ Yet, this discursive conception of ‘Augustan’ culture is sometimes employed in a way that seems problematic in that it onesidedly focuses on those spheres of society which are known, or can at least be reasonably assumed, to have directly interacted with the ‘master discourse’ of Augustan power. This narrow focus risks making the direct interaction with Augustan power the only standard by which we define (or exclude) certain elements of first-century Roman culture as constituents of ‘Augustan’ culture and, therefore, as relevant to our image of it. As a result, we are presented with an image of ‘Augustan’ culture which is as Augustus-centred as the one which the ‘discursive’ approach was supposed to correct. When applied in this limited way, the ‘discursive’ approach falls short of its possibilities: instead of offering the reader a novel conception of ‘Augustan’ culture it only offers a different way of conceiving of the way in which Augustus exerted his power within contemporary culture and society. This tendency, however, does not concern the increasing number of specialized studies of individual authors of the first century BCE. Primarily, it is found in those studies that endeavour to present a comprehensive account of ‘Augustan culture,’ such as Galinsky’s Augustan Culture. An Interpretive Introduction or The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus. 39 Therefore, in the following pages, I would like to address certain problems that seem to me to be inherent in the image of ‘Augustan’ culture offered in such comprehensive studies. Naturally, such studies have to be very selective in which aspects of ‘Augustan’ culture they discuss because it was so multifaceted. But for this very reason, they risk presenting a somewhat distorted image of their subject. This seems particularly problematic because titles such as Augustan Culture might lead readers to assume that all essential aspects of ‘Augustan’ culture have been covered. Moreover, because of their 39 The following discussion is therefore primarily concerned with Galinsky (1996) and (2005). Focusing on Galinsky’s conception of ‘Augustan culture’ seems justified as his Augustan Culture can and has, in fact, been regarded as ‘the most important single volume about the Augustan period since Zanker’s Power of Images’ (Smith [1997]).

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apparent comprehensiveness such studies might often be the first or, indeed, the only works consulted on ‘Augustan’ culture and therefore have considerable impact on the prevalent image of first-century BCE Roman society and culture. The difficulties of the concentration on Augustus can be illustrated with Galinsky’s notion of ‘Augustan’ culture which he bases on Augustus’ own conception of auctoritas at RG 34,40 the essence of which he paraphrases as ‘Augustus navigated on the stream of history and was successful because he did not oversteer. He saw himself that way […].’ 41 This metaphor implies that ‘the stream of history’ is relevant only insofar as it directly interacted with the ‘steersman’ Augustus who attempted to find the middle ground between influencing and being influenced. The core of the metaphor is the idea of a direct reciprocity between Augustus and cultural and societal discourses which implies that only those spheres of first-century Roman society are relevant to (our image of) ‘Augustan’ culture which can be shown to have interacted with Augustus. Hence, ‘Augustan’ culture and society as a whole appears to be of interest only inasmuch it can help us understand the nature of Augustus’ principate and the structure of his power. Sculptures, coins, texts, paintings, and other artifacts are thus reduced to testimonies which further our understanding of the nature of Augustan power by allowing us to study the interrelation of political power and cultural discourse. 42 The focus of Galinsky’s studies 40 […] auctoritate omnibus praestiti, potestatis autem nihilo amplius habui quam ceteri qui mihi quoque in magistratu conlegae fuerunt. The fragments of Augustus’ works are cited by Malvocati’s edition, Caesaris Augusti Imperatoris Operum Fragmenta (Torino 1928). Galinsky gives a detailed discussion of Augustus’ auctoritas in (1996) 10–20. I do not intend to deny that authority and the re-definition of authority are crucial, probably the crucial elements of the Augustan principate without which an understanding of ‘Augustan culture’ is impossible; the importance of authority to Augustus’ rulership and its interaction with different areas of culture has also been demonstrated by Wallace-Hadrill in an illuminating study (1997). My point here is that the focus on authority risks reducing the complexity and diversity of ‘Augustan culture.’ For a similar criticism (although for different reasons) see Wendt’s (2007) discussion of Galinsky (2005). Heinze (1925) remains the fundamental discussion of the meaning of auctoritas. 41 Galinsky (2005a) 6. 42 The close connection between exploring different elements of ‘Augustan’ culture and understanding the specific nature of Augustus’ power is emphasised by Wallace-Hadrill (1997) 7: ‘that power is restructured and exercised in different ways under Augustus is obvious. What makes the Augustan restoration revolutionary is that it involves a fundamental relocation and redefinition of authority in Roman society. By focusing on authority, it may be possible to grasp something of the links between the refashioning of political

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is clear from his distinction between two types of power on which political superiority lasts: ‘hard power,’ i. e., military domination, and ‘soft power,’ i.e., ‘culture in its various aspects.’ Any investigation of ‘Augustan’ writers is thus centred on the question of how Augustus ‘appropriated [the] practitioners’ of ‘cultural activity.’43 Underlying Galinsky’s approach to the ‘Age of Augustus’ is what Homi Bhabha has described as the assumption of a ‘preconstituted holistic cultur[e], that contain[s] within [it] the cod[e] by which it can legitimately be read.’ 44 With Augustus’ conception of auctoritas Galinsky provides such a ‘code’ to first-century Roman politics and culture the legitimacy of which is supposed to be guaranteed by the fact that it was introduced by the princeps himself: ‘he saw himself that way …’ The main problem with approaching first-century Roman culture and society through the spectacles of Augustan auctoritas is that it implies accepting a hermeneutical framework which pre-determines the questions which we address to social-cultural phenomena of first-century BCE Rome and the criteria by which we select certain phenomena as relevant while leaving others aside. Not enough attention has been paid to the fact that Augustus’ conception of auctoritas is not to be taken as an objective, factual description of the nature of his rule. Rather, Augustus’ definition of auctoritas, as opposed to potestas, as the foundation of his power is itself part of Augustus’ strategy to justify and maintain his superiority: defining himself as a primus inter pares, Augustus offered his subjects a conception of rulership which concealed his actual influence as much as possible and downplayed his attempt actively to impinge on the lives of his subjects. Augustus’ notion of auctoritas was thus a cornerstone of the illusion that the principate was firmly inscribed in the traditional constellation of power (potestas) of the res publica libera which Augustus claimed to have restored.45 Res Gestae 34, authority on the one hand, and the refashioning of moral, social and cultural authority on the other […].’ 43 Galinsky (2005a) 4. 44 On the attempt to understand other cultures by extrapolating from them ‘the codes by which they can be legitimately read’ see Bhabha (1994) 179. 45 It is significant that Augustus introduces the notion of auctoritas in the concluding sentence to the very paragraph in which he describes that his rise to power was based on the consent of the whole populace; that he had used this power to restore the res publica to the senate and the people; and that this was the reason why he was awarded the title Augustus (in consulatu sexto et septimo, postquam bella civilia extinxeram, per consensum universorum potitus rerum omnium, rem publicam ex mea potestate in senatus populique Romani arbitrium transtuli. Quo pro merito senatus consulto Augustus appellatus sum […], emphasis mine).

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and the self-definition of Augustus which it proclaims, are themselves means of exerting power, of achieving unity and homogeneity by convincing the subjects to accept Augustus’ leadership. 46 By constructing a homogeneous image of ‘Augustan’ culture and society based on Augustus’ auctoritas, we are, in fact, adopting an Augustan perspective on the culture of his times. Augustus’ aim to control society by establishing cultural, moral, and political homogeneity through auctoritas lurks behind the current image of ‘Augustan’ culture as centred on Augustan power. Imposing this idea of unity on the culture and society in Augustan Rome can itself be seen as an act of cultural imperialism which excludes all those authors from consideration who cannot be assumed at least potentially to have influenced the princeps or been influenced by him. As a result, discussions of ‘Augustan’ literature are usually concerned exclusively with Latin authors and among these only those who were directly connected with the princeps. ‘Augustan’ literature thus appears to consist almost exclusively of Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, whose works are discussed under such headings as: how did these authors position themselves towards key topics of Augustus’ moral and political programme? how did they negotiate, transform, or even undermine Augustus’ power? what was the exact nature of their relationship with the princeps? The chapter on ‘Augustan literature’ in Galinsky’s Companion is a case in point:47 as has been pointed out, 48 all contributions in this chapter deal exclusively with poetry, re-investigating the relationship between the works and Augustan power. 49 The image of ‘Augustan’ culture emerging from this approach is highly paradoxical because it defines ‘Augustan’ culture as a self-enclosed entity within the culture and society of first-century BCE Rome at large. ‘Augustan’ culture thus appears as a ‘culture within a culture’ the constituents of which are selected according to their relevance to our understanding of Augustan power. Maybe the most problematic aspect of this conception is that it implies that the only factor relevant both to the formation of a

46 Although the exact meaning and implications of this passage are controversial, this point is acknowledged by virtually all interpreters, see, e.g., Eck (2007), 54; Hohl (1946), 114–115; Hoben (1978), 17–18; Diesner (1985), 34–36, 39. 47 Galinsky (2005) 281–360. 48 Brice (2006). 49 The same is true for Galinsky’s (1996) chapter on ‘Augustan Literature’ (pp. 224–287), Galinsky’s brief discussion of Livy’s preface (ibid. 281–283) notwithstanding.

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culture and society and our understanding of it is the dominating political discourse. This is not to deny that the political discourse and its interaction with other discourses are objects worth studying, and the exciting new insights into the nature of Augustus’ principate which have been provided by the studies discussed in this section prove this. But the reduction of ‘Augustan’ culture to those artifacts which Augustan power could have directly influenced is at variance with the conception of ‘Augustan’ culture as a system of discourses interacting freely with each other because it reduces the diversity of cultural production in first-century BCE Rome. Yet, as Foucault has emphasized, it is the very diversity and co-existence of different, sometimes incompatible themes, which distinguishes a discursive approach to culture. Culture, as Foucault puts it, is a ‘system of dispersions’:50 What one finds are […] various strategic possibilities that permit the activation of incompatible themes, or, again, the establishment of the same theme in different groups of statements. Hence the idea of describing these dispersions themselves; of discovering whether between these elements, which are certainly not organized as a progressively deductive structure […] nor as the œuvre of a collective subject, one cannot discern regularities in their simultaneity, assignable positions in a common space, a reciprocal functioning, linked and hierarchized transformations. Such an analysis would not try to isolate small islands of coherence in order to describe their internal structure; it would not try to suspect and to reveal latent conflicts; it would study forms of diversion. Or again: […] it would describe systems of dispersion. Whenever one can describe, between a number of statements, such a system of dispersion, whenever, between objects, types of statement, concepts, or thematic choices, one can define a regularity (an order, correlations, positions and functionings, transformations), we will say […] that we are dealing with a discursive formation. 51

In the contemporary debate about ‘Augustan’ culture, Foucault’s stress on the co-existence of incompatible themes has been profitably employed to explain the broad range of reactions to the principate and thus to refute the idea of Augustus’ rule as a monolithic, top-down system of propaganda and control. Yet, paradoxically, the focus on the nature of Augustan power carries the danger of turning the contemporary debate itself into an attempt to ‘isolate small islands of coherence in order to describe their internal structure’ rather than describing ‘Augustan’ culture as a ‘system of dispersions.’ 50 Foucault (1966) 41. 51 Ibid.

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One possible solution to this problem might be not to address the question of Augustus’ influence upon culture and society solely or primarily in terms of the diffusion of political power. Approaching Dionysius’ classicist criticism as a cultural phenomenon suggests a way of exploring ‘Augustan’ culture as a system of ‘discursive formations’ which owe their existence to Augustus but not to any direct influence of Augustus’ power or direct interaction with it. Although Dionysius seems to have had close connections with the Roman upper class there is no question of him being in direct contact with or in any way immediately influenced by the princeps in the same way as, say, Horace, Virgil, or Ovid. 52 Nevertheless, as will be shown in the next chapter, Augustus and the image of himself and the principate which he proclaimed were an integral part of what I will call Dionysius’ ‘Classicist ideology.’ 53 And although we can trace classicizing tendencies in Greek literature at least as far back as the third century BCE,54 it is only with Dionysius, as far as we can judge, 55 that classicism turned into a Weltanschauung, a world view, and classical Greek language became a model of identity of Greek intellectuals under Roman rule. It is only when the pre-existing classicist discourse interacted with the novel discourse of the principate and the responses it stimulated in a variety of other discourses that it was transformed from a rhetorical phenomenon into a model of cultural identity. Hence, though not directly influenced by Augustus and, compared with the works of Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, existing on the margins of the culture and society of his times, Dionysius’ criticism is nevertheless deeply informed

52 The social background of Dionysius’ intellectual activities will be discussed in the next section. 53 On my use of ‘ideology’ see below, pp. 21–22. 54 A Hibeh Papyrus (edd. B.P. Grenfell/A.S. Hunt, vol. 1, London 1906, No. 15, pp. 55–61, dated c. 280–240 BCE) contains a rhetorical exercise in classicizing style; furthermore, Photius (Bibl. cod. 176, p. 121b 9 Bekker) mentions that one Cleochares wrote a synkrisis of Isocrates and Demosthenes in the third or second century BCE, and Cicero reports (Orat. 67.226) that Hegesias of Magnesia, heavily criticised by Dionysius for ruining the classical style, regarded himself as an ‘imitator’ (imitari) of Lysias, see Dihle (1977) 168. As Dihle (ibid. 167) points out, this ‘rhetorical’ ‘Atticism’ should be distinguished from the grammarians’ attempt, equally dating back to the third century BCE, to install the vocabulary and grammar of the Attic dialect as the standard of correct Greek (<EllhnismÏc), on which see ibid. 163–167 and most recently, Czapla (forthcoming) with a good overview of this complicated intellectual phenomenon; cf. Swain (1996) 22. 55 Cf. Dihle (1977) 168.

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by the princeps and the principate.56 Unlike the works of the three poets, Dionysius’ writings might not grant us any insight into the mechanisms of Augustus’ power. But just like the poems of his famous Latin contemporaries, Dionysius’ works contributed to implementing the principate into the culture and society of his times by turning key ideas of Augustus’ conception of leadership into the cornerstones of his Classicist ideology. Like Virgil, Horace, and (at least partially) Ovid, Dionysius disseminated Augustan ideas among his contemporaries. Adapting these ideas to and combining them with his own, he produced a discourse which was both ‘Augustan’ and ‘Dionysian’ and which inscribed the classical Greek cultural and political heritage into an Augustan framework, while re-interpreting this Augustan framework in terms of the classical Greek heritage. In order to explore ‘Augustan’ culture as a system of discourses, as a ‘group of statements’ in Foucault’s sense,57 we would therefore have to shift the focus from Augustus’ immediate influence on and interaction with the inner circle of society, his ‘appropriation’ of those who were closest to him. Instead, we would have to consider alongside each other the various ways in which the whole variety of discourses that constituted first-century BCE Roman society were shaped by the principate not by virtue of any political influence but because practitioners of culture such as Dionysius incorporated different aspects of ‘the principate’ into their systems of thought by adopting, adapting, and re-interpreting it. With regard to literature this means that Strabo’s Geography and Dionysius’ critical essays and Antiquitates Romanae are as important to our understanding of ‘Augustan’ culture as Virgil’s Aeneid, Horace’s Odes, and Ovid’s elegies. Only by studying the works of these authors in their variety, without giving priority to those closest to the princeps, will we be able to detect the regularities between their different statements and thus to describe ‘Augustan’ culture as a ‘system of dispersions.’ This might enable us to discard the Augustocentric notion of ‘Augustan’ culture and to conceive of ‘Augustan’ less in terms of a relationship between society and power (auctoritas) than a flexible construct 56 Luzzatto (1988) 240, too, stresses the importance of the cultural environment of Augustan Rome for the formation of Dionysius’ Classicism; similarly, Hidber (1996) 42–43 (the conception of education underlying Dionysius’ Classicism ‘conformed to the requirements implied in the Augustan empire,’ ‘[war ausgerichtet auf] die implizierten Bedürfnisse des augusteischen Weltreiches,’ ibid. 43); v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 45–46 (the instalment of the principate prompted the Greeks to review their attitude towards their own language and literature). 57 Foucault (1966) 40.

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that applies to authors and their works regardless of whether they were Greek or Roman; 58 wrote poetry, scholarly literature, or historiography; were acquainted with the princeps or not; or even lived in Rome or abroad. Such a full scale analysis of ‘Augustan’ culture remains a desideratum and would probably require the joint effort of an equipe of scholars. It is, at any rate, far beyond the aims of this study although I will repeatedly read Dionysius’ works against those of contemporary Latin authors in order to locate his ideas within the larger intellectual context of his times. But discussing Dionysius’ Classicism as an element of ‘Augustan’ culture will, hopefully, make some contribution to paving the way for such an undertaking by demonstrating how central tenets of the dominating political discourse in first-century Rome cross-fertilized Greek rhetorical and literary criticism. This resulted in what might appear to us a somewhat idiosyncratic (re)interpretation of the principate and Augustan Rome but was, in fact, a conception of identity that seems to have appealed to Greek literati as much as to upper-class Roman politicians and intellectuals. Thus, although it is not the primary aim of this study to re-valuate Dionysius as an ‘Augustan’ author, it would certainly be a welcome effect if the subsequent discussion of his ‘ideology of criticism’ contributed to making us re-consider the parameters in which we conceive of ‘Augustan’ culture. I have argued in section 1.1.1 above that we have to shift the focus from classicism as a linguistic to classicism as a social-cultural phenomenon in order to appreciate Dionysius’ Classicism as an integral element of ‘Augus58 This point in particular deserves to be stressed as there is a noticeable discrepancy between scholarly interest in Roman cultural identity in the late Republic and early Empire and Greek identity in the Second Sophistic on the one hand and Greek cultural identity in the first centuries BCE and CE on the other: on Roman cultural identity see, e.g., WallaceHadrill (1988), (1989), (1990), (1997), (1998), (2008); Woolf (1994); Habinek (1998), and cf. the literature cited in ch.s 2.3 and 3.3 below; there is an impressive number of excellent studies on Greek identity in the Second Sophistic such as Bowie (1970); Gleason (1995); Swain (1996); Schmitz (1997); Goldhill (2001); Borg (2004); Whitmarsh (2001), (2010). The number of works with a similar interest in Greek intellectuals in the Roman Republic and early Empire, by contrast, is still remarkably small: see, e.g., Dueck (2000) and Dueck/ Lindsay/Pothecary (2005) on Strabo; Sacks (1990), Clarke (1999), Schmitz (forthcoming), and Wiater (2006) and (2006a) on Diodorus Siculus; Wiater (2008) and (forthcoming) on Dionysius of Halicarnassus; a wide range of different authors and genres is discussed in Schmitz/Wiater (forthcoming) with further literature; for a more detailed discussion of the state of the research on Greek cultural identity in the first centuries BCE and CE and how this research might affect our view of the Second Sophistic see Schmitz/Wiater (forthcoming-a).

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tan’ culture. For focusing exclusively on the linguistic side of his criticism entails perceiving classicism as a preposterous retrograde activity which sacrificed the present to worshipping the better days long past. After all, the aim of Dionysius and his recipients was to reinstall classical Greek style and authors active in Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE as the only acceptable standard of literary and oral expression in first-century BCE Rome. 59 The question is therefore: how can we address Dionysius’ Classicist criticism as an activity which productively and creatively interacted with the cultural-political discourse in Augustan Rome? Or, putting it in the terms explained in the preceding section, how can we produce a ‘thick description’ of Dionysius’ Classicism? It is to this question that I will turn in the following section.

1.1.3 A Cultural Identity Approach to Dionysius’ Classicism Clifford Geertz’s notion of culture as a ‘web of significance’ and his conception of ‘thick description’ provide a helpful general framework in which to approach a foreign culture. But Geertz’s discussion is too abstract to provide an efficient heuristic tool for investigating concrete cultural phenomena. In particular, Geertz’s conception of the constitutive elements of culture requires some qualification. Statements such as ‘descriptions of Berber, Jewish, or French culture must be cast in terms of the construction we imagine Berbers, Jews, or Frenchmen to place upon what they live through, the formulae they use to define what happens to them’ 60 show that Geertz risks equating ‘culture’ with national identity. Hence his notion of ‘culture’ suggests a homogeneity of human beings’ perception of their actions which has no match in reality and produces a somewhat simplified image of social interaction. Social Identity Theory can help to devise a more complex conception of culture. Dealing not with culture as an abstract notion but with

59 See, e.g., Kennedy (1963) 330: ‘Atticism is the reaction against the excesses of Hellenistic prose style, but instead of creating good standards of contemporary usage, the new movement demanded an archaic return to the language, rhythms, and style of the classical period. Thus it is intertwined with classicism, the view that the great literary achievements of the Greeks was past.’ The relationship of past and present implied in Dionysius’ Classicism will be discussed in detail in ch. 2 below which will also argue against the view expressed by Kennedy. 60 Geertz (1973a) 15, quoted above.

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the question of how culture is realized in everyday social action, it can be fruitfully employed to complement Geertz’s discussion and thus provide the foundation for a ‘thick description’ of Dionysius’ Classicism. Contrary to Geertz’s assertion, people seldom define themselves and their actions exclusively, or even mainly, in terms of their being Berber, Jew, or French. Rather, ‘a society not only has a culture expected to be learned by all, but also distinctive groups with their own subcultures.’ 61 Living within the confines of the same city, obeying the same laws and regulations, completing the same course of education, or being subject to the same authorities constitute an overarching community and are important elements of the self-definition of the people who live in it. But social life is organized in a variety of sub-groups or ‘social worlds’ 62 within this overarching community, and the various social roles an individual plays in different sub-groups provide the framework for his/her interpretation of his/her own actions and the actions of others. 63 Social Identity Theory therefore speaks of ‘compartmentalized lives, shifting from one perspective to another as they participate in a succession of transactions that are not necessarily related. In each social world they [human beings] play somewhat different roles, and they manifest a different facet of their personality.’ 64 The various social worlds can take on very different, more or less flexible shapes, but this, it is important to note, does not necessarily affect their members’ feeling of ‘togetherness’:

61 Rose (1962a) 16. 62 Shibutani (1962) passim. 63 Cf. Hinkle/Brown (1990) 48: ‘our sense of who we are stems in large part from our membership of and affiliation to various social groups, which are said to form our social identity.’ 64 Shibutani (1962) 139. The term ‘compartmentalized lives’ should not give rise to the idea that these ‘compartments’ are hermetically closed units and that human beings live in a constant state of ‘social schizophrenia.’ Rather, the individual ‘compartments’ should be imagined as circles which partially overlap. It is the sum of all the different ‘compartments’ which constitute an individual’s personality in all its complexity. But the prominence and importance of different sides of an individual’s personality will vary according to the ‘compartment’ in which s/he is bound up at a given time, and some changes of context will require a more flexible role switching than others. For the present study this entails that Dionysius’ texts will allow us insight into only one ‘compartment’ of his life: reference to Dionysius’ identity should therefore be understood as referring to Dionysius’ social role as a literary critic in Augustan Rome, to Dionysius, that is, as a ‘social actor’ in one of the many ‘compartments’ that constituted his life, but not to his ‘personality’ as a whole; see the discussion below.

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1. Introduction: The Aims and Methods of This Study Social worlds differ considerably in their solidarity and in the sense of identification felt by their participants. Probably the strongest sense of solidarity is to be found in the various sub-communities – the underworld, ethnic minorities, the social elite, or isolated religious cults. Such communities are frequently segregated, and this segregation multiplies intimate contacts within and reinforces barriers against the outside. Another common type of world consists of the networks of interrelated voluntary associations – the world of medicine, the world of organized labor, the world of steel industry, or the world of opera. […] Finally, there are the loosely connected universes of special interest – the world of sports, the world of the stamp collector, or the world of women’s fashion. Since the participants are drawn together only periodically by the limited interest they have in common, there are varying degrees of involvement, ranging from the fanatically dedicated to the casually interested. […] Although these arenas are only loosely organized, the participants nonetheless develop similar standards of conduct, especially if their interests are strong and sustained. 65

The decisive factor for solidarity in the various groups is thus not how often their members meet, how closely acquainted they are with each other, or how limited the interests are they have in common; nor are the boundaries of groups, which distinguish a community from the outside,66 set by territory or formal group membership. Groups are constituted by the discursive practice, the communication among their members, and each social world is a ‘culture area, the boundaries of which are set […] by the limits of effective communication.’ 67 This communication keeps present the interests shared by all members and the symbolic value they all attach to them and it is responsible for the members’ adopting, and sharing, ‘special norms of conduct, a set of values, a prestige ladder, and a common outlook toward life – a Weltanschauung.’ 68 At the same time, the discursive practice of a group and the Weltanschauung created by it distinguish a group as an ‘in-group’ from the discursive practice and the Weltanschauung of other, ‘out-groups’:69 knowing who and what we are is as important as knowing who and what we are not. The existence of the boundaries which separate the different communities is ‘not a matter for “objective” assessment: it is a matter of feeling, a matter which

65 66 67 68 69

Ibid. 135–136. Cohen (1985) 2. Shibutani (1962) 136. Ibid. 137. Hinkle/Brown (1990) 48; cf. Abrams/Hogg (1990a), esp. 3–4.

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resides in the minds of the members themselves.’ 70 Therefore, ‘boundaries perceived by some may be utterly imperceptible to others.’ 71 Communities, and the commonality on which they rest, are mental constructs, they ‘exist in the minds of [their] members, and should not be confused with geographic or sociographic assertions of “fact.” ’ 72 Instead of ‘culture,’ we should therefore speak of the ‘cultures’ of different communicative networks of which an individual is a part. 73 The Weltanschauung provided by each of these networks is the common basis for the members’ ‘understanding and experiencing of their social identity, the social world and their place in it.’74 Thus it becomes the reference point for their perception of their own actions and for their anticipation of the other members’ interpretation of, and reactions to, them: 75 men living in groups do not merely coexist physically as discrete individuals. […] On the contrary they act with and against one another in diversely organized groups and while doing so they think with and against each other. These persons, bound together into groups, strive in accordance with the character and position of the groups to which they belong to change the surrounding world of nature and society or attempt to maintain it in a given condition. […] In accord with the particular context of collective activity in which they participate, men always tend to see the world which surrounds them differently. 76

Following Paul Ricœur, I shall refer to the discursive practices through which a ‘group [gets] an all-encompassing comprehensive view not only of itself, but of history and, finally, of the whole world,’77 as a community’s specific ‘ideology.’ Thus understood, the term ‘ideology’ describes not, as in its Marxist use, the conscious manipulation of the lower classes by the ruling 70 71 72 73

74 75

76 77

Cohen (1985) 20–21. Ibid. 2. Ibid. 98. Cf. van Dijk (1988) 130; Davies/Harré (1990) 45 refer to such communities as ‘social practices,’ which they define as ‘all the ways in which people actively produce social and psychological realities.’ Davies/Harré (1990) 45–46. The group that provides the conceptual framework which a human being accepts as the standard for his behaviour is called the ‘reference group,’ as opposed to ‘the others’; see Shibutani (1962) 132, who defines ‘reference group’ as ‘that group whose presumed perspective is used by an actor as the frame of reference in the organization of his perceptual field’; cf. ibid. 138–139: ‘For each individual there are as many reference groups as there are communication networks in which he becomes regularly involved.’ Mannheim (1936) 3; cf. Cohen (1985) 2; Blumer (1962) 182. Ricœur (1978) 46.

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elite; rather, it describes a characteristic of human perception in general, the selective perception and concomitant shaping of the world according to a set of rules or norms which are provided by the social worlds in which we are organized – ‘something out of which we think, rather than something that we think.’ 78 Social Identity Theory thus helps us to complement Geertz’s conception of ‘thick description.’ The observer of a foreign culture has to take into account that the symbolic meaning of an action cannot be explained sufficiently when it is considered only within the general framework of a human being’s society. There is no uniform culture which permits us to explain all actions of a Berber, a Jew, or a Frenchman alike, but the significance man attributes to his actions varies according to the Weltanschauung of the different social worlds in which they are performed. An observer’s access to a foreign society is therefore limited to different compartments of the lives of the actors, and understanding the way in which a human being acts in one social world does not allow conclusions about how s/he will act in another, let alone about his or her identity in general. On the contrary, the compartmentalization of life often results in actions which are incompatible with each other, because an action which is acceptable, maybe even required, in one group might be unacceptable in another. 79 Social Identity Theory offers a novel perspective on a well-known historical fact, namely that Greek classicism was performed within a ‘circle’ or, as some prefer to call it, ‘network’ of Greek and Roman intellectuals to whom Dionysius addressed his writings. 80 His collection of essays On the Ancient Orators and his First and Second Letter to Ammaeus (Amm.I and Amm.II ) are addressed to one Ammaeus, about whom nothing else is

78 Ibid. 47; Ricœur also calls ideology a ‘code of interpretation’ (ibid.). 79 Shibutani (1962) 140. 80 Wisse (1998) rightly points out that this ‘circle’ should not be compared with ‘circles’ that were centred around one patron, e.g., the circles of Maecenas or Messalla. There is no evidence that Dionysius’ ‘circle’ was such a ‘tightly knit group,’ and the degree of Dionysius’ acquaintance with the individual addressees of his essays obviously varied: Pompeius Geminus, for instance, was certainly ‘not one of Dionysius’ closer associates’ (Usher [1985] 352 n. 1, quoted by Wisse ibid.). Nevertheless, this is no reason to abandon the term ‘circle’: pace Wisse (ibid.), it need not necessarily refer to such ‘ “circle[s]” in the stricter sense, i.e., in the sense in which we talk of the circle of Maecenas,’ or to any ‘tightly knit group’ in general (italics mine); it might simply be used (as in the present context) synonymously with ‘community’; cf. Luzzatto (1988) 235–237.

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known than that he corresponded with Dionysius.81 Dionysius also wrote a letter-essay to a certain Pompeius Geminus who had received a copy of On the Ancient Orators from a common friend, Zeno, and had criticized Dionysius for his judgment on Plato; the Letter to Pompeius (Pomp.) replies to, and refutes, Pompeius’ objections. 82 Furthermore, Dionysius communicated with Roman nobles, politicians, and writers like Q. Aelius Tubero, 83 the dedicatee of Dionysius’ essay On Thucydides (Thuc.), and Metilius Rufus, to whom he addressed his On Literary Composition (Comp.). 84 The

81 See Klebs (1894) 1842; Bowersock suggests plausibly that he might be Roman (Bowersock [1965] 130 n. 4). On the Ancient Orators consists of a preface, Dionysius’ ‘Classicist Manifesto,’ which is commonly abbreviated as Orat. Vett., and a series of essays on individual orators, On Lysias (Lys.), On Isocrates (Isoc.), On Isaeus (Is.); probably, also Dionysius’ treatise On Demosthenes (Dem.) was part of On the Ancient Orators, but see below p. 233 n. 606. 82 Hidber (1996) 7 n. 50 points out that attempts to identify Pompeius Geminus with the astronomer and mathematician of the same name (see Géminos. Introduction aux phénomènes, ed. Germaine Aujac. Paris 1975, XXII–XXIII) are as hypothetical as the assumption that he was a freedman of Pompey the Great (Schultze [1986] 122) or that he may in some way have been connected with him (Rhys Roberts [1900] 439). His nationality (Greek or Roman) is still a matter of dispute: some scholars assume that he was Greek (Lendle [1992] 239; cf. Bowersock [1965] 130 n. 4; Rhys Roberts [1900] 439– 440), but there is epigraphic evidence that in 98 CE one Pompeius Geminus was senator, most likely even consular, which implies that this person must have been a free-born Roman (Hanslik [1952]); Delcourt (2005) 32; cf. Goold (1961). 83 Tubero was part of the Roman patrician gens of the Aelii: he himself was a historian (HRR, 308–312 = Beck/Walter [2004], 346–357) and jurisconsult (in 68 BCE he lost a case against Ligarius, who was defended by Cicero); his sons, Q. Aelius Tubero and Sex. Aelius Catus, were consules in 11 and 4 BCE, respectively (Bowersock [1965] 129; Beck/ Walter 346–348; see further Wiseman [1979] 135–139; Bowersock [1979] 68–71). Dionysius refers to Tubero’s historical work at Ant. 1.80.1–3 (HRR F 3 = Beck/Walter F 4), and Tubero most likely defined himself as an ‘imitator’ of Thucydides (cf. Beck/Walter [2004] 347). Whether Dionysius’ contact with the Tuberones brought him in touch with other Greek and Roman acquaintances of theirs, such as Strabo (the only contemporary author to mention Dionysius at 14.2.16) or the Roman politician Sejanus (Bowersock [1965] 124, 129), is, at best, a plausible conjecture; even more speculative is the idea that it might have been via the Tuberones that Dionysius became familiar with Roman Atticism and with intellectual and literary discussions and trends among the contemporary Roman educated elite in general (ibid. 68–69). For a reassessment of the influence of Cicero’s rhetorical theory and practice on Dionysius see now Hidber (forthcoming); Fox (forthcoming). 84 Rufus Metilius might be identical with the proconsul of Achaea and legate to Galatia under Augustus; references in Bowersock (1965) 132 with n. 2; id. (1979) 70; Hidber (1996) 6; Delcourt (2005) 33.

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renowned Greek critic Caecilius of Caleacte was also among Dionysius’ closer acquaintances. 85 So far, this information has been used only to place Dionysius’ writings into a historical framework. Social Identity Theory allows us to assess the literary circle from a social perspective and, thus, offers a novel interpretation of the role of Dionysius’ writings in it. We can now identify the literary circle as one of the social worlds constituted by an ideology which is shared by its members and endows their activity with significance, thus allowing them to define their place in the world. Heterogeneous though they were, Dionysius’ addressees were united by their common interest in and knowledge about Classical Greek language and literature, by a common repertoire of methods and a common conceptual vocabulary with which they expressed their knowledge and shared it amongst each other, and by the common purpose of their studies, to write Classical texts themselves. 86 Analyzing, discussing, and writing classical texts is the discursive practice which defined them as a community.87 The ideology which provided them with an interpretation of the world, a Weltanschauung, in which their attempt to be Classical made sense is the Classicist doctrine which Dionysius expounds in his critical writings. Being the medium through which the discursive practice is carried out, his writings created and sustained the communicative network, and thus the common ideology, on which the members’ shared outlook on the world was based. It is not of importance that the literary circle, as Wisse asserts, was not ‘a closed school of thought, with official members, and an official policy and

85 Caecilius of Caleacte, whom Dionysius mentions in his Letter to Pompeius Geminus (Pomp. 3.20; Bowersock [1965] 124 n. 1), is regarded as the second most important representative of Greek classicism after Dionysius and probably was a younger contemporary and friend of the latter (cf. Hidber [1996] 5 n. 43 and ibid. 41 n. 184). His œuvre included critical writings as well as an Atticist lexicon, historical works, and works on the theory of history, cf. Brzoska (1897); Kennedy (1972) 364–369; Weißenberger (1997); the fragments of his works are collected by Ofenloch (Leipzig 1907). 86 Dionysius’ conception of mimesis will be discussed in ch. 2.2.2 below. Suffice it here to point out that Dionysius does not mean by mimesis simply combining characteristics of the styles of various Classical authors (quite to the contrary, this he regards as a serious mistake) or imitating the style of one Classical author in particular; mimesis means writing as the Classical authors would have written, in the ‘Classical spirit’; for a comprehensive discussion of Dionysius’ notion of mimesis see now Hunter (2009). 87 Cf. Meyer (1992) 396 on the function of the term ‘practice’ in discourse theory; on classicism as a ‘discursive practice’ cf. Porter (2006a), esp. 51.

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programme.’ 88 Apart from the fact that it is questionable whether anything like ‘a closed school of thought, with official members, and an official policy and programme’ ever existed in antiquity at all, the above considerations have shown that social identity is not a matter of objective assessment, but of subjective experience of those involved in it. A person’s identity is shaped by the communicative frameworks of the different communities in which s/he is engaged. These communities do not require such physical realities as Wisse’s official membership, policy, or programme in order to be experienced by the social actors as real; they are mental constructs which are constituted by their members’ feeling of being part of them. Dionysius’ writings prove that a regular, communicative structure united him and his addressees. This is sufficient for the literary circle to qualify as a ‘social world’ with a specific ‘culture’ which informed the members’ perception of the world and of themselves. 89 Dionysius’ essays are the ‘informants’ on which our ‘thick description’ of Classicism is based. They grant us access to one compartment of the lives of a group of Roman and Greek intellectuals and allow us glimpses into their world view and their self-definition as intellectuals in Augustan Rome, in short, into their ‘imaginary universe.’ Therefore the task of this study is not to go ‘beyond the text’ and to use Dionysius’ writings as documents to discover ‘historical realities,’ such as how closely acquainted Dionysius and his addressees were, if they were Greeks or Romans, or whether Classicism was a ‘movement’ with real political or cultural influence in Augustan Rome. Instead, it addresses questions such as how Dionysius and his addressees defined their activity within their social and cultural context; what outlook on the world, what interpretation of history it implied; what ideals and ideas the Classical past represented for them so as to make this past so desirable to them; how they imagined their relationship with the Classical past; finally, how they conceived of the relationship between Roman present and Classical past.90 It might be objected that such an approach is hampered by the fact that we have access to the culture of the literary circle through the testimony of

88 Wisse (1995) 70. 89 Cohen (1985) 98 aptly paraphrases ‘culture’ as ‘the community as experienced by its members’ (emphasis mine). 90 For a discussion of such an approach to culture see Gottowik (1997), esp. 299; for an exemplary analysis of Maori culture see Hanson (1989) with the comments by Linnekin (1991).

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only one of its members. There is no denying that it would be preferable if the voices of other members of the circle had also been preserved so as to set Dionysius’ conception of Classicism in perspective. Yet, this objection does not hold, because it relies on the dubious assumption that all members of a community share the exact same outlook on the world. As seen above, communities exist first and foremost in the minds of their members and are not based on objectively assessable criteria. A community’s ideology is not a monolithic set of rules which imposes a certain world view upon each individual member of the group. Individual members of a group might not attribute the same significance to their actions, but this does not affect the feeling of community among them, provided that all members are convinced that a certain action has the same meaning to all of them. As Benedict Anderson has shown, what the members of a community think they have in common is more important than what they really have in common. 91 The decisive point is that the discrepancies between the world views of individual members of a community are kept within certain limits or, at least, pass unnoticed. The degree to which the world views of members of a community can differ without affecting the feeling of togetherness depends on the communicative structure which sustains the group. In large communities, such as nations, in which direct communication between all members is impossible, a feeling of community is more likely to be preserved despite great differences between the world views of individual members; smaller communities with a closer communicative network, such as the literary circle, by contrast, allow for less flexibility in the Weltanschauung of their members. But this does not entail either that all of them share one, uniform world view. Culture is a necessarily subjective experience and, therefore, accessible only through an individual’s ‘private, idiosyncratic mode,’ ‘for it is here that we encounter people thinking about and symbolizing their community. It is in these depths of “thinking,” rather than in the surface appearance of “doing” that culture is to be sought.’ 92

91 Anderson (1991), on which see below, p. 297 with n. 723; Cohen (1985) 18: the ‘symbols,’ on which the togetherness among the members of a community is based, ‘ “express” other things in ways which allow their common form to be retained and shared among the members of a group, whilst not imposing upon those people the constraints of uniform meaning.’ 92 Cf. Cohen (1985), the quotation 75.

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Even if the writings of all members of the literary circle had survived, a comprehensive study of the culture of the literary circle would nevertheless have to assess the conception of Classicism and the concomitant outlook on the world of each member individually. Therefore studying Dionysius’ conception of Classicism alone is not an insufficient substitute for a comprehensive analysis of the culture of the whole community. The Classicist outlook on the world does not exist; what exists, is the members’ conviction that they all share the same outlook on the world. Thus Dionysius’ writings permit us to study the constituents of the world view which one member of the circle thought he shared with all others. And even if we were able to compare Dionysius’ Classicist world view with that of his addressees and to extrapolate the elements all of them have in common, we would not have discovered the Classicist world view, but constructed an abstract concept of classicism detached from the individuals’ ideas and beliefs and their enactment in everyday discursive practice. But such an abstract construction would be of no heuristic value to understand the social reality of the individual actors each of whom performed their own actions and interpreted them and those of the others from within their idiosyncratic perspective. However, keeping these precautionary remarks in mind, we might argue that the fact that the literary circle appears to have been a relatively small community makes the assumption plausible that Dionysius’ conception of Classicism was shared by most of his addressees. A relatively high degree of conformity between the members’ Weltanschauung is more likely to occur in such a small community than in a large one; we might therefore take Dionysius to a certain extent as a representative of the world view shared by most of the members of the circle. Such an assumption is supported by the fact that Dionysius, as we will see in the second part of this chapter, claimed a leading role within the literary circle: his writings provided the ‘canon’ (Thuc. 1.2) to which his addressees were expected to subscribe, and according to the information which Dionysius gives us on the origins of his essays, most of them were written on request of his addressees who had asked for Dionysius’ advice on literary and critical matters. 93 This suggests that Dionysius’ conception of Classicism influenced that of his addressees and that his addressees willingly accepted this influence. Therefore, although we have no testimony from any other member of the circle to confirm this assumption, there is good 93 See the discussion pp. 22–23 above.

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reason to suppose that an interpretation of classicism based on Dionysius’ writings provides a fairly accurate idea at least of the major tenets of the Weltanschauung which was accepted by most members of the literary circle. It will be the purpose of the remainder of this study to explore the individual constituents of this Classicist Weltanschauung which is at the same time implemented and represented by Dionysius’ writings. Although this approach relies heavily on heuristic concepts drawn from anthropology and sociology, this study does not purport to contribute to an ‘anthropology’ or ‘sociology’ of the ancient world in the way in which the works of Moses I. Finley, Leslie Kurke, and Sarah C. Humphreys have so masterfully done.94 Rather, it is more appropriate to conceive of it as employing anthropological and sociological approaches to write a chapter of intellectual history. As Felix Gilbert defined it, the task of the intellectual historian is to ‘reconstitut[e] the mind of an individual or of groups at the times when a particular event happened or an advance was achieved.’95 This is an accurate description of the purpose of this enquiry: to reconstitute the outlook on the world and the conception of identity of a Greek intellectual (and, potentially, his recipients) in one of the most crucial and most influential periods of ancient history and, probably, of the development of Western civilization at large, the reign of Augustus. We can now undertake the first step of this enquiry. The second part of this chapter will be centred on the introduction to Dionysius’ First Letter to Ammaeus. As I will demonstrate, this text can be read as a programmatic statement in which Dionysius defines himself and his recipients as the members of a community of literati whose knowledge about and methods of dealing with classical texts distinguishes them from other communities of intellectuals, especially the representatives of the traditional philosophical schools. On the one hand, the introduction to the First Letter to Ammaeus will thus lend further support to the interpretation of the literary circle as a social sub-group; on the other, it will allow us to identify the conceptual framework in which Dionysius expects his recipients to conceive of their activities as literary critics. On this basis we will be able to define individual 94 See above, pp. 4–5 with nn. 19, 20. 95 Gilbert (1971) 94. The tasks and methods of intellectual history have been the subject of intense debate over the last few decades, see LaCapra (1982); id. (1983); id. (1985); White (1969); id. (1997); Kellner (1982); Poster (1982); Henning (1982). Cf. also the discussion of the ‘histoire des mentalités’ approach of the French Annales School, such as Barthes (1960) and Chartier (1982), in Schulze (1985) and Reichardt (1978).

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elements of the collective identity which constituted the literary circle. These will be discussed in the subsequent chapters of this study.

1.2 The Conceptual Framework of Dionysius’ Classicism In a programmatic paper on ‘Method and Ideology in Intellectual History’ Hayden White has pointed out that a specific interpretation of the world, such as I argue Dionysius’ essays aim to provide, is not conveyed to the readers through the content of the texts alone, but through a ‘dynamic process’ between texts and readers. Therefore, White argues, the relevant question is not What do Freud, Foucault, and so on, assert, allege, argue? but How do they establish, through the articulation of their texts, the plausibility of their discourse by referring to the ‘meaning’ of these, not to other ‘facts’ or ‘events,’ but rather to a complex sign system which is treated as ‘natural’ rather than as a code specific to the praxis of a given social group, stratum, or class? This is to shift hermeneutic interest from the content of the texts being investigated to their formal properties, considered not in terms of the relatively vacuous notion of style but rather as a dynamic process of overt and covert code shifting by which a specific subjectivity is called up and established in the reader, who is supposed to entertain this representation of the world as a realistic one in virtue of its congeniality to the imaginary relationship the subject bears to his own social and cultural situation. 96

There is no need to go as far as White does and to argue for a complete ‘shift’ of hermeneutic interest from the content of a text to the strategies by which an author invites the reader to accept his/her representation of the world as ‘natural’ and ‘realistic.’ But White’s point is crucial: in order to be convincing, an outlook on the world proposed by a text must be embedded into an appropriate reading situation which shapes the reader’s perception of the content. The relationship an author establishes between him-/herself and his/her reader as well as the way in which s/he links his/her texts and the very act of reading them to his/her and his/her readers’ particular ‘social and cultural situation’ already constitute the readers’ view on the world: the reading situation provides the framework in which alone both what the author says and how s/he says it will make sense to and be accepted by the reader. 96 White (1982) 193.

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Therefore a reconstitution of Dionysius’ world view, as this study proposes to undertake, needs to be preceded by an investigation of the general framework which Dionysius creates for his Classicist ideology which enables his readers to locate themselves and their intellectual activity in the context of their time. This section explores Dionysius’ view of contemporary critical discourse; what place he claims in it for his Classicist criticism; how he positions his recipients towards his criticism, and how he defines his relationship with his envisaged audience. It will be evident that Dionysius does not provide an objective description of contemporary critical discourse. Rather, he is constructing a framework in order to constitute a common basis between himself and his readers, a shared view on the function and nature of criticism in their times, which makes his Classicist ideology appear useful, even necessary, to his recipients. Once recipients have accepted the role which Dionysius ascribes to himself and his critical method and the position he offers them in this process, they will be ready to subscribe to the individual tenets of his ideology. The following discussion will be centred on the introduction to Dionysius’ First Letter to Ammaeus. In this ‘letter-essay’ 97 Dionysius argues against a Peripatetic who had claimed that Demosthenes had acquired his superb rhetorical skills from Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Amm.I , 1.1). 98 In the introductory paragraphs (ibid. 1–2) Dionysius explains to Ammaeus the purpose of the letter, to refute the Peripatetic. The argument itself evolves in four steps:

97 This term was coined by Stirewalt (1991) 147–148, who argues that Dionysius’ letters were not for private use, but were supposed to be read by a larger audience; therefore a more appropriate term for them would be ‘letter-essays.’ For the sake of convenience I will refer to Dionysius’ letters as either ‘letters’ or ‘essays’ indiscriminately, while conceiving of them as ‘letter-essays’ in Stirewalt’s sense. For a general introduction to Amm.I see Aujac V, 43–48; on the structure of the letter and the interrelation of its different parts see Stirewalt (1991) 156–169. 98 By omitting a detailed exposition of the Peripatetic’s argument, Dionysius makes his competitor’s statement seem more absurd than it might actually have been. Whereas Dionysius conceives of oratory in terms of language and style, i.e., endorses an essentially aesthetical approach to oratory, the Peripatetic might have referred to a conception of oratory primarily as the art of arguing. In a similar way, Cicero in Tusc. 2.9 defines the ability to ‘discuss both sides of every question’ ([consuetudo] de omnibus rebus in contrarias partes disserendi) as ‘the best practice in oratory’ (maxima dicendi exercitatio); this method, Cicero points out, was invented by Aristotle and continued to be practised by his successors (qua [exercitatione] princeps usus est Aristoteles, deinde eum qui secuti sunt). The Peripatetic’s statement might therefore not have been as bizarre as Dionysius makes it appear.

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Dionysius starts with demonstrating that Aristotle’s Rhetorics was published when Demosthenes was already at the height of his life and career (ibid. 3–7). In order to do so, he first presents his readers with a short biography of Demosthenes, including a chronology of major speeches of Demosthenes, which demonstrates that Demosthenes had already given a great number of important symbuleutic as well as dicanic speeches before the Rhetorics was published (ibid. 4). Dionysius then presents a biography of Aristotle drawn from external historical sources (ibid. 5), followed by statements from Aristotle’s work concerning his life and writings. On this basis Dionysius constructs a relative chronology of Aristotle’s rhetorical writings and concludes that Aristotle wrote the Rhetorics at an older age (ibid. 6–7). In paragraphs eight and nine Dionysius forestalls a potential objection: the relative chronology, which he has presented in the preceding paragraphs, might be correct; this does not preclude, however, that Aristotle wrote all of his rhetorical treatises while still being a student of Plato’s. Dionysius refutes this view by citing passages both from Aristotle’s works and works of local Attic historians in which Aristotle’s writings are related to historical events. Having thus established an absolute chronology of the philosopher’s writings, Dionysius proceeds to proving that all important speeches of Demosthenes were delivered before the Rhetorics was published (ibid. 10). In the final two paragraphs, he adduces further passages from Aristotle which support this assertion (ibid. 11–12.7) and concludes the letter with the assertion that the Peripatetic’s statement has definitively been refuted (ibid., 12.8). From the discussion of the introduction to the First Letter to Ammaeus four main constituents of the general framework in which Dionysius places his Classicist ideology will emerge: first, Dionysius defines literary criticism as a highly competitive activity in which elite critics are engaged in a struggle for authority; second, Dionysius claims that in the struggle of criticism he and his critical method represent the tradition of Classical rhetoric itself; third, elite critics are representatives of communities of critics which are constituted by their members’ adoption of the standards provided by the elite critic and subscription to his opinions about the Classical texts; and fourth, in this process of distinction from other communities of intellectuals Dionysius ascribes a crucial role to his letter, and his writings in general, as material documents, i. e., as published texts.

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1.2.1 Criticism as a Struggle for Authority At the very beginning of the letter Dionysius describes the intellectual culture of his times (Â kaj+ômêc qrÏnoc) as teeming with ‘strange and paradoxical pronouncements’ (pollÄ xËna te ka» paràdoxa Çko‘smata, 1.1) about the Classical authors. 99 Dionysius’ emphasis on the multitude of such pronouncements and on their verbal diffusion (Çko‘smata; Çko‘santi parÄ so‹) creates the image of criticism as a constant and vehement dispute among competing scholars. In his essay On Literary Composition Dionysius even describes criticism as an Çg∏n in which the critic is under constant attack (katadrom†n) from other scholars.100 The quality of the individual pronouncements that constitute this Çg∏n, however, varies according to (and is thus indicative of) the competence of the scholars who utter them. Therefore not all of them deserve the same respect; on the contrary, most statements about the Classical authors are uttered by ‘someone out of the masses’ 101 (t¿n poll¿n tina, Amm.I , 1.2), i. e., by average scholars, and can therefore be disregarded. Only occasionally do the statements of a distinguished critic require deeper investigation, such as those of the Peripatetic: ‘but when I heard his name and found him to be a man whom I respect for both his char-

99 Amm.I , 1.1.: Poll¿n met+ällwn xËnwn te ka» paradÏxwn Çkousmàtwn ¡n ‚n†noqen  kaj+ômêc qrÏnoc, Èn ti ka» to‹to ‚fành moi pr∏twc Çko‘santi parÄ so‹ […] (‘Our age has brought forth many strange and paradoxical pronouncements; and the statement which you told me about seemed to me to be one of them when I first heard it from you,’ Usher’s transl. modified). Though Dionysius does not explicitly say that the ‘strange and paradoxical pronouncements’ are made by scholars about the Classical authors, this is evident from the fact that he counts the Peripatetic’s ideas about Demosthenes and Aristotle among them; cf. Aujac V, 50 n. 1. 100 Comp. 25.29: Õfor¿ma– tina pr‰c ta‹ta katadromòn Çnjr∏pwn t®c m‡n ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac Çpe–rwn, t‰ d‡ Çgoraÿon t®c ˚htorik®c mËroc Âdo‹ te ka» tËqnhc qwr»c ‚pithdeuÏntwn, pr‰c oœc Çnagkaÿon Çpolog†sasjai, mò dÏxwmen Írhmon ÇfeikËnai t‰n Çg¿na (‘I suspect that certain persons who have no general education but practise rhetoric on a street corner level without method and art, will inveigh violently against these statements. I must defend myself against these for fear of appearing to have left the battle-ground,’ Usher’s transl. modified). 101 Usher’s translation ‘an ordinary layman’ misses the fact that no layman in antiquity could have made a statement on the relationship between Aristotle and Demosthenes, because this required higher education in rhetoric and literary criticism which was available only to the elite. I therefore prefer the more literal translation ‘someone out of the masses (of average scholars).’

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acter and for his scholarly works, 102 I was astounded; and after much private thought I concluded that the matter needed more diligent enquiry […]’ (±c d‡ ka» to÷noma to‹ Çndr‰c ‚pujÏmhn, Án ‚g∞ ka» t¿n öj¿n Èneka ka» t¿n lÏgwn ÇpodËqomai, ‚ja‘masa, ka» polÃc ‚n ‚mautƒ genÏmenoc ‚pimelestËrac æmhn deÿsjai skËyewc t‰ prêgma […], Amm.I , 1.2). Dionysius distinguishes between two categories of critics, the majority of ordinary critics and elite critics whose competence in rhetorical and literary matters (lÏgoi) and whose personalities (¢jh) distinguish them from the masses, but also from each other. 103 The Peripatetic is one example of such an elite critic, and Dionysius, who deems the Peripatetic worthy to argue with, is another. Competence in criticism is a criterion of distinction: by their statements about a Classical text critics substantiate their status as elite critics and, in this way, arrogate power and influence in the field of criticism (cf. ÇpodËqomai; ‚ja‘masa above). At the same time, such a position of superiority is fragile: Dionysius’ remark that at first hearing he had taken the Peripatetic’s claim to be one of the absurd statements usually made by ordinary critics (Amm.I , 1.2) shows that an incompetent statement can easily jeopardize the elite critic’s status and authority. In order fully to appreciate the role of authority and prestige in Dionysius’ debate with the Peripatetic, it is important to remember the Peripatetics’ powerful position in contemporary intellectual discourse. In Dionysius’ times, the Peripatetics were often regarded as the ‘leaders in the study of rhetoric.’ 104 Thus at On the Orator 1.43, Scaevola relates that Peripatetici autem etiam haec ipsa, quae propria oratorum putas esse adiumenta atque ornamenta dicendi, a se peti vincerent oportere, ac non solum meliora, sed etiam multo plura Aristotelem Theophrastumque de istis rebus, quam omnis dicendi magistros scripsisse ostenderent.

102 Dionysius is here referring to the Peripatetic’s pronouncements as a critic and not to his ‘literary accomplishments,’ as Usher translates lÏgoi. 103 Ch. 2.2.2 will show that it is one of the major tenets of Dionysius’ Classicism that a person’s statements and his character are two sides of the same coin. 104 Kennedy (1963) 272. Kennedy (1963) 272–290 gives an overview of the most important stages of the development of rhetorical studies in Peripatetic philosophy (esp. Theophrastus and Demetrius of Phaleron) and discusses the Peripatetics’ theories against the background of Hellenistic rhetoric in general (264–336); see Aujac V, 50 n. 2. On the tradition of Aristotelian-Peripatetic philosophy after Aristotle see Richardson (1993); Meijering (1987); Schenkeveld (1993); Wooten (1994); Abbenes/Slings/Sluiter (1995).

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1. Introduction: The Aims and Methods of This Study The Peripatetics […] would prove that it is to them that men shold resort for even those very aids and trappings of eloquence which you deem to be the special aids of orators, and would show you that on these subjects of yours Aristotle and Theophrastus wrote not only better but also much more than all the teachers of rhetoric put together.

In order to understand why Dionysius took the Peripatetic’s claim so seriously, it is important to keep in mind that the Peripatetics not only claimed leadership in their own domain, philosophy. They also contested the orators’ competence and authority in rhetorical education (quae propria oratorum putas esse). Moreover, the Peripatetic’s arrogation of leadership in rhetorical education occurred against the backdrop of the controversy between philosophy and rhetoric the origins of which dated as far back as Plato’s controversy with Isocrates and the Sophists in the fourth century. 105 Mainly, this debate seems to have been centred on the question of whether or not rhetoric was to be considered an art. 106 Given the close interrelation of rhetoric and politics in antiquity, however, this rather abstract question was bound up with a topic of much more concrete implications, namely the controversy over whether rhetoricians or philosophers were entitled to train statesmen and politicians and, thus, profit from the Roman demand for Greek culture and education. 107 105 A detailed discussion of this complex issue is beyond the scope of this study. The classic treatment is still von Arnim (1898) 1–114; more recent discussions include North (1981) and Brittain (2001) 298–312; cf. Luzzatto (1988) 233, who argues that it was in the rich intellectual climate of Rhodes that the opposition between rhetoric and philosophy turned into a ‘competition among schools of thought’ (‘concorrenza fra scuole’). On the role of Plato’s criticism of Sophistic rhetoric for the Hellenistic controversy see North (1981) 251. 106 The main arguments are collected in Brittain (2001) 299–300 who also gives a helpful overview of the attitude towards rhetoric adopted by the representatives of the different philosophical schools (Critolaus, Diogenes the Stoic, and Charmadas) ibid. 301–302. 107 von Arnim (1898) 88 already suggested that the Romans’ interest in Greek education was one of the reasons for the reawakening of the controversy between rhetoric and philosophy in the second century BCE; similarly North (1981) 240–250. Brittain’s (2001) 302 sceptical remarks notwithstanding, the ancient evidence shows that the controversy was not simply an intellectual dispute over the status of rhetoric as an art but had strong political implications. Already at the early stages of the conflict the debate about rhetorical education was inextricably bound up with the question of who was entitled to educate the elite, especially the future political leaders. Thus the Stoic Diogenes asserted that ‘good speech presupposes political wisdom or the virtue of justice’ (Brittain [2001] 301) which he claimed to be the exclusive domain of philosophy. And in his account of the philosophers’ chief arguments against rhetoric Cicero has Crassus remark that ‘there

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The philosophers had turned out to be the winning party of the dispute, and among them the Academics and Peripatetics in particular. In Dionysius’ times these two philosophical schools played a leading role in the market of rhetorical education, as shown by Cicero’s assertion that ‘for the budding orator – and hence for the budding statesman’ it was these two schools that provided the best training. 108 Moreover, at On the Orator 3.71 it is precisely the ability to produce orators of the rhetorical perfection of Demosthenes that is explicitly ascribed to the Peripatetics:109 Sin veterem illum Periclem aut hunc etiam, qui familiarior nobis propter scriptorum multitudinem est, Demosthenem sequi vultis et si illam praeclaram et eximiam speciem oratoris perfecti et pulchritudinem adamastis, aut vobis haec Carneadia aut illa Aristotelia vis comprehendenda est. If […] you chose to follow the famous Pericles of old, or even our friend Demosthenes with whom his many writings have made us better acquainted, and if you have grown to love that glorious and supreme ideal, that thing of beauty, the perfect orator, you are bound to accept either the modern method of Carneades or the earlier method of Aristotle. 110

The Peripatetics’ claim to leadership in rhetorical education and literary criticism was supported by the fact that they took pride in a long tradition of literary criticism 111 and that both Academics and Peripatetics ‘taught a form of argument useful to the orator,’ the Peripatetics the ‘practice in debating both sides of the question’ and the Academics the ability to rebut any

108 109 110

111

were many other men outstanding in philosophy and society all of whom unanimously postulated that orators should be driven from the steering-oar of State’ (multi erant praeterea clari in philosophia et nobiles, a quibus omnibus una paene voce repelli oratorem a gubernaculis civitatum […] videbam, de or. 1.46; transl. mine); cf. the similar statements ascribed to Charmadas ibid. 1.85 and see further ibid. 3.63 (the ideal orator is both an excellent speaker and statesman); 3.76. Griffin (1997) 9, citing Cic. de or. 3.57[–76]; Brut. 119[–121]; Tusc. 2.9. Cf. Luzzatto (1988) 218–219 on the role of Demosthenes in ancient literary criticism and ibid. 240–241 on Demosthenes as a model of oratory. Rackham’s transl. modified. An appropriate rendering of vis, translated here as ‘method,’ is difficult. According to Leeman/Pinkster/Wisse (1996) on 3.71 (262), the term probably refers to the philosophers’ oratorical competence (vis dicendi) but might also be taken to refer to their ‘intellectual powers’; they point out, however, that it is improbable that the term refers to their ‘dialectic power’ (a translation suggested by Wilkinson). On the role of literary criticism in Peripatetic philosophy see Podlecki (1969); there is a good overview of rhetoric in Peripatetic philosophy in Luzzatto (1988) 220–225.

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argument. 112 These considerations remind us that the controversy between Dionysius and the Peripatetic did not take place in an intellectual void. The Peripatetic against whom Dionysius is arguing in his letter was not simply an isolated figure whose statement on the superiority of Aristotle’s rhetorical theory over Demosthenes’ rhetorical practice could easily be dismissed. He was a representative of a community which had been the most serious competitors of professional critics and teachers of rhetoric like Dionysius for several centuries and which denied Dionysius both the competence and the right to provide rhetorical education. Moreover, there is another element of the Peripatetic’s claim, and Dionysius’ response to it, the full significance of which becomes evident only when considered against the particular situation of Peripatetic philosophy in the first century BCE. The Peripatetic, as mentioned above, claims that his assertion is firmly based on the writings of Aristotle himself. The last sentence in On the Orator 1.43, which was quoted above, suggests that in the competition for leadership between Peripatetics and teachers of oratory it was a common strategy to legitimise one’s claims by attributing them to the founder of the philosophical school (or his immediate successor). 113 This demonstrates that being able to lay claim to representing a long and distinguished scholarly tradition played a crucial role in the process of distinction between (communities of) intellectuals in Dionysius’ times. In an important study, David Sedley has shown that ‘in the GrecoRoman world, especially during the Hellenistic and Roman periods, what gives philosophical movements their cohesion and identity is less a disinterested common quest for the truth than a virtually religious commitment to the authority of a founder figure.’ 114 Both Stoics and Epicureans ‘equally were ruled by a set of canonical texts,’ the Stoics by the writings of Zeno, the 112 Griffin (1997) 9–10. An important exercise employed by both Peripatetics and Academics was the thesis which taught pupils to argue for and against a general question; as this question was generally of a philosophical content (at de or. 3.107 Cicero enumerates possible topics of a thesis including virtue, duty, equity and good, moral worth and utility, etc.), the thesis represented the most obvious area in which rhetoric and philosophy overlapped; on the role of the thesis in Philo’s Academy see Reinhardt’s (2000) instructive study, on the differences between the Academics’ and the Peripatetics’ use of the thesis see ibid. 542–543. 113 Cf. Gottschalk (1990) 65: ‘Much of [the work of the Aristotelian commentators] consisted of straight exegesis and even where they disagreed with Aristotle’s doctrine or were dealing with different problems from his, they often chose to present their views as an interpretation or development of his ideas’; cf. Donini (1994) 5038. 114 Sedley (1997) 97.

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Epicureans by the works of Epicurus himself and his leading co-founders Metrodorus, Hermarchus, and Polyaenus; 115 and the dissent within the Academy and among Plato’s successors notwithstanding, ‘there is every reason to believe that all academics presented themselves as loyal to Plato’s thought, on some interpretation of what that thought amounted to.’116 To a Peripatetic, by contrast, being able to employ the same pattern of reasoning, to endow his own position with autority by stressing the conformity of his ideas to the writings of Aristotle, had a particular significance, as, even at the beginning of the first century BCE, such a claim would have been impossible. It was only in about the middle of the first century BCE that Aristotle’s writings had been made accessible again in Andronicus of Rhodes’ edition, which included a commentary on selected treatises.117 The publication of Andronicus’ edition ended a period of eclipse during which philosophical schools took startingly little notice of Aristotle’s philosophy. 118 David Sedley has argued convincingly that part of the reason for this situation was the importance of the existence of a ‘set of canonical texts’ for the identity of Hellenistic philosophical schools: as the Peripatos did not have any such set of Aristotelian writings, ‘there was simply no motive for Stoics, Epicureans, Academics, or Pyrrhonists to seek out Aristotelian authority for their doctrines.’ 119 After the publication of Aristotle’s writings, by contrast, activity in the Peripatetic school experienced an upsurge: no less than five commentaries

115 Ibid. 97–98. 116 Ibid. 99. 117 On Andronicus’ edition, which was the culmination point of a process of consolidation that can be traced back to the beginnings of the Peripatetic school, see Gottschalk (1990) 55–60. The exact date of Andronicus’ edition is a matter of debate, see Gottschalk’s discussion ibid. 62–63, who argues that Andronicus began his work in the sixties and published its individual parts (potentially separately) during the subsequent decades (63). It is doubtful whether there also existed a ‘Roman edition’ of the works of Aristotle and Theophrastus by Atticus, as was first suggested by H. Usener; see Gottschalk (1990) 60–61. It seems relatively certain, however, that Andronicus cooperated with Tyrannio of Amisus who provided him with copies of Aristotelian works brought from Athens to Rome by Sulla in 86 BCE (ibid. 55). For a balanced discussion of the fate of Aristotle’s writings see Gottschalk (1987) 1083–1088. 118 Gottschalk (1990) 55; Sedley (1997) 118. 119 Sedley (1997) 118. Gottschalk (1987) 1083 remarks that it was well know already in antiquity that the intellectual activity of Aristotle’s school declined about fifty years after the death of its founder, and this decline is attributed by ancient authors to the loss of Aristotle’s writings (Strabo 13.1.54, 608–609C Radt; cf. Cic. fin. 5.13).

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on the Categories were published before the end of the first century, two by a Stoic and an Academic, respectively, the other three by Peripatetics. 120 Moreover, between 68 and 51 BCE Ariston and Cratippus left the Academy for the Peripatus. 121 As Gottschalk points out, this only makes sense ‘if there was some organisation recognised by contemporaries as the legitimate successor of Aristotle’s school and official representative of his teaching.’122 Moreover, this also points to an increase in prestige and authority of the Peripatetic school which had now become again a serious competitor of the other philosophical schools and the Academics in particular.123 The fact that two Academics joined the Peripatus is all the more remarkable as only at the beginning of the first century Antiochus of Ascalon had attempted to establish Plato’s philosophy as the ‘master doctrine’ and its representatives, the Academics, as a sort of ‘master school’ which incorporated all other philosophical schools: 124 Antiochus appreciated Aristotle as ‘an important Platonist’ and blamed the Stoics for systematically having drawn on, or worse, having stolen Plato’s doctrines while trying to conceal this ‘behind their sophisticated philosophical jargon.’ 125 Andronicus’ publication of Aristotle’s work changed this situation radically. His edition ‘presented 120 Simplicius enumerates five early commentators on the Categories: the Academic Eudorus, the Stoic Athenodorus, and the Peripatetics Andronicus, Boethus, and Ariston, see Gottschalk (1990) 69; cf. id. (1987) 1121–1139. 121 Index Acad. Herc. col. 35.8–16, pp. 112–113 Mekler. 122 Gottschalk (1990) 61, thus convincingly contesting the view, put forward mainly by Glucker (1978) and Lynch (1972), that after Sulla’s sack of Athens in 86 BCE Peripatetic philosophy existed only as an ideology but not as a proper philosophical school: ‘the life of a learned institution does not depend on buildings or even administrative continuity; what matters is that there should be an identifiable body of men whose members feel that they are the heirs and representatives of an intellectual tradition and that their claim should be admitted by those contemporaries who are sufficiently interested to hold any decided view on the matter’ (ibid. 62). 123 On the popularity of the different philosophical schools at Rome see Griffin (1997) 5–11. 124 The most detailed discussion of Antiochus of Ascalon and his philosophical doctrine is Glucker (1978). Antiochus’ claim that Platonic philosophy represented the master discourse from which all other philosophical schools were derived is itself part of his attempt to gain prestige and authority for his own philosophical community. Antiochus rejected the ‘sceptical school’ in the Academy, which was represented by its head Philo of Larissa, and founded his own school which he programmatically called the ‘Old Academy.’ It was his school, rather than the sceptical Academy, he claimed, that was the true heir to the Platonic tradition, see Glucker (1978) 102, 111; cf. Griffin (1997) 7. On Philo of Larissa see now Brittain’s (2001) comprehensive study. 125 Karamanolis (2006) 58, citing fin. 5.12 for Antiochus’ view of Aristotle and fin. 5.22 for his view on the Stoics (cf. Cic. Acad. 43); cf. ibid. 57. On Antiochus’ ‘syncretism’ see

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Aristotle’s philosophy as a system like those of the Stoics and Epicureans, which his adherents were expected to understand and propagate.’126 And the case of Ariston and Cratippus suggests that the Peripatetics were rather successful in propagating their philosophy: instead of being appropriated and subsumed under Platonic dogmatism by Academics like Antiochus, now it was the Peripatetics who sought to subsume as many discourses as possible under the heading of Aristotelian philosophy. The preceding considerations provide us with the intellectual-historical backdrop of Dionysius’ controversy with the Peripatetic. We have to consider the Peripatetics’ outstanding position in contemporary intellectual culture, namely their claim to be the specialists in rhetorical education and, hence, political leadership, and their recent increase in prestige and authority due to the publication of Aristotle’s writings, in order to appreciate the significance and implications of the Peripatetic’s statement for Dionysius. Antiochus of Ascalon had rather successfully attempted to deny Aristotelian philosophy its independence by defining it as an element of Platonic dogmatism and to reduce Stoic philosophy to a mere derivative of Plato’s doctrines. Dionysius might have perceived a similar threat to the independence of rhetorical theory and literary criticism and, going hand-in-hand with this, to his own standing in the intellectual culture of his times, if the Peripatetic’s claim was accepted by a majority of intellectuals. In the wake of their new success, it might not have seemed unreasonable that the Peripatetics would eclipse Dionysius’ Classicist ideology; after all, philosophical schools had already threatened (successfully) the independence of rhetorical education in previous centuries. Furthermore, this intellectual background also helps us understand better why Dionysius emphasized certain aspects of the controversy with the Peripatetic and employed specific argument strategies. It explains, for example, why prestige and authority play such a prominent role in Dionysius’ reply to the Peripatetic; furthermore, the image of contemporary intellectual culture as a struggle for intellectual leadership between different schools of thought seems to have had a certain foundation in reality. 127 This does not mean, however, that we should take Dionysius’ statements on his intellecBarnes (1997), esp. 79; cf. Sedley (1981) 73 (Antiochus based his epistemology on ‘the “corrections” of those minor Platonists Aristotle and Zeno’). 126 Gottschalk (1990) 64. 127 Luzzatto (1988) 239 points out that there must have been an intense competition also among different schools of rhetoric, as is shown by the ‘Atticist’ opposition to ‘Asianism’; she refers to Seneca the Elder’s characterisation of the orator Craton, an ‘outspoken

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tual environment simply at face-value. Dionysius uses prominent tendencies of his times to locate his Classicist ideology within a framework of competition among different schools of thought and the (traditional) opposition of philosophy and rhetorics. This allows him to define Classicist criticism not as a neutral activity but as a contested field of intellectual pursuit in which defining oneself as a ‘Classicist’ necessarily entails not defining oneself as a Peripatetic, Stoic, Epicurean, or the like. This aspect of Classicist criticism as a constituent of a distinct community of intellectuals will be discussed in section 1.2.4 below. In the following sections I will turn to two elements of Dionysius’ argument with the Peripatetic which are directly connected with the preceding considerations: Dionysius’ emphasis on the unity of theory and practice as the distinctive characteristic of the tradition of Classical rhetoric (section 1.2.2), and the stress he lays on his letter as a published document as opposed to the oral statement of the Peripatetic (section 1.2.3).

1.2.2 Dionysius’ Critical Method as Heir to the Tradition of Classical Rhetoric In a striking passage Dionysius condenses the consequences for the tradition of Classical rhetoric and his own activity as a literary critic, should the Peripatetic’s opinion turn out to be right or be accepted by a majority of intellectuals (Amm.I , 2.3): [To‹to dò pepo–hka] —na mò Õpolàbwsin Ìti pànta perie–lhfen ô peripathtikò filosof–a tÄ ˚htorikÄ paraggËlmata, ka» o÷te

o… per» JeÏdwron ka» Jras‘maqon ka» >Antif¿nta spoud®c äxion oŒd‡n e›ron, o÷te >Isokràthc ka» >AnaximËnhc ka» >Alkidàmac o÷te o… to‘toic sumbi∏santec toÿc Çndràsi paraggelmàtwn teqnik¿n suggrafeÿc ka» Çgwnista» lÏgwn ˚htorik¿n, o… per» JeodËkthn ka» F–liskon ka» >Isaÿon ka» KhfisÏdwron Isokràtouc te ka» >Isa–ou kosmÏumenoc paraggËlmasin, e  mò tÄc >AristotËlouc Asianist’ (professus Asianus), as ‘fighting a war against all Atticists’ (qui bellum cum omnibus Atticis gerebat, contr. 10.5.21; transl. mine); cf. the discussion in ch. 2.3.4 below.

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tËqnac ‚xËmajen. OŒk Íst+Ítumoc lÏgoc o›toc, ¬ f–le >Ammaÿe, oŒd+ ‚k t¿n >AristotËlouc teqn¿n t¿n ’steron ‚xeneqjeis¿n o… DhmosjËnouc lÏgoi sunetàqjhsan […]. I should not want them [the Peripatetics] to suppose that all the precepts of rhetoric are comprehended in the Peripatetic philosophy, and that nothing has been discovered by Theodorus, Thrasymachus, Antiphon and their associates; nor by Isocrates, Anaximenes, Alcidamas or those of their contemporaries who composed rhetorical handbooks and engaged in oratorical contests: Theodectes, Philiscus, Isaeus, Cephisodorus, Hyperides, Lycurgus, Aeschines and all their associates. 128 Indeed, even Demosthenes himself, who surpassed all his predecessors and contemporaries, and left his successors with no scope for improvement, would not have achieved such greatness if he had equipped himself only according to the precepts of Isocrates and Isaeus, and had not thoroughly mastered the handbooks of Aristotle. “That story is not true,” my dear Ammaeus, nor in fact were the speeches of Demosthenes composed in accordance with the precepts of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, which was published at a later date.

At first sight, the impressive list of names seems little more than a boastful attempt of Dionysius’ to show off his knowledge about the tradition of rhetorical doctrine and the art of speaking. But this passage contains the key to Dionysius’ self-definition as a critic and explains why the Peripatetic’s assertion presented such a threat to him. The sheer length of the list of names demonstrates to the reader (and, above all, to the Peripatetic) the length of the tradition of classical rhetoric and represents a history in nuce of its development. The most striking characteristic of Dionysius’ conception of classical rhetoric is the interaction of theory and practice, of o… paraggelmàtwn teqnik¿n suggrafeÿc and Çgwnista» lÏgwn ˚htorik¿n.129 The rhetorical skills of a Demosthenes can be explained only as the result of this combination: Demosthenes was the pupil of the two men who excelled in both rhetorical theory and practice, Isocrates and Isaeus (toÿc >Isokràtouc te ka» >Isa–ou kosmo‘menoc paraggËlmasin).130 Demosthenes and his 128 On these names see Aujac’s V commentary, 51 nn. 1–5. 129 In the context of Dionysius’ controversy with the Peripatetic it is important to note that Aristotle, as Luzzatto (1988) 221 points out, was the first to separate rhetorical theory and practice. 130 Dionysius might be referring here to a handbook on rhetoric written by Isaeus, on which nothing else is known, see Thalheim (1916) 2051–2052 (his reference to Ps.-Plutarch’s Life of Isaeus is erroneous). According to the Pseudo-Plutarchian Life (840F), Isaeus taught Demosthenes rhetoric (kajhg†sato d‡ DhmosjËnouc), an information found also in Dionysius’ essay On Isaeus 1.1 and 1.2. Isocrates was for Dionysius the most outstanding

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accomplished rhetorical technique thus encapsulate Dionysius’ conception of the Classical rhetorical tradition. If the Peripatetic’s claim were accepted by a majority of scholars, the entire tradition of Classical rhetoric, as Dionysius conceives it, would be annihilated and accomplished oratory would be reduced to a product of one work of rhetorical theory alone, Aristotle’s Rhetoric. This, in turn, would entitle the Peripatetic ‘to suppose that all the precepts of rhetoric are comprehended in the precepts of Peripatetic philosophy’ 131 and thus corroborate his and his school’s claim to be the ‘leaders in the study of rhetoric.’

teacher of rhetoric in Classical times (Isoc. 1.5: […] toÃc krat–stouc t¿n >Aj†nhsi te ka» ‚n t¨ äll˘ <Ellàdi nËwn paide‘sac, ¡n o… m‡n ‚n toÿc dikanikoÿc ‚gËnonto äristoi lÏgoic, o… d‡ ‚n t¿ polite‘esjai ka» tÄ koinÄ pràttein di†negkan [‚tele‘ta t‰n b–on], ‘[he passed away having become] the teacher of the most eminent men at Athens and in Greece at large, both the best forensic orators, and those who distinguished themselves in politics and public life’); Ps.-Plutarch reports that ‘some people’ (tinËc) held that Demosthenes was the pupil of Isocrates (844B), but that the opinion prevailed that Demosthenes was a pupil of Isaeus who, in turn, had been taught by Isocrates (ibid.; cf. Is. 1.2). In Dionysius’ day Isocrates was thought to have composed a handbook on rhetoric: Cicero, inv. 2.7, mentions an ars by Isocrates which he was sure existed, but which he could not get hold of (cuius ipsius [Isocratis] quam constet esse artem non invenimus, ‘although it is certain that a handbook on rhetoric of Isocrates exists, I have not found it,’ transl. mine), and Quintilian, inst. 2.15.4, bears witness that in his time an ars was circulating which was ascribed to Isocrates but of which the authenticity was debated (haec opinio originem ab Isocrate, si tamen re vera ars quae circumfertur eius est, duxit, ‘this idea originated with Isocrates, provided that he really is the author of the rhetorical handbook generally ascribed to him,’ transl. mine); see the discussion in Münscher (1916) 2224, who regards the ars as pseudepigraphal. 131 Dionysius might have in mind such claims as that made by Piso, himself a representative of Antiochus’ ‘Old Academy,’ regarding the early Peripatetics (Peripatetici veteres) and Academics at Cic. fin. 5.7: Ad eos igitur converte te, quaeso. Ex eorum enim scriptis et institutis cum omnis doctrina liberalis, omnis historia, omnis sermo elegans sumi potest, tum varietas est tanta artium ut nemo sine eo instrumento ad ullam rem inlustriorem satis ornatus possit accedere. Ab his oratores, ab his imperatores ac rerum publicarum principes exstiterunt. Ut ad minora veniam, mathematici poetae musici medici denique ex hac tamquam omnium artificum officina profecti sunt (‘Do you then join them, I beg you. From their writings and teachings can be learnt the whole of liberal culture, of history and of style; moreover they include such a variety of sciences, that without the equipment that they give no one can be adequately prepared to embark on any of the higher careers. They have produced orators, generals and statesmen. To come to the less distinguished professions, this factory of experts in all the sciences has turned out mathematicians, poets, musicians and physicians’).

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This would directly affect Dionysius’ position as a literary critic in the present. Dionysius’ conception of the tradition of Classical rhetoric as an interaction of theory and practice provides the legitimation for his critical method: it is precisely the combination of theoretical reflection and rhetorical practice which is the cornerstone of Dionysius’ criticism. 132 This emerges clearly from Orat. Vett. 4.2, where Dionysius defines the aim of his criticism as identifying ‘who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each of them should we imitate, and which should we avoid?’ 133 Like Demosthenes’ speeches, the texts of Dionysius’ recipients will be based on sound theoretical foundations which will be provided by Dionysius. This implies that Classical rhetoric can be learned only with Dionysius’ method, because it alone is based on the same principles as Classical rhetoric itself and offers teaching along the lines of Isocrates and Isaeus. 134 Therefore it is a vital question to Dionysius whether rhetorical skills of the quality of a Demosthenes can be acquired from studying Aristotle’s Rhetorics or whether they have to be acquired from a guided study of the Classical texts. Dionysius’ authority as a critic is based on the assertion that his method continues the Classical tradition of rhetoric; if it turned out that the most exemplary representative of this tradition did not owe his skills to the particular combination of theory and practice but to Aristotle’s theoretical work alone, Dionysius’ criticism would be superfluous and reduced to a useless appendix to Peripatetic philosophy. Thus what at first glance appeared to be a slightly absurd question of purely philological interest, ‘Who was first, Demosthenes or Aristotle?,’ 135 and, consequently, ‘Who

132 Cf. de Jonge (2008) 11 (following Gelzer [1979] 10–11): ‘it is typical of classicism that the creation of new works of art is based on an explicit theory.’ 133 Orat. Vett. 4.2: t–nec e s»n Çxiolog∏tatoi t¿n Çrqa–wn ˚htÏrwn te ka» suggrafËwn

ka» t–nec aŒt¿n ‚gËnonto proairËseic to‹ te b–ou ka» to‹ lÏgou ka» t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai […]. 134 Dionysius conceives of his essays as providing an original, Classical programme of rhetorical training, see below, ch. 4.2.5; on the role of Isocrates in Dionysius’ Classicism see below, ch. 2.2.1. 135 Cf. Amm.I , 2.1: [‚maut‰n pËpeika] DhmosjËnouc Çkmàzontoc ¢dh ka» toÃc ‚pifa-

nestàtouc e rhkÏtoc Çg¿nac tÏte Õp‰ >AristotËlouc tÄc ˚htorikÄc gegràfjai tËqnac (‘[I have satisfied myself that] it was not until Demosthenes had already reached his prime and had delivered his most celebrated orations that the Rhetoric was written by Aristotle,’ emphases mine) with ibid. 3.1.

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learned from whom?,’ 136 touches upon the very foundations of Dionysius’ legitimation as a critic and his authority in contemporary critical discourse. The controversy with the Peripatetic thus turns out to be a controversy between two mutually exclusive conceptions of Classical rhetoric and of how – and by whom – it is to be taught. 1.2.3 The Power of the Text: Creating a Discursive Tradition Dionysius further underlines the claim for superiority of his position by investing the fact that his letter is a written and published document with a symbolic value: until now the Peripatetic’s claims are part of the multitude of Çko‘smata, oral pronouncements, with which the field of criticism is teeming. But another stage of the controversy would be reached if the Peripatetic succeeded in publishing his ideas: thus fixed permanently, they would gain wide-spread acceptance among the masses of scholars and would then become a real threat to Dionysius and his conception of criticism. It is at this crucial point of the controversy that Dionysius interferes with the publication of his own letter in order ‘to persuade the person who has adopted this view and is prepared to put it in writing, to change it [his opinion] before giving his treatise out to the masses’ 137 (—na t‰n o’twc ‚gnwkÏta ka» gràyai ge pareskeuasmËnon, pr»n e c Óqlon ‚kdÏnai t‰ s‘ntagma, metabaleÿn pe–saimi tòn dÏxan, Amm.I , 1.2). Thus the publication of the letter is directly linked to the elite critic’s authority in the field and his influence among the multitude of scholars (Óqloc). 138 Forestalling the pub136 Dionysius illustrates the perversion of the normal relationship between theory and practice, which the Peripatetic’s claim entails, at Amm.I , 10.1: the term which describes the usual development of style through one author ‘emulating’ another, z†lwsic, is here applied to the orator Demosthenes ‘emulating’ the philosopher-theoretician Aristotle: >ApÏqrh m‡n ofin ka» ta‹ta ˚hjËnta fanerÄn poi®sai tòn filotim–an t¿n Çxio‘ntwn tÄc >AristotËlouc ‚zhlwkËnai tËqnac DhmosjËnh (‘enough has been said to expose the exaggerated claims of those who assert that Demosthenes emulated the Rhetoric of Aristotle,’ emphases mine; Usher’s transl. modified). 137 Usher’s transl. modified. 138 The word Óqloc need not be pejorative (‘crowd, throng,’ LSJ, p. 1281, s.v. I.1) and may simply mean ‘mass, multitude’ (ibid . s.v. I.2). However, given the fact that Dionysius carefully distinguishes between elite critics and the multitude of average critics, the word is likely to have negative implications in the present context. As o… pollo– in Amm. I , 1.2, Óqloc does not refer to the masses in general, but to the multitude of intellectuals and scholars active in Dionysius’ day whom he regards as ‘average intellectuals,’ cf. p. 32 with n. 101 above.

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lication of the Peripatetic’s opinion, Dionysius settles the dispute with the Peripatetic before the latter has even had a chance to get the support of ‘the many’ for his claim. As will be shown in chapter 5.2.1, Dionysius designs the whole letter as a trial in which the Peripatetic, represented by a fictus interlocutor, is defeated by Dionysius and Aristotle himself, who participates in the controversy through verbatim quotations and confirms Dionysius’ point of view. Thus the letter represents a permanent document of how Dionysius reveals the absurdity of the Peripatetic’s claim and how he defeats him with the support of the founder of the very tradition which the Peripatetic claimed to represent. Reading the letter, the reader will re-enact the dispute in which Dionysius dethroned the Peripatetic’s authority and through which the Peripatetic lost his status as an elite critic. Any real controversy which might have arisen from a publication of the Peripatetic’s statement has forever been substituted with the virtual controversy acted out in Amm.I . Thus as a published document, in contrast to the unpublished assertion of his adversary, Dionysius’ letter is a symbol of the superiority of Dionysius’ method over the Peripatetic’s and substantiates his claim to leadership in the study of rhetoric. The symbolic value with which Dionysius charges Amm.I sheds new light on the function of the numerous cross-references to other works of his which pervade his writings. One example of such a cross-reference is found in Amm.I itself (Amm.I , 3.1):

OŒk Íst+Ítumoc lÏgoc o›toc, ¬ f–le >Ammaÿe, oŒd+‚k t¿n >AristotËlouc teqn¿n t¿n ’steron ‚xeneqjeis¿n o… DhmosjËnouc lÏgoi sunetàqjhsan ÇllÄ kaj+·tËrac tinÄc e sagwgàc; Õp‡r ¡n ‚n  d–¯ dhl∏sw graf¨ tÄ doko‹ntà moi; polÃc gÄr  per» aŒt¿n lÏgoc, Án oŒ kal¿c e⁄qen ·tËrac graf®c poi®sai pàrergon. “That story is not true,” my dear Ammaeus, nor in fact were the speeches of Demosthenes composed in accordance with the precepts of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, which was published at a later date. His speeches are indebted to other treatises, about which I shall disclose my view in another work, since the subject demands full discussion, which could not properly be made a subordinate part of a work on another topic.

Dionysius is referring his reader to a treatise which has not yet been written but which, once published, will be based on his successful argument with the Peripatetic. As such it adds another piece of evidence for Dionysius’ claim to superiority to the already existing Amm.I and provides further proof

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that Dionysius’ method is the only appropriate way to learn the Classical language. Dionysius’ individual writings are thus connected to a network, ‘a stone-by-stone construction of an edifice’139 and result in what could be called a ‘field of statements.’ Dionysius’ individual statements, i. e., every single one of his works, are ordered to ‘enunciative series,’ the elements of which mutually depend on and refer to each other. 140 In their totality, then, Dionysius’ writings bit by bit constitute a tradition of Classicist criticism. The opening chapter of Dionysius’ essay On Thucydides, considered briefly above, is particularly illustrative of this aspect of Dionysius’ writings (Thuc. 1.1–4): 141

>En toÿc proekdojeÿsi per» t®c mim†sewc Õpomnhmatismoÿc ‚pelhluj∞c oœc Õpelàmbanon ‚pifanestàtouc e⁄nai poihtàc te ka» suggrafeÿc, ¬ KÏinte A“lie ToubËrwn, ka» dedhlwk∞c ‚n Êl–goic t–nac Èkastoc aŒt¿n e sfËretai pragmatikàc te ka» lektikÄc Çretàc, ka» p¨ màlista qe–rwn ·auto‹ g–netai katÄ tÄc Çpotuq–ac […], —na toÿc proairoumËnoic gràfein te ka» lËgein efi kalo» ka» dedokimasmËnoi kanÏnec ¬sin, ‚f+¡n poi†sontai tÄc katÄ mËroc gumnas–ac […]; 142 ÅyàmenÏc te t¿n suggrafËwn ‚d†lwsa ka» per» Joukud–dou tÄ doko‹ntà moi, suntÏm˙ ka» kefalai∏dei graf¨ perilab∏n […] t®c eŒkair–ac t¿n grafomËnwn stoqazÏmenoc […]. So‹ d‡ boulhjËntoc  d–an suntàxasja– me per» Joukud–dou grafòn âpanta perieilhfuÿan tÄ deÏmena lÏgwn, ÇnabalÏmenoc tòn per» DhmosjËnouc pragmate–an õn e⁄qon ‚n qers–n, ÕpesqÏmhn te poi†sein, ±c pro˘ro‹, ka» telËsac tòn ÕpÏsqesin Çpod–dwmi. In the treatise On Imitation which I published earlier, Quintus Aelius Tubero, I discussed those poets and prose authors whom I considered to be outstanding. I indicated briefly the good qualities of content and style contributed by each, and where his failings caused him to fall furthest below his own standards […]. I did this in order that those who intend to become good writers and speakers should have sound and approved standards by which to carry out their individual exercises […]. When I came to deal with the historians, I gave my opinion of Thucydides, but expressed it in a brief and summary manner […] because I was concerned with presenting my material on a scale appropriate to the work in 139 I am adopting this expression from Foucault (1969) 62. 140 Cf. ibid. 62–70, esp. 62–63. 141 Cf. Amm.II , 1.1–2; Pomp. 2.1; 3.1; Thuc. 1.4; Din. 11.4; Lys. 34.1; see Bonner (1939) 25–38 for further references; cf. above, p. 27. 142 Due to its length the sentence is an anacoluthon and lacks a main verb.

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hand […]. But when you expressed the desire that I should write a separate essay on Thucydides, including everything that required comment, I promised to set aside the work on Demosthenes that I had in hand, and do as you preferred. Here is the essay, in fulfilment of my promise.

This passage not only demonstrates that Dionysius conceived of his treatises as elements of a network of both works already written and works yet-tobe written and that he expects his recipients to do likewise. It also points to another constituent of Dionysius’ Classicism: his essays are inextricably bound up with a lively discussion within a community of intellectuals. As in the First Letter to Ammaeus, Dionysius presents his essays as both the product of and the driving force behind Classicist discursive practice. His essays regulate the discursive activity within the community by providing guidelines of how to deal with the classical texts. 143 And the exercises and discussions which they provoke might, as with Tubero, result in requests for further treatises. Dionysius’ essays document and represent the existence and activity of a community of literati from which they are sprung and to which they are directed. Constituting an archive of the knowledge that defines ‘those who make a serious study of politiko» lÏgoi,’ they provide this community with a discursive history. This aspect of Dionysius’ Classicist ideology will be discussed in the following section of this chapter.

1.2.4 Criticism as Constituent of Communities of Intellectuals Dionysius presents himself and the Peripatetic as representatives of communities of scholars. It is striking that throughout the letter the Peripatetic remains anonymous – in stark contrast to Dionysius and Ammaeus. Therefore, an attempt has been made to identify the Peripatetic with Andronicus of Rhodes.144 But the fact that the Peripatetic remains anonymous serves a purpose. It signals to the reader that Dionysius’ adversary is less important as an individual scholar than as the representative of the Peripatetic school of thought. As Dionysius says at Amm.I , 1.1, the motivation for the Peripatetic’s attempt to make Classical rhetoric depend on Aristotle is the desire ‘to show all respect to Aristotle, the founder of his school’ (pànta qar–zesjai boulÏmenoc >AristotËlei tƒ kt–santi ta‘thn tòn filosof–an). 143 Cf. above, p. 27. 144 Wooten (1994) 121–123.

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The underlying purpose of Dionysius’ letter itself, to convince (par§noun, Amm.I , 1.2) Ammaeus to side with him against the Peripatetic, reveals that Dionysius too conceives of himself as the representative of a community: subscribing to or denying a particular opinion on the Classical texts is not a neutral task but implies associating oneself with one elite critic and, necessarily, distinguishing oneself from others. The group Dionysius claims to be representing is named explicitly at Amm.I , 2.3: the letter against the Peripatetic is written ‘for the gratification of all those who make a serious study of politiko» lÏgoi’ (t®c Åpàntwn t¿n per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚spoudakÏtwn qàritoc). 145 This passage suggests that the term ‘o… per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚spoudakÏtec,’ and similar expressions which pervade Dionysius’ works,146 does not refer to ‘those who make a serious study of civil oratory’ in general, as Usher translates it. Rather, the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ are Dionysius’ ideal readers, i.e., those readers who are defined, and define themselves, by adopting Dionysius’ conception of Classical rhetoric (politiko» lÏgoi) and by subscribing to his critical methods.147 Given this specific meaning of politiko» lÏgoi in Dionysius’ writings, it is not adequately rendered with the expression ‘civil oratory.’ In most quotations I have therefore decided to leave the term untranslated; a possible, albeit not entirely satisfying, alternative rendering of expressions such as ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ of which I shall make occasional use, is ‘Classicists.’ 148 The opening paragraph of On Thucydides (Thuc. 1.1–4) provides further evidence that Dionysius conceives of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as a distinct community that is defined by the particular competence provided in his writings: 149 145 Usher’s transl. modified. 146 o… Çsko‹ntec tòn politikòn filosof–an/toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc: Orat. Vett. 4.2, Comp. 1.3, Pomp. 6.5; o… filÏlogoi: Thuc. 2.4, 25.2; also expressions like eŒpa–deutoi, Comp. 22.35, Dem. 46.3, or e dÏtec, Dem. 14.2, 23.3, Comp. 16.18, 22.35, belong in this category; cf. further Dem. 32.1, 35.2 (list not meant to be exhaustive); cf. Hidber (1996) on 4.2 (p. 130) and see the discussion of knowledge as constitutive of the Classicist community in ch. 4 below. 147 For a more detailed discussion of the implications of the notion politiko» lÏgoi see ch. 2.1, below, where I will demonstrate that the expression is a technical term for a conception of language and identity which Dionysius adopts from Isocrates. 148 This translation, too, is problematic, because it imposes our view on Dionysius’ and his readers’ activity; to us, they are classicizing, but, as the next chapter will show, they conceived of themselves as being Classical. Cf. my remarks in n. 11 above. 149 Cf. the discussion of this passage under a different aspect above, pp. 46–47.

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>En toÿc proekdojeÿsi per» t®c mim†sewc Õpomnhmatismoÿc ‚pelhluj∞c oœc Õpelàmbanon ‚pifanestàtouc e⁄nai poihtàc te ka» suggrafeÿc, ¬ KÏinte A“lie ToubËrwn, ka» dedhlwk∞c ‚n Êl–goic t–nac Èkastoc aŒt¿n e sfËretai pragmatikàc te ka» lektikÄc Çretàc, ka» p¨ màlista qe–rwn ·auto‹ g–netai katÄ tÄc Çpotuq–ac […], —na toÿc proairoumËnoic gràfein te ka» lËgein efi kalo» ka» dedokimasmËnoi kanÏnec ¬sin, ‚f+¡n poi†sontai tÄc katÄ mËroc gumnas–ac mò pànta mimo‘menoi tÄ par+‚ke–noic ke–mena toÿc Çndràsin, ÇllÄ tÄc m‡n ÇretÄc aŒt¿n lambànontec, tÄc d‡ Çpotuq–ac fulattÏmenoi […]. In the treatise On Imitation which I published earlier, Quintus Aelius Tubero, I discussed those poets and prose authors whom I considered to be outstanding. I indicated briefly the good qualities of content and style contributed by each, and where his failings caused him to fall furthest below his own standards […]. I did this in order that those who intend to become good writers and speakers should have sound and approved standards by which to carry out their individual exercises, not imitating all the qualities of these authors, but adopting their good qualities and guarding against their failings.

The summary of On Imitation recalls Dionysius’ Classicist programme in Orat. Vett. 4.2. 150 His analyses of the Classical texts, of their style and their contents, and his judgment on their quality are the ‘sound and approved standards’ for his readers. Dionysius envisages his readers as a group of recipients who all share his approach to and aesthetic judgment on the Classical texts and who implement it in daily exercises along the standard set up in his writings. 151 It is Dionysius who defines which features of the Classical texts are worth imitating and which are not. Thus he creates a specific idea of what is ‘Classical’ to which he expects his readers to subscribe 150 Cf. above, p. 43. 151 Cf. Comp. 20.23, where Dionysius describes his treatise as incomplete in so far as his explanations need to be complemented (prosupoj†somai) by daily exercises with Rufus: Ìsa d‡ oŒq oŸà te ™n, ‚làttw te Ónta to‘twn ka» ÇmudrÏtera ka» diÄ pl®joc dusper–lhpta miî graf¨, ta‹t+‚n taÿc kaj+ômËran gumnas–aic prosupoj†soma– soi, ka» poll¿n ka» Çgaj¿n poiht¿n te ka» suggrafËwn ka» ˚htÏrwn martur–aic qr†somai (‘But there are others [elements of an attractive and beautiful style], less important and more obscure than these, which I could not mention because their numbers made them difficult to include in a single treatise; and these I shall submit to you in our daily exercises, and shall support my case with evidence from many good poets, historians and orators’). In so doing, Dionysius defines what at first sight seems to be an autonomous work as firmly embedded in the larger discursive practice of the community of o… Çsko‹ntec toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc (Comp. 1.3); see below, ch. 5.1.

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and which they are supposed to implement in their writings; only thus will they become not only competent critics, but also competent writers and speakers whose excellence is due to the (itself Classical) combination of a sound theoretical knowledge and practical exercise. The common pursuit of Dionysius’ conception of the Classical distinguishes the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ All those who adopt a conception of the Classical other than Dionysius’ are excluded from the community of Classicists. 152 The frequent use of the first and second person and of the vocative in Amm.I , 2.1–2 substantiates Dionysius’ claim to be acting on behalf of a community of literati. At Amm.I , 2.1, for example, Dionysius addresses Ammaeus directly and praises him:

OŒk ‚laq–sthn dË moi sà parËsqou ˚opòn e c t‰ mò parËrgwc ‚xetàsai tòn Çl†jeian, parakal¿n faneroÃc poi®sai toÃc lÏgouc oŸc ‚maut‰n pËpeika DhmosjËnouc Çkmàzontoc ¢dh ka» toÃc ‚pifanestàtouc e rhkÏtoc Çg¿nac tÏte Õp‰ >AristotËlouc tÄc ˚htorikÄc gegràfjai tËqnac. The strongest of my motives for making a systematic investigation of the truth was supplied by yourself, urging me to publish the arguments with which I have satisfied myself that it was not until Demosthenes had already reached his prime and had delivered his most celebrated Orations that the Rhetoric was written by Aristotle.

‘And again,’ Dionysius goes on immediately afterwards, ‘you seem right to urge me not to rest my case upon mere signs or probabilities or pieces of evidence extraneous to it, […] but rather to call as my witness Aristotle himself […]’ (‚dÏkeic tË moi ka» to‹to Êrj¿c paraineÿn, mò shme–oic mhd‡ e kÏsi mhd+Çllotr–aic t‰ prêgma pist∏sasjai martur–aic […], Çll+aŒt‰n >AristotËlh parasqËsjai […], 2.2). Dionysius’ essay is thus presented as the result of a discussion between two intellectuals who share the same knowledge about Classical texts and who agree on the method with which this knowledge has to be acquired. This agreement unites Dionysius and Ammaeus and sets them in opposition to the Peripatetic and his point of view. As the consequence of this agreement, the letter itself testifies to the community of literati to which it owes its existence. Within this community, Dionysius claims a leading role for himself. He is keen to point out that he had already decided on the 152 The connection between knowledge and aesthetics and their importance as criteria of distinction will be discussed in detail in ch. 4 below.

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procedure of how to refute the Peripatetic before Ammaeus suggested it (toÃc lÏgouc oŸc ‚maut‰n pËpeika […]) and that Ammaeus’ suggestions needed to be approved by him before they could be applied (‚dÏkeic tË moi […] Êrj¿c paraineÿn). Moreover, it is Dionysius who is writing the letter, and not Ammaeus. Developing his own approach in opposition to the Peripatetic’s, Dionysius creates an image of ‘the Classicist critic’ and of his position in contemporary critical discourse to which he invites his reader to subscribe. This procedure might be called identity through distinction: on the one hand, Dionysius envisages his readers (and invites them to see themselves) as a community like the Peripatetics, which is defined by a distinct approach to the Classical texts and which represents a long tradition. In order to do so, he adopts and adapts crucial elements of the strategies of self-definition and self-distinction of the philosophical schools such as the claim to be continuing an intellectual tradition which owes its present accomplished state to Demosthenes as its quasi-founding father (chapter 1.2.2); the assertion that this attitude towards this tradition is shared by others and that this shared attitude is a bond strong enough to define himself and them as a distinct community (chapter 1.2.4); 153 and the emphasis on the role of his works as constituents of a written discursive tradition (chapter 1.2.3). On the other hand, this entails that he and his Classicist community need to distinguish themselves from the philosophical communities, and the Peripatetics in particular, and this distinction is acted out in the quarrel over the relationship between Aristotle and Demosthenes. The tradition of Classical rhetoric is represented by the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ alone and therefore Classical rhetoric is their domain. As seen above, the agonistic nature of criticism entails that one community can establish its discourse only at the expense of other communities, as the Peripatetics 153 Based on Seneca the Elder, Luzzatto (1988) 238 has argued that there were several schools of ‘Asianist’ declamations, each led by one famous orator, cf. below, p. 113 n. 326. If she is right (but see Wooten [1975] 94), these ‘Asianist’ communities would provide an interesting parallel in the field of rhetorical education to Dionysius’ attempt to define himself and his (ideal) recipients as a community of Classicists, especially because the ‘Asianists’ served Dionysius as the paradigmatic out-group in opposition to which he conceived his ideal of ‘Classical’ language. It is important to note, though, that because of this importance of ‘Asianists’ as the antagonists of ‘Classicists,’ the image of ‘Asianism’ which Dionysius presents in his writings differs fundamentally from the historical reality of ‘Asianist’ style and ‘Asianist’ schools of declamation, see the discussion in ch.s 2.3.1, 2.3.2, and 2.3.4 below, esp. pp. 113–116 with nn. 326, 328.

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had established their claim for superiority in intellectual discourse at the expense of the Academics (chapter 1.2.1). Dionysius now claims the same right for himself and his community whose authority he seeks to establish at the expense of the Peripatetics. As the visible ‘monuments’ of the power and influence of Dionysius’ critical method, Dionysius’ writings themselves demonstrate that he is the worthy heir to and representative of the tradition of Classical rhetoric and that his Classicist criticism can easily compete with or even overpower such long-established and renowned schools of thought as the Peripatetics. The First Letter to Ammaeus thus turns out to be a manifesto which demonstrates that the Classicist community is on a par with and claims the same authority as such renowned schools as the Peripatetics and that the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ are prepared to challenge the Peripatetics’ position as the ‘leaders in the study of rhetoric.’ 154

1.3 Conclusions In the first chapter of this study I have argued that Dionysius’ Classicist criticism can fruitfully be approached as a cultural rather than linguistic phenomenon. So far discussions of Dionysius have focused on the grammatical and rhetorical traditions which Dionysius combines in his discussions of and judgments on the classical authors, and on the methods by which he combines them to create his own, unique critical approach. Such a linguistic approach to Dionysius, however, leaves a question unanswered which is essential to our understanding of Dionysius’ Classicism: why did it make sense to Greek and Roman intellectuals in Augustan Rome to attempt to speak and write like Lysias, Isocrates, or Demosthenes? What was their outlook on the world, their Weltanschauung, that made this intellectual pursuit seem worthwhile to them? The relevance of such an approach to Dionysius’ critical and historical writings, I have argued, extends beyond the confines of Dionysian scholarship. It challenges us to view Classicist criticism as a cultural strategy to cope with and constructively adapt crucial elements of Dionysius’ cultural and political environment rather than as a retrograde ‘movement’ which sacrifices the present to the preposterous attempt to resuscitate a past buried centuries ago. This, in turn, invites us to reconsider our conception of 154 For a detailed analysis of Dionysius’ argument strategy in the letter and of the image of Dionysius and his critical method which results from it see ch. 5.2.1.

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‘Augustan’ culture itself: so far, definitions of ‘Augustan’ have generally been based on the notion of a (potentially) direct and mutual interchange between Augustan power and the various spheres of society. Dionysius’ Classicism suggests a different, more flexible conception of ‘Augustan’ culture: although we can safely exclude any direct influence between Dionysius and Augustus’ power, his Classicist ideology, as will become apparent in the next chapters, is deeply informed by Augustus and the image of himself and his reign which the princeps disseminated. Thus Dionysius’ Classicism helps us to understand how the principate was implemented in the intellectual culture in Rome in the first century BCE and how it shaped contemporary culture beyond the boundaries of political power. Social Identity Theory provides a suitable theoretical framework to approach Dionysius’ Classicism as a cultural phenomenon. It allows us to conceive of Dionysius’ ‘literary circle’ as a social sub-group which provides its members with an ideology in Paul Ricœur’s sense, i. e., with a set of discursive practices through which a ‘group [gets] an all-encompassing comprehensive view not only of itself, but of history and, finally, of the whole world.’ 155 Dionysius’ writings allow us insight into this discursive practice and the conception of identity that united Dionysius and the members of the ‘literary circle’ or, as Dionysius prefers to call them, the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ A discussion of the introductory chapters to Dionysius’ First Letter to Ammaeus has shown that Dionysius himself conceived of himself and his ideal recipients as a community of intellectuals and presents himself as the head of this community. In this process Dionysius adopts and adapts the strategies of identity and distinction of the traditional philosophical schools of thought, especially the Peripatetics. Like the communities of philosophers Dionysius lays claim to a long scholarly tradition, the tradition of Classical rhetoric itself. The distinctive feature of this Classical tradition is the combination of oratorical theory and practice which also distinguishes Dionysius’ critical method. Dionysius thus presents his method as the only legitimate continuation of the tradition of Classical rhetoric and himself as its only legitimate representative. His writings represent the discursive tradition of the community of Classicists. As written and published documents they demonstrate the continuity of the tradition of Classical rhetorical practice-cum-theory, but they also underline Dionysius’ claim to be the leader of a school of thought 155 Ricœur (1978) 46.

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the writings of whom have the same canonical status to his followers as the works of Epicurus, Zeno, Plato, or Aristotle have to theirs. At the same time, as both the driving force behind and the product of the discussions among the members of the Classicist community, they represent the existence of this community itself and its claim to be on a par with or even superior to the traditional philosophical schools of thought. This claim is further substantiated by the very act of turning the strategies of self-definition of Dionysius’ competitors, the philosophical schools, into constituents of the discourse of Classicist criticism: the similarities between the philosophical and the Classicist discourse are a demonstrative assertion that Classicist criticism has the same right to authority in Augustan intellectual culture as the communities of philosophers, while at the same time underlining the differences between philosophy and criticism. It will be the aim of the subsequent chapters to explore further the outlook on the world and conception of self and other that are bound up with defining oneself as a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi.’ The first major part of this study, consisting of chapters 2 and 3, will explore the interpretation of Classical past, Augustan present, and Roman history and their interrelation that is conveyed by Dionysius’ Classicist ideology. It will examine the way in which language becomes the basis of the self-definition of Dionysius and his ideal addressees as Greek intellectuals working and living in Augustan Rome: which role did they ascribe to their Greek literary, cultural, and political heritage in the Roman present? How did they define their own position in relation to this heritage? What was their view of their Roman contemporaries and their history? How did they define their own role as intellectuals between Greek education and Roman power? The focus of Classicism, I will show in chapter 2, is on the present rather than the past. Dionysius offers his recipients an interpretation of history which allows them to integrate the Classical Greek cultural and political heritage and the spread of Roman power under Augustus. Rather than an escapist attempt to turn back time to the Golden Age, Dionysius’ Classicism is an attempt to overcome the temporal and spatial gap separating Classical past and Augustan present; Dionysius, one might say, invites his recipients to read Augustan power through the lenses of Classical Greek language and literature. The preceding discussion has shown that the term politiko» lÏgoi plays a key role in Dionysius’ Classicism. After a brief consideration of the role of time in Dionysius’ Classicism in chapter 2.1, my investigation of the

1.3 Conclusions

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Classicist conception of identity will begin with a discussion of the meaning and implications of the notion politiko» lÏgoi. This will lend further support to the assertion that politiko» lÏgoi does not simply refer to the rather vague notion of ‘civil oratory,’ as it is often translated; rather, the term refers to a specifically Isocratean conception of language and civic identity. Drawing on an analysis of Dionysius’ On Isocrates, chapter 2.2.1 will show that Dionysius conceived of language as the carrier of a set of moral and political values which were acquired and implemented through language; to Dionysius, practising Classical language meant implementing Classical identity in the present. A discussion of On Mimesis and On Dinarchus in chapter 2.2.2 will then illustrate Dionysius’ conception of mimesis, the process through which Classical identity is acquired and enacted through language. Since Classicists aimed to implement Classical Greek identity in the Roman present and to achieve continuity between Classical Athens and Augustan Rome, chapter 2.3 will focus on how Dionysius interprets the role of the Romans and their relation to the Classical Greek past in order to accommodate them in his Classicist world view. Chapter 2 being centred on the conception of the present inherent in Dionysius’ Classicist ideology, chapter 3 will turn to Dionysius’ image of both the Classical Greek and the Roman past. Recently, there has been a controversial discussion about the construction of the past through historical texts, the relation between historytelling and past realities, and narration as a means of historical understanding. Our view on and assessment of Dionysius’ construction of the past can benefit from the results of this controversy. Chapter 3.1 will offer a brief overview of the major tenets of this debate and thus provide the background against which Dionysius’ image of the past will be discussed in the subsequent sections of chapter 3. Drawing on Dionysius’ discussion of the principles of good historiography and his criticism of the portrayal of the Athenians in Thucydides’ History in the Letter to Pompeius and On Thucydides, chapter 3.2 will explore Dionysius’ vision of the Classical past. Dionysius uses criticism to substitute Thucydides’ ‘inappropriate’ image of the Athenians with an image that he regards as ‘appropriate.’ This offers us novel insights into how Dionysius imagined the Classical Athenians as historical actors and furthers our understanding of the foundations on which Dionysius’ image of the Classical past was based. Chapter 3.3 will then discuss Dionysius’ historical work, the Antiquitates Romanae, and its relation to his Classicism. The Romans, as chapter 2.3 will have demonstrated, are an integral part of Dionysius’ ideology, which is

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based to a large extent on the idea that Augustan Rome is the continuation of Classical Athens. This was not a commonly accepted idea among either Greeks or Romans and therefore required justification. Chapter 3.3 will demonstrate how the Antiquitates substantiates the interpretation of the Roman present on which Dionysius’ Classicism is based, by proving that the Romans had been Greek, both ethnically and ethically, from the very beginnings of their history. A main concern of Dionysius’ Classicism is the definition of the relationship between Romans and Greeks. It is a concern which Dionysius shares with major Roman writers, such as Cicero and Virgil, who deal with the same questions but propose answers which are entirely different from Dionysius’. The essential elements of Dionysius’ view of the relationship between Greeks and Romans will emerge clearly only when read against alternative interpretations of Dionysius’ Latin contemporaries. There is no direct evidence that Dionysius ever read the works of either Virgil or Cicero, and it is difficult to assess his competence in Latin. The fact that his acquaintance (friend?) Caecilius of Caleacte wrote a comparison (s‘gkrisic) of Demosthenes and Cicero makes it plausible that Dionysius was familiar with at least Cicero’s writings, but we cannot be sure. Therefore, when comparing Dionysius’ approach with that of Latin authors, I do not presuppose that Dionysius is deliberately reacting to their views or that he had first-hand knowledge of their works. Rather, these comparisons help set Dionysius’ point of view in context and, thus, highlight aspects of his Classicism which have passed unnoticed so far or shed new light on already well-known features of his works. The first part of this study explores the world view implied in the discursive practice, the literary and rhetorical criticism of the Classical texts, which constitutes the literary circle as a community. The second part, chapters 4 and 5, will then turn to this discursive practice itself. While chapters 2 and 3 discuss the self-definition of Dionysius and his addressees as Greek intellectuals in Augustan Rome, chapters 4 and 5 investigate their self-image as literary critics and the discourse of authority and superiority associated with it: how did Dionysius and his addressees imagine their relation to the Classical authors? How did this influence their image of themselves and their critical method vis-à-vis scholarly tradition and, in particular, with regard to alternative approaches to the Classical texts? How is this image of self and others implemented in Dionysius’ texts? How do they contribute to constituting the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ by means of strategies of integration and exclusion?

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Chapter 4 will therefore return to the notion of criticism as a struggle for authority and explore further the role of literary criticism as a criterion of distinction in Dionysius’ writings. Reading the Classical texts plays a crucial role in the formation of a community of Classicists because reading is the primary means to connect with the past. Chapter 4.1 will assess the general importance of reading in Dionysius’ Classicism. Chapter 4.2 will then demonstrate that Dionysius promises to provide his readers with a reading technique that enables them to experience the Classical texts authentically, i. e., as the Classical authors intended them to be experienced by their audiences. Such an ‘authentic reading’ requires Classical competencies in literary composition: writing Classical texts was based on knowledge of a complex set of rules of literary composition which enabled the Classical authors to determine the emotional effects of their texts upon the recipients. Therefore readers in the first century BCE need to acquire the same competence in literary composition as the Classical authors in order to be able to reconstruct what effects their texts were intended to have. Classicist reading is a process of analysis and reconstruction which presupposes Classical knowledge. This knowledge can be obtained from Dionysius’ On Literary Composition which claims to provide the original, Classical rules of composition and a Classical course of education. Since ‘authentic reading’ requires a long and demanding training in the Classical art of composition, defining oneself as a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi’ goes hand-in-hand with an awareness of elitism. Chapter 4.3 demonstrates that Dionysius constantly reminds his readers that the specific knowledge, which they can acquire exclusively from his works, distinguishes them as elite readers. Reading and learning from Dionysius’ essays, they become members of an exclusive circle of literati comparable only to the Orphic mysteries or the Classical elite itself. This feeling of communion, and its counter-part, exclusion, is conveyed not only through explicit statements and comparisons of the Classicist readers with other elite communities but is also deeply ingrained in the very design of Dionysius’ writings. Chapter 5 will argue that the very act of reading Dionysius’ texts creates a feeling of being part of an exclusive circle of Classicists – or of being excluded from it. The peculiar reading situation created by the design of Dionysius’ works implements a feeling of elitism: his essays perform criticism as an ‘in-group’/‘out-group’ reading. Chapter 5.1 will be centred on what I suggest to call the ‘dialogic’ or ‘interactive’ structure of Dionysius’ criticism. In Dionysius’ writings criticism is enacted as a virtual dialogue between Dionysius, his addressee,

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(virtual) adversaries, who are represented by a fictus interlocutor, and the Classical authors themselves, who participate in the discussion through extensive verbatim quotations. Through various formal devices, such as direct questions, addresses to the reader, and use of the first person plural, Dionysius invites the recipient to participate actively in the process of criticism and to subscribe to his interpretation of the texts and his judgment on them; thus his texts aim to establish a virtual communis opinio between himself and his recipients. By making the creation of a feeling of communion (or exclusion) an integral part of criticism itself, Dionysius’ texts transcend the historical readership to which they were originally addressed. In accordance with Dionysius’ aim to spread Classical Greek identity over the whole world, they are designed to include all readers, no matter where or when, into an ‘imagined community’ of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ This process of integration is inseparable from the self-image of Dionysius and his addressees as privileged representatives of the Classical literary tradition itself and is bound up with a process of exclusion. Dionysius frequently couches his discussions of the Classical texts in terms of virtual controversies with adversaries, who are often identified with representatives of renowned schools of thought such as the Stoics, the Peripatetics, and the Platonists. In these virtual arguments Dionysius unmasks the incompetence of his opponents and demonstrates the superiority of his particular approach. This reminds the readers of the force of criticism as a criterion of distinction. Dionysius’ texts urge the readers to make a choice: they can accept Dionysius’ point of view and consider themselves members of the Classicist community or they can reject it and consider themselves excluded from Classicist criticism and, with it, from continuing the Classical tradition. Practising Classicist criticism can thus not be abstracted from asserting the superiority of one’s own method over that of other communities. Chapter 5.2 will discuss two examples of such virtual discussions: first, Dionysius’ controversy with the Peripatetic, which he stages as a trial in which Aristotle himself supports Dionysius’ position as his ‘witness’ through verbatim quotations (chapter 5.2.1); second, Dionysius’ controversy with the ‘Platonists,’ who claim that Plato, rather than Demosthenes, should be the only model for any kind of literary expression. Dionysius refutes this claim by developing two ‘styles of criticism’: his own, a simple, ‘true-to-nature’ (Çlhj†c) kind of criticism – which corresponds to the plain and ‘true-to-nature’ style of Lysianic rhetoric and, like the latter, is the direct representative of Athenian democracy – and a ‘dithyrambic’ style of the Platonists which distorts reality just as Plato’s ‘dithyrambic’ style, which he

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employs in political passages of his works such as the Funeral Oration in the Menexenus, distorts the image of Classical Athens and thus risks debasing its dignity and splendour (chapter 5.2.2).

2. Reviving the Past: Language and Identity in Dionysius’ Classicism 2.1 Introduction: Language and Time in Dionysius’ Classicism Being a Classicist is bound up with a distinct interpretation of past and present. At the very beginning of his ‘Classicist Manifesto,’156 Dionysius expounds the Classicist model of history which provides the framework for his and his readers’ activity and gives it a general historical dimension (Orat. Vett. 1.1–2; 3.1):

Pollòn qàrin ™n e dËnai tƒ kaj+ômêc qrÏn˙ d–kaion, ¬ kràtiste >Ammaÿe, ka» ällwn mËn tinwn ‚pithdeumàtwn Èneka n‹n kàllion ÇskhmËnwn £ prÏteron, oŒq °kista d‡ t®c per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚pimele–ac oŒ mikrÄn ‚p–dosin pepoihmËnhc ‚p» tÄ kre–ttw. >En gÄr dò toÿc pr‰ ôm¿n qrÏnoic ô m‡n Çrqa–a ka» filÏsofoc ˚htorikò prophlakizomËnh ka» deinÄc ’breic ÕpomËnousa katel‘eto, ÇrxamËnh m‡n Çp‰ t®c >Alexàndrou to‹ MakedÏnoc teleut®c ‚kpneÿn ka» mara–nesjai […]. A t–a d+o⁄mai ka» Çrqò t®c tosa‘thc metabol®c ô pàntwn krato‹sa
156 Coined by Croiset, this expression has become a common denomination for the preface of Dionysius’ De Oratoribus Veteribus (Orat. Vett.) since Hidber’s Das klassizistische Manifest des Dionys von Halikarnass (Hidber [1996]). 157 Usher’s transl. modified.

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In this passage Dionysius explains a conception of history which he shares with other representatives of classicism, ancient or modern. This conception has been termed Klassizistischer Dreischritt, 158 which translates as Threeperiod model of classicism. Dionysius uses the rhetorical category of politiko» lÏgoi or Çrqa–a ka» filÏsofoc ˚htorik†159 to subdivide history into three periods: the remote, Classical,160 past, the end of which is marked by the death of Alexander; the present, the beginning of which is identified with Augustus’ rise to power;161 and an intermediate, Asianist, period.162 These three periods are further reduced to the opposition of the ‘periods of politiko» lÏgoi’ (remote past and present) and a ‘period of non-politiko» lÏgoi’ (intermediate period). Scholars have criticized in particular two aspects of this model of the past. First, they maintained that Dionysius ignored the chronological sequence of time in favour of a ‘retrograde idealism’ (to paraphrase Norden). In so doing, it is maintained, he disassociated the evolution of rhetorical style from the progress of time: the Çrqa–a ka» filÏsofoc ˚htorik† connects the remote, Classical, past with the present and defines them as belonging together despite their temporal separation; this denies any development of rhetoric in the intermediate period. Moreover, the intermediate period is defined as an interruption and is dismissed as irrelevant, even detrimental to the present. 163 This seemed problematic to some scholars because from a chronological point of view the present forms a continuum with, and is the product of, the immediately preceding period rather than the remote past. Dionysius turns this chronological relationship between past and present upside down: in his conception of history, ‚p–dosic, ‘progress’ 158 159 160 161

On which see Gelzer (1979). Henceforth I will use both these terms synonymously, as Dionysius himself does. On the origins of the term ‘classical’ see the brief overview in Gelzer (1979) 4–11. Hidber (1996) 78–81, argues convincingly that at Orat. Vett. 3.1 Dionysius refers to the establishment of Augustus’ principate and the unification of the oikumene under his rule after the end of the Civil War. Thus the remarkable upsurge of cultural, esp. literary, activity in Rome after the battle of Actium (White [2005] 327; cf. Hidber [forthcoming]) provides the broader cultural framework into which Dionysius integrates himself and his Classicism; see below, ch.s 2.3.2 and 2.3.3. This assumption is supported by Dionysius’ statement at Ant. 1.7.2, that he came to Rome immediately after the end of the Civil War; Dionysius thus defines the beginning of the principate as marking not only the rebirth of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† but also the beginning of his own activity as a literary critic and a historian. 162 Cf. Hidber (1996) on 1.2 (p. 100) with his comm. on 2.2 (p. 114). 163 Cf. Gelzer (1975) 166–167; Weitman (1989), esp. 180–181; Hose (2002).

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or ‘advance,’ 164 is a ‘progress backwards,’ 165 insofar as the term refers to the present becoming more and more like the Classical past. 166 Second, Dionysius is criticized for neglecting ‘historical synthesis.’ 167 Historical synthesis conceives of literature and politics as two separate strands of history which must not be intermingled. But this is precisely what Dionysius did: he sacrificed the clear-cut distinction between political and literary history to his (allegedly superficial) attempt to provide literary history with a symbolically charged date, viz., the death of Alexander. 168 Dionysius, it is argued, should rather have referred to the death of

164 LSJ, p. 631, s.v. IV. 165 Cf. Dionysius’ characterization of time as the ‘saviour’ of good men, good arts and ‘practical pursuits and […] every other worthwhile activity’ (ÇllÄ gÄr oŒ mÏnon Çndr¿n Çgaj¿n qrÏnoc swtòr äristoc katÄ P–ndaron, ÇllÄ ka» teqn¿n nò D–a ka» ‚pithdeumàtwn ge ka» pant‰c ällou spouda–ou qr†matoc, Orat. Vett. 2.1) and his assertion that time ‘has restored the ancient and sober Rhetoric to her former rightful place of honour’ (ÇpËdwke t¨ m‡n Çrqa–¯ ka» s∏froni ˚htorik¨ tòn dika–an tim†n, õn ka» prÏteron e⁄qe kal¿c Çpolabeÿn, ibid. 2.2; emphases mine, Usher’s transl. modified). 166 Eduard Norden, in his still influential account of Antike Kunstprosa, is probably the most severe critic of this aspect of the classicist conception of time. He describes the practitioners of classicism as pursuing an ‘idealism’ that is not only out of tune with the progress of time (‘zeitgemäß’) but even a reactionary anachronism. Asianism, on the contrary, though inferior to the Classical style from an aesthetical point of view, is the result of the ‘natural’ evolution of rhetorical style (Norden [1909] 151 speaks of the ‘supreme law of literary evolution,’ ‘höchst[e] Gesetz literarischer Entwicklung’). This evolution was stopped and reversed by the ‘Atticist reaction’; cf. ibid. 151: ‘being the modern style of oratory, “Asianist” rhetoric was intrinsically justified, whereas “Atticist” rhetoric,which was an archaizing style, was not; the former provided the realism that was appropriate to the changes which the world had undergone, the idealism of the latter was out of tune with the progress of time […] the continuing idealism substituted progress and creativity with backwardness and acquiescence’ (‘die “asianische” Beredsamkeit hatte als die moderne innere Berechtigung, die “attizistische” als die archaisierende hatte sie nicht; die eine brachte mit ihrem Realismus das, was die anders gewordene Welt brauchte, der Idealismus der anderen war nicht mehr zeitgemäß […] der fortdauernde Idealismus vertauschte den vorwärtseilenden, schöpferischen Charakter mit einem nach rückwärts gewandten quieszierenden […]’). It is worth pointing out that Dionysius and Norden’s approach to (literary) history do not differ in principle but only in what either of them regards as the ‘natural order’: Norden opts for the constant change of rhetorical style, whereas Dionysius regards the preservation of the Classical as the ‘supreme law of literary evolution’; similarly, v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 22, 51–52, and passim. 167 On historical synthesis see v. Fritz (1971). 168 See Hidber (1996) 19, 23, but cf. ibid. on Orat. Vett. 1.2 (p. 103); Heldmann (1982) 125.

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Demosthenes as marking the end of the period of Çrqa–a ka» filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. 169 Each of these critiques relies on debatable assumptions. First, there is no reason to accept the idea of a natural progress of rhetorical style. Language is not a self-enclosed entity, but language and style, especially those of literary works, are always shaped by the people who use it. 170 From this point of view, the Classicists’ choice to write like orators of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE is no more or less natural than that of the representatives of Asianism to write in a different manner. As far as the relation between literature and politics is concerned, we have come to think of politics as a dynamic discursive process. Political ideas are not simply imposed by the government. They are shaped, propagated, and implemented in society in a variety of media, often even without any initiative from an official side. 171 Language in particular was instrumentalized at all times by different social groups for their political aims. 172 Separating the spheres of literature and politics is an analytical instrument of the historian to come to terms with the wealth of facts and events presented by a given period. But such an approach distorts reality by oversimplifying the complex interrelation of politics and culture. We cannot blame Dionysius for adopting a view of the interrelation of rhetoric and politics which is different from ours; instead, it might be more fruitful to explore how he imagines this relationship. Nevertheless, these criticisms point to several aspects of Dionysius’ Classicism which deserve further consideration. Norden, for example, observed correctly that the Three-period model of Classicism gives up the linear sequence of time in favour of what I suggest might be called a ‘semiological’ approach to history. ‘Semiological,’ because the relationship between past and present is defined by the ‘meaning’ which is assigned to 169 Thus explicitly Heldmann (1982) 127. 170 A further important point should be stressed here: Norden’s association of ‘Asianism’ with the ‘natural development’ of language risks obfuscating the fact that ‘Asianism’ is by no means to be identified with ‘natural,’ common language use. On the contrary, as Luzzatto (1988) 238 points out, the controversy between ‘Asianism’ and ‘Atticism’ was not between (artificial) ‘rhetorics’ and (natural) spoken language (‘il conflitto non fu dunque tra retorica e lingua viva’) but between two rhetorical styles, each of which was equally artificial and equally remote from everyday spoken language (‘due diverse opzioni retoriche, ambedue lontane da quella parlata quotidiana’). 171 There is a good discussion of the alleged dichotomy of literature and politics and its bearings upon our approach to ancient, esp. ‘Augustan,’ literature in Feeney (1992) and Kennedy (1992). 172 See Bourdieu (2001); Burke (2004).

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individual periods rather than by their relative position in time. Dionysius defines the limits of the individual periods by well-known events in political history. Once established, he invests each of these periods with meaning by categorizing them as either ‘Classical/positive’ or ‘Asianist/negative.’ Instead of a neutral, temporal development, history thus appears as a dialectic of positive and negative. This urges the spectators in the present (that is, Dionysius’ readers) to locate themselves and their own times within this interplay. By choosing one style or the other, they can determine whether the present is to be Classical/positive or Asianist/negative and, consequently, to which period in the past it is connected. Tradition becomes a matter of choice rather than of chronological development. Moreover, Dionysius’ selection of events from political, rather than literary, history as sign-posts in the development of rhetoric suggests that Dionysius saw rhetoric and power as interrelated phenomena. The terms with which Dionysius describes Classical rhetoric confirm this view: politiko» lÏgoi and politikò filosof–a means ‘political discourse’ and ‘political philosophy.’ Dionysius seems to conceive of a particular kind of rhetoric as representing a particular form of power, and Alexander and Augustus represent to him the kind of power which corresponds to Classical rhetoric. As shown in the last chapter, Dionysius defines himself and his envisaged audience as ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ Our understanding of his ideology depends on our understanding of what the term politiko» lÏgoi meant to him and his recipients. This question will be addressed in the present chapter, and the preceding considerations suggest an approach to this problem. Two aspects are of particular importance in Dionysius’ conception of politiko» lÏgoi: the relationship between time and language on the one hand, and the relationship between language and power on the other. This subdivision should not lead us to believe that these aspects are independent of each other. Politiko» lÏgoi can represent different epochs in history, because the term implies more than just a way of speaking. Rather, ‘time and language’ and ‘language and power’ provide the conceptual framework in which Dionysius’ notion of politiko» lÏgoi will be discussed in the present chapter. A discussion of Dionysius’ essay On Isocrates (Isoc.) in chapter 2.2.1 will show that Dionysius’ conception of Classical identity is based on Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic language and identity. Following Isocrates, Dionysius defines language as the medium through which Classical identity is both acquired and enacted in the present by composing texts in the Classical manner.

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The term mimesis describes the process through which Classical identity is enacted through language and, thus, continuity with the Classical past achieved. Chapter 2.2.2 will explore Dionysius’ conception of mimesis and offer a new reading of his essays On Imitation (Imit.) and On Dinarchus (Din.). Since being a Classicist is less a linguistic activity than a conception of identity that is centred on language, the main focus of Classicism is not the past, but the present in which this identity is acquired and acted out. This raises the question which will be discussed in chapter 2.3, namely how Dionysius comes to terms with the fact that the Classical Greek past had had to cede to a Roman present.

2.2 FilÏsofoc
173 Hidber (1996) 44–51, following Gelzer (1979). 174 Too (1995) 7; she compares the function of the term lÏgoc politikÏc to that of a sphragis ibid. 24. 175 Cf. Too (1995) 109 and 200–234, esp. 206, 211, 221; Hidber (1996) 45. 176 Too (1995) 7; cf. ibid. 87–89 (speaking in public defined by Isocrates as political activity).

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Athenian identity through language,177 lÏgoi and b–oc formed a unity: it is impossible to speak like a genuine Athenian without being one, and being a genuine Athenian necessarily involves speaking like one. This Isocratean conception of ‘Rhetoric of Identity’ 178 played a major, but not the only, role in what Hartog has called the ‘Rhetoric of Otherness’: 179 Greek literature in the aftermath of the Persian Wars 180 was concerned with defining Greek and, more specifically, Athenian identity. The recent victory over the Persians invited to do this by contrasting the Greeks with a stereotyped image of the ‘Barbarian Other,’ a process known as the ‘Hellene-Barbarian antithesis.’ 181 This theme not only pervades such different literary genres 182 as epigram, elegy, 183 historiography, 184 tragedy, 185 and oratory, in which Isocrates’ panhellenic discourses and the Athenian

177 Too (1995) 139; ibid. 147, 229. 178 Thus the title of Too’s (1995) study; it is tempting to compare Isocrates’ conception of identity-through-language with the modern linguistic theory of ‘language socialization,’ on which see Ochs (1990) and (1996). 179 Hartog (1980) ch. 6. 180 That the Persian Wars were a watershed in Greek history and brought about decisive changes in the Greeks’ self-definition as opposed to their image of the Persians/Barbarians is now communis opinio among scholars, see, e.g., Hall (1989) 9; de Romilly (1993) 283; Hall (1996) 92; Lund (2005) 12, 16. The Battle of Marathon in particular has been the subject of a series of articles which explore how this event became a cornerstone of Athenian self-image in classical times, see, e.g., Flashar (1996); Schmitz (2006); Evans (1993), esp. 279–280, 303–307; Gehrke (2003) 20–21. On the reception of the Battle of Marathon in literature see Schmitz (2006); Gehrke (2003); Flashar (1996); Hölkeskamp (2001). Numerous attempts have been made to reconstruct the details of the battle itself, but results are highly speculative, see, e.g., Evans (1993); Doenges (1998); van der Veer (1982); Hodge (1975). 181 Secondary literature on the topic abounds. For a first overview see Losemann (1997); on Greek ideas about Barbarians in general see, e.g., Schwabl (1961); Diller (1961); Weiler (1968); id. (1989); de Romilly (1993); Lund (2005); Speyer (1989); Dörrie (1972); Hall (1996); Lévy (1984); Trédé (1991); Moggi (1992). 182 For a general overview see Kierdorf (1966); Nohaud (1997); cf. the essays collected in Malkin (2001). 183 See, e.g., Boedeker (1995) and (1996) on Simonides’ elegy on the soldiers fallen at Plataea; Wiater (2005) on Simonides’ elegy on the soldiers who died at Thermopylae (both with further literature). 184 This concerns, above all, Herodotus, on whom see, e.g., Hartog (1980); Cartledge (1995); Laurot (1981); Rossellini/Saïd (1978); Thomas (2001); Bichler (1988); Heubner (1985); Hegyi (1977); Konstan (1987); Evans (1993); cf. the references given in the preceding and the following notes. 185 See Hall (1989); Kierdorf (1966).

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‚pitàfioi lÏgoi occupied a particularly important place.186 The HelleneBarbarian antithesis was also present in a variety of non-literary media, such as statues, pottery, pictures (e. g., the famous depiction of the Battle of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile), and cultic performances and feasts. 187 The result was a world view in which the Greeks represented a set of moral and political virtues, the most important of which were ‚leujer–a, dikaios‘nh, eŒsËbeia, Çndre–a, and swfros‘nh. The Barbarians, on the contrary, were portrayed as slaves by nature who sought to enslave the rest of the oikumene. 188 Their souls were corrupted by luxury (truf†/ Çkolas–a) and cowardice; Çmaj–a also figures prominently on the long list of their vices. 189 The Greek victory over the Persians was thus explained as the result of Greek moral and cultural superiority. The Athenians in particular linked this moral superiority with their democratic constitution 190 and their alleged eŒgËneia/aŒtoqjon–a.191 These moral and political virtues, they claimed, had distinguished the Athenian constitution from the origin of their history. Preserved in their constitution and handed down by their ancestors (prÏgonoi), they were responsible for all Athenian victories in major battles, be it the fight against the Amazons, the fall of Thebes, or the Battles of Marathon and Salamis. 192 In so doing, the Athenians laid claim to being the primary exemplars of ‘Greekness’ in its purest and oldest form. This precis is not intended as a comprehensive characterization of classical Greek literature. Nevertheless, the themes mentioned here are salient 186 On Isocrates see Too (1995); Kennedy (1958); Perlman (1957) and (1969); Buchner (1958); Bringmann (1965). On ‚pitàfioi lÏgoi see Loraux (1981); Wilke (1996); Rosivach (1987); Walters (1981); Jacoby (1944); v. Loewenclau (1961); Welwei (1991); Carter (1991). 187 On the Greek cult of the dead, esp. of the soldiers fallen in the Persian Wars, see Welwei (1991); on feasts and their social function in antiquity cf. Jacoby (1944); Ulf (1997); Zimmermann (1991); Spawforth (1994). 188 Cf., e.g., Ai. Pers. 50, 72, and esp. 584–590, 591–594, and passim; Herod. 5.11.6, 6.45, 94, 101, 109. 189 Cf. Isoc. 4.150: ‘[Most of their population is a mob] educated more effectively for servitude than the slaves in our country’ (pr‰c tòn doule–an ämeinon t¿n par+ômÿn o ket¿n pepaideumËnoc, emphasis mine; Norlin’s transl. modified) and 12.209; see further Ai. Pers. 537, 541, 543–544, 608, 755; for references from Greek tragedy see Hall (1989) 121–133. 190 Hall (1989) 58–59, 190–200 considers the influence of the rise of democracy on the development of the Hellene-Persian antithesis. 191 On autochthony see, e.g., Wilke (1996), esp. 238–241; Rosivach (1987); Parker (1987); Loraux (1981) 210–215; cf. Hidber (1996) on 1.2 (p. 100) and 1.6 (p. 110). 192 See, e.g., Isoc. 12.42–54, esp. 42: ‘Now our ancestors will be seen to have preserved without ceasing the spirit of concord towards the Hellenes and of hatred towards the

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features of the works and the culture of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. As the subsequent discussion of On Isocrates will show, they shaped Dionysius’ image of the Classical Athenians. Focusing on the content of Isocrates’ works, the pragmatik‰c tÏpoc, Dionysius extrapolates from Isocrates’ speeches an idea of Classical ethos which is bound up with politiko» lÏgoi. This makes On Isocrates not only a ‘best of’ Isocratean rhetoric, but also a vademecum for anyone who wishes to know which ethos he has to adopt in order to be truly Classical. 193 At the beginning of his essay Dionysius gives a brief overview of Isocrates’ life. Throughout, Dionysius adopts the self-image Isocrates created in his writings (kajàper aŒt‰c e“rhken, Isoc. 1.3). The dominant feature of Dionysius’ sketch of Isocrates’ life is the idea of the orator being a primary exemplar of perfect harmony of speech and life, lÏgoc and proa–resic: Isocrates embodied Athenian identity and his works were its verbal expression. This close affinity with Classical Athenian identity finds its last and most drastic expression in Dionysius’ report of Isocrates’ death: he committed suicide a few days after the battle of Chaeronea ‘having decided to end his life with his city’s heroes’ (gn∏m˘ qrhsàmenoc âma toÿc Çgajoÿc t®c pÏlewc sugkatal‹sai t‰n ·auto‹ b–on, ibid. 1.6). Dionysius stresses that Isocrates received the best possible Athenian education (Çgwg®c d‡ tuq∞n eŒsq†monoc ka» paideuje»c oŒden‰c >Ajhna–wn qeÿron, Isoc. 1.1; cf. ibid. 1.2);194 however, physical shortcomings prevented barbarians which they inherited from the Trojan War and to have remained steadfast in this policy’ (O… m‡n to–nun ômËteroi prÏgonoi fan†sontai t†n te pr‰c toÃc ìEllhnac ÂmÏnoian ka» tòn pr‰c toÃc barbàrouc Íqjran, õn parËlabon ‚k t¿n Trwik¿n, diafulàttontec ka» mËnontec ‚n toÿc aŒtoÿc; 4.66–72; Jost (1936) 131–132). This idea is prominent also in the ‚pitàfioi lÏgoi, although the Athenian achievements against the Amazons and the Persians play a more important role in them than the Trojan War (Loraux [1981] 109–113), see Lys. 2.4–6 (Amazons), 20–47 (Persian War); Hyp. Epit. 35–38. Cf. Loraux (1981) 99–113, esp. 99: ‘by linking the dead of the day with all those of earlier wars, mythical and historical, this catalog deploys the whole of Athenian history […]. The breadth of such a point of view […] makes mythical Athenians the mere predecessors of those of the Pentecontaetia […],’ and her ch. ‘The Athenian History of Athens.’ 193 Cf. Gabba (1982) 49: Classicist mimesis ‘sought to absorb, by means of thoroughly analyzing stylistical and literary aspects, precisely that richness of idealistic and moral content. Isocrates is offered as a prime model for the typical values he extolled – patriotism, justice, pietas, and moderation.’ 194 The combination of an adjective (usually denoting a lesser degree, such as qe–rwn, ‚làttwn, and °ttwn) in the comparative with oŒdenÏc is a formulaic expression of

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him from embarking on an active political career (ibid. 1.2). Therefore Isocrates decided to be the theoretician of Athenian civic identity and to publish works on ‘Hellenic and royal affairs and constitutional matters, the study of which he believed would enable cities to manage better, and individuals to improve their characters’ ([tòn proa–resin ‚poi†sato per»] t¿n <Ellhnik¿n ka» basilik¿n pragmàtwn, ‚x ¡n Õpelàmbane tàc

te pÏleic ämeinon o k†sesjai ka» toÃc  di∏tac ‚p–dosin Èxein pr‰c Çret†n, ibid. 1.3). It was Isocrates, Dionysius says, who turned rhetoric into a proper political genre and brought about a paradigm shift in the development of rhetoric. His predecessors, especially Gorgias and Protagoras, had been interested only in ‘dialectic and natural discourses’ (‚ristiko– te ka» fusiko» [lÏgoi], ibid.); only with Isocrates (pr¿toc ‚q∏rhsen, Isoc. 1.4) did rhetoric become a genre which specifically dealt with political issues and civic identity, its ultimate (and only) goal now being ‘to benefit the state by counsel, word and deed’ 195 (t‰ boule‘esjai ka» lËgein ka» pràttein tÄ sumfËronta, ibid.).196 Dionysius intimates that Isocrates’ influence embraced virtually every aspect of Classical Athenian life: he was ‘the outstanding figure among the famous men of his day, and the teacher of the most eminent men at Athens and in Greece at large’ (‚pifanËstatoc d‡ genÏmenoc t¿n katÄ t‰n aŒt‰n Çkmasàntwn qrÏnon ka» toÃc krat–stouc t¿n >Aj†nhsi te ka» ‚n t¨ äll˘ <Ellàdi nËwn paide‘sac, ibid. 1.5) and his ‘school came to represent Athens herself in the eyes of literate men abroad’ (ka» t®c >Aj†nhc pÏlewc e kÏna poi†sac tòn ·auto‹ sqolòn katÄ tÄc Çpoik–ac t¿n lÏgwn, ibid. 1.6). Isocrates’ works made Athenian identity accessible to anyone, whether they lived in Athens or not. They created Çpoik–ai of identity. This aspect must have been of primary importance to Dionysius and his readers, who were separated from the Classical past by time and space. 197

amplification indicating that a quality applies to a person or object to a particularly high degree. For examples see Schwyzer-Debrunner II (1950) 98 with n. 3; cf. Kühner-Gerth II.1, p. 316 n. 6, who paraphrase the meaning of this ‘combination which is frequently found in and peculiar to Attic authors’ (‘bei Attikern häufig vorkommend[e] eigentümlich[e] Verbindung’) as ‘the greatest of all, secondary to none’ (‘allergrößter, keinem nachstehend’). 195 Usher’s transl. modified. 196 Cf. Aujac’s I, 49–50 remarks. 197 See the discussion of this aspect below, pp. 90–91.

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By way of his biographical introduction Dionysius thus shaped his readers’ perception of Isocrates and his works: Classical identity was defined by Isocrates and can be learned from his speeches which are as powerful an instrument of civic education for Isocrates’ readers in the first century BCE as they had been to their original, Classical, audience in the fourth (ibid. 4.3–4): 198

>Ex ¡n [sc. t¿n >Isokràtouc lÏgwn] oŒ lËgein mÏnon Çpergàsait+ãn toÃc prosËqontac aŒtƒ t‰n no‹n, ÇllÄ ka» tÄ ¢jh spouda–ouc, o“k˙ te ka» pÏlei ka» Ìl˘ t¨ <Ellàdi qrhs–mouc. Kràtista gÄr dò paide‘mata pr‰c Çretòn ‚n toÿc >Isokràtouc Ístin eÕreÿn lÏgoic; ka» ÍgwgË fhmi qr®nai toÃc mËllontac oŒq» mËroc ti t®c politik®c dunàmewc Çll+Ìlhn aŒtòn kt†sesjai to‹ton Íqein t‰n ˚†tora diÄ qeirÏc; ka» e“ tic ‚pithde‘ei tòn Çlhjinòn filosof–an, mò t‰ jewrhtik‰n aŒt®c mÏnon Çgap¿n ÇllÄ ka» pragmatikÏn, m†d+Çf+¡n aŒt‰c älupon Èxei b–on proairo‘menoc, Çll+‚x ¡n polloÃc ≤fel†sei, parakeleusa–mhn ãn aŒtƒ tòn ‚ke–nou to‹ ˚†toroc mimeÿsjai proa–resin. The influence of these [Isocrates’ speeches] would make anyone who applied himself to his works not only good orators, but men of sterling character, of positive service to their families, to their state and to Greece at large. The best possible lessons in virtue are to be found in the discourses of Isocrates: I therefore affirm that the man who intends to acquire ability in the whole field of politics, not merely a part of that science, should make Isocrates his constant companion. And anyone who is interested in true philosophy, that is, who does not confine his studies to the speculative branches of philosophy but enjoys studying its practical branches as well, and is seeking a career by which he will benefit many

198 In a similar vein, Dionysius stresses that Isocrates’ advice to Philippus of Macedon is valuable to anyone in a ruling position, see Isoc. 6.1: ‘What man in high office and power would not delight [in Isocrates’ letter to Philip of Macedon]’ (t–c d+oŒk ãn Çgap†seie mËgejoc Íqwn Çnòr ka» dunàme∏c tinoc ôgo‘menoc […]); ibid. 6.3: ‘any potentate reading this letter’ (toÃc Çnagign∏skontac ta‹ta dunàstac). Since the Greek origins of Isocrates’ addressee were at least debatable, this points again to the universal applicability of Isocrates’ moral and political precepts. Furthermore, Dionysius emphasizes that Isocrates’ advice to Archidamus is directed not only to the Lacedaemonians but ‘to all Greeks and all men’ (ka» toÿc älloic ìEllhsi ka» pêsin Çnjr∏poic, Isoc. 9.10). Finally, the general appeal of the rhetorical questions (t–c oŒ […]; see below) by means of which Dionysius summarizes the main themes of Isocrates’ major speeches implies that Isocrates’ works exert their moral influence not only on his original addressees but on everyone, including Dionysius and his readers in the first century BCE.

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people, not one which will give him a carefree life, would be well advised to follow the principles which the orator adopts.199

This passage reveals how Dionysius imagines the effect of Isocrates’ texts. He adopts Isocrates’ conception of the unity of morals, rhetorical practice, and political activity: the thorough study of Isocrates’ works trains the students’ rhetorical abilities as much as their characters, and this training provides them with all those qualities (¢jh) which successful politicians need. 200 Moreover, the passage allows us to conclude how Dionysius envisages the role of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ in Roman society: his readers’ study of Classical rhetoric is a process of moral and political education which imbues them with rhetorical skills as well as moral and political values; thus it enables them to fill leading positions in contemporary public life and to enact the Isocratean ideal of the statesman in Augustan Rome.201 Presenting Isocrates as a brilliant thinker, a rich and successful intellectual, an influential politician, and devoted Athenian, Dionysius also invites his recipients to identify with Isocrates as a person: the Athenian orator becomes the model for Dionysius’ and his recipients’ own conception of life (note tòn ‚ke–nou to‹ ˚†toroc mimeÿsjai proa–resin). Dionysius plays a decisive role in the acquisition of this Classical ethos. He extrapolates the various elements of Isocrates’ conception of identity in his discussions of the subject matter of four of the major speeches of Isocrates, the Panegyricus, To Philippus, Against Archidamus, and On the Peace. Therefore Dionysius’ discussions of these speeches focus on the moral and political lessons which they supposedly contain and present a very selective picture of their content. 202 Dionysius’ discussion of the Panegyricus, for example, is based almost exclusively on §§ 76–81 of Isocrates’ work and does not follow the order of Isocrates’ arguments. 203 There is 199 Usher’s transl. modified. 200 Cf. Fox (1993) 41. 201 The relationship between rhetoric and political power in Dionysius’ Classicism will be discussed in detail in ch.s 2.3 and 4.3.3 below; on the opposition between philosophy and rhetoric, which is implied in the above quotation, see below, ch. 5.2.2, esp. pp. 332–337 and cf. the discussion above, pp. 33–36. 202 Cf. Gabba (1982) 50. Dionysius’ ‘summaries’ are similar to paraphrases, an exercise by which pupils learned how to extrapolate the sense from a text in their own words. On paraphrasis see Clark (1957) 182–186; Viljama (1988); Morgan (1998) 203–219; Gallazzi (1986) and Bastianini (1980) discuss two examples of paraphrases of Homeric text passages. 203 See Aujac I, 121 nn. 2–4, who speaks of a ‘very free paraphrase’ of the Panegyricus (ibid. n. 2); Fox (1993) 41.

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no reference to Sparta, although the opposition between Athens and Sparta occupies a large part of the Panegyricus (§§ 100–128), and Dionysius also ignores the ‘symbuleutic section’ 204 (§§ 133–186). This does not mean that Dionysius gives an entirely distorted idea of the speeches’ contents. But themes which in their original context are only part of a larger argument appear in Dionysius’ paraphrases as the only themes that matter.205 This reduction of Classical works to a few relevant aspects is in accordance with the programme of On the Ancient Orators, 206 to cut down the works to those elements Dionysius thinks worthy of being preserved (t– d‡ deÿ par+·kàstou lambànein £ fulàttesjai, Orat. Vett. 4.2).207 At the beginning of each discussion Dionysius summarizes in a rhetorical question the main political or moral effect he thinks the speech was supposed to have upon the recipients. The section on the Panegyricus (Isoc. 5) 208 is introduced with the question ‘Who could fail to become a patriotic supporter of democracy and a student of civic virtue after reading his Panegyricus?’ (T–c gÄr oŒk ãn gËnoito filÏpol–c te ka» filÏdhmoc £ t–c

oŒk ãn ‚pithde‘seie tòn politikòn kalokÇgaj–an ÇnagnoÃc aŒto‹ t‰n PanhgurikÏn; Isoc. 5.1); the paraphrase of the Philippus (Isoc. 6) begins with ‘What man in high office and power would not delight in his letter to Philip of Macedon?’ (T–c d+oŒk Çgap†seie mËgejoc Íqwn Çnòr ka» dunàme∏c tinoc ôgo‘menoc É pr‰c F–lippon aŒtƒ t‰n MakedÏna gËgraptai; Isoc. 6.1); Dionysius repeats this statement in slightly different form at the end of the discussion (Isoc. 6.3), stressing the speeches’ positive moral and political effect: ‘any person in a leading political position reading this letter is absolutely bound to become imbued with a nobler spirit and a greater desire to achieve excellence.’ 209 Dionysius’ discussion of On the Peace (Isoc. 7), to cite one last example, is introduced with ‘What greater exhortation to justice and piety could there be, for individuals singly and collectively for whole

204 Buchner (1958) 8–10. 205 The same is true for Dionysius’ ‘summaries’ of the other speeches. The paragraphs Dionysius singles out for treatment from the individual speeches are listed by Aujac I, 123 n. 2 (Philippus), 124 n. 1 (On the Peace), 125 n. 2 (Areopagiticus), and 127 n. 2 (Archidamus). 206 Aujac I, 121 n. 5. 207 On Dionysius’ ‘eclectic mimesis’ see Hidber (1996) 56–75. 208 On the Panegyricus see Buchner (1958); on Isocrates’ political ideas in general see Bringmann (1965). 209 pollò gÄr Çnàgkh toÃc Çnagin∏skontac ta‹ta dunàstac fron†matÏc te me–zonoc Õpop–mplasjai ka» mêllon ‚pijumeÿn t®c Çret®c (Usher’s transl. modified).

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communities, than the discourse On the Peace?’ (t–c d‡ ãn mêllon ‚p» tòn dikaios‘nhn ka» tòn eŒsËbeian protrËyaito kaj+ÈkastÏn te ändra  d–¯ ka» koin¨ tÄc pÏleic Ìlac […]; ibid. 7.1). 210 Read alongside each other, these introductory questions present a list of what Dionysius regards as the key elements of Classical identity and give On Isocrates the character of a ‘handbook of Classical identity’ which provides the readers with a standardized, easily accessible definition of what it means to be Classical.211 Thus Dionysius’ essay demonstrates that Classical rhetoric is not simply a certain rhetorical style among others, but is coupled with a well-defined set of political and moral values. ‘Practising politiko» lÏgoi’ implies respect for the moral and political tradition of the prÏgonoi (Isoc. 6.2, 7.2, 8.2, 9.3, cf. 9.6), commitment to the polis and its citizens (filÏpolic and filÏdhmoc, Isoc. 5.1), and the will to achieve political excellence (politikòn kalokÇgaj–an, ibid.), a notion which incorporates a whole complex of Athenian ancestral virtues (Isoc. 7.3): eŒsËbeia/jeofil–a (Isoc. 7.1), dikaios‘nh (ibid., 7.2, 9.4, cf. 7.1; 5.4), swfros‘nh (ibid. 5.2, 8.3–4), and ‚leujer–a (ibid. 5.1, 8.3).212 These virtues provide the basis for unity (ÂmÏnoia) among all Greeks (in past and present) against the threat from the Barbarian Other (ibid. 6.2). 213 The discussion of On Isocrates confirms the affirmation made in chapter 1.2.4 above that politiko» lÏgoi means much more than simply ‘polit210 Cf. Isoc. 8.1 (‘Who would not become a more responsible citizen after reading the Areopagiticus?,’ T–c d‡ t‰n >Areopagitik‰n ÇnagnoÃc lÏgon oŒk ãn gËnoito kosmi∏teroc, £ t–c oŒk ãn jaumàseie tòn ‚piboulòn to‹ ˚†toroc;); 9.1 (‘There are many examples of Isocrates’ unrivalled power to persuade men and states, but what better one could there be than the speech addressed to the Spartans, entitled Archidamus?,’

T–c d+ãn mêllon pe–seie ka» pÏlin ka» ändrac to‹ ˚†toroc pollaq¨ m‡n ka» äll˘, màlista d+‚n tƒ pr‰c toÃc Lakedaimon–ouc grafËnti lÏg˙, Ác ‚pigràfetai >Arq–damoc […];). 211 The attempt to standardize the image of the Classical Athenian past and his readers’ reception of the Classical works plays a key role in the constitution of a Classicist collective identity in Dionysius’ works (see ch. 4.2 below). 212 For an overview of the Çreta– of the ancestors in Isocrates see Jost (1936) 138–139. The virtues listed here above are commonly ascribed to the ancestors in classical rhetoric and are familiar especially from the Attic Funeral Oration, see, e.g., Dem. 60.4 (gegen®sjai kal¿c ka» pepaide‹sjai swfrÏnwc ka» bebiwkËnai filot–mwc), 7 (dikaios‘nh), 23 (‚leujer–a); Lys. 2.7–10, 17–19, 22, 24, 41; Plt. Mx. 237c7, d7. 213 On Isocrates’ conception of unity among the Greeks under (preferably) Athenian leadership cf. Perlman (1976) 25–29; Too (1995) 147; further Perlman (1957), (1967), and (1969); on ÂmÏnoia and its importance for Greek political thought see, e.g., de Romilly (1972); Sheppard (1984); West (1977); Funke (1980); Spawforth (1994).

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ical’ or ‘civil oratory.’ Such a rendering is not entirely wrong. As generic names these expressions do refer to Classical political oratory as opposed to, for example, Homeric poetry or Plato’s dialogues. 214 The translation ‘political’ or ‘civil oratory’ is correct, insofar as it grasps that in Dionysius’ view he and his readers, as the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ continued specifically the tradition of Classical political oratory, and not that of Homeric verse or Platonic dialogue. But in a larger sense for Dionysius, as for Isocrates, politiko» lÏgoi are the carriers of a conception of Classical identity. Classical language is seen as encapsulating the essence of the Classical past. 215 By practising Classical language, the speaker revives the past itself and thus glosses over the gap which separates it from his own times: Classicism is a ‘politically and culturally charged act of repetition.’ 216 Speaking or writing as Isocrates or any Classical author would have spoken or written217 implies subscribing to certain Classical moral and political values. They are the standard of Classicist behaviour (proa–resic), and the texts (lÏgoi) are the most important means of expressing this Classical way of life.

214 At Dem. 23.4 Dionysius distinguishes between the genres of ‘ethical philosophy,’ represented by the Socratic tradition, and ‘political oratory,’ the most outstanding representative of which is Demosthenes. See my discussion below, ch. 5.2.2, esp. pp. 325–332. 215 Such a conception of language as the carrier of a conception of the past is by no means unique to Dionysius but has been studied by socio-linguists in various cultures and civilizations: ‘[t]he context and patterns of use tend to become understood as features of the language. […] Language users tend to view these attributes not as social or cultural effects but as essential characteristics of their language as against another language. A consequence of language characterization is the habit of identifying patterns of life, allegiances, and identities with the language itself’ (Bloomer [2005a] 2); ibid. 6. 216 Hunter (2005) 196, commenting on the use of Greek local glosses in Hellenistic inscriptions. Their function appears to have been similar to my interpretation of the role of practising Classical language in Dionysius’ Classicism: at the court of the Ptolemies, the Doric dialect was regarded as the language of Argos and Macedonia and was thus ‘marked’ ‘as the preserver of genuine Greek tradition, in particular of the rightful claim of the Ptolemies to be heirs of Heracles and Alexander.’ At the Ptolemaic Court, use of the Doric or of Doricizing language was tantamount to a ‘linguistic mimesis of Greek heroic culture’ (ibid.). 217 The difference between written and oral texts is of secondary importance for our purposes, and ‘text’ is meant to cover both: for the same reasons, ‘speaker’ or ‘author’ are used here for the agent of both an oral or a written utterance alike. As Hidber (1996) 47 points out, in Dionysius’ times the ideal of efi lËgein referred to written, rather than spoken, prose.

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Such an identification of language, character, and way of life, which Dionysius assumes, conforms to ancient conceptions of ethos. 218 The term ™joc describes what could be called a process of ‘self-fashioning’ through texts: the image a speaker creates for his audience cannot be sharply separated from his self-definition; rather, the one influences the other. Texts are the primary means of establishing ‘a distinctive personality, a characteristic address to the world, a consistent mode of perceiving and behaving’ 219: the way a speaker expresses himself is a representation of how he conceives of himself as an individual, both in public and in private. As Brinton points out, ‘[t]here is not generally in classical thought such a sharp distinction, as is now commonly made, between a person’s moral character and a person’s public behavior’: ‘Character for the classical Greeks and Romans is not generally regarded as separable from public image or public behavior. Individuals are what they are partly in relation to society.’ 220 The crucial importance of the text for this process of self-fashioning is brought out well by Aristotle’s notion of ethos because it is devoid of all moral implications and only a product of the speaker’s words. Aristotle counts ethos as the most important among the p–steic Ínteqnoi (Rh. 1356a1– 13). For him, the speaker’s ethos is a function of the speech which has nothing to do with the speaker’s character, but is created in every speech anew with the sole purpose of convincing the audience in that given moment.221 Such 218 On ethos in ancient rhetoric see Sattler’s (1947) overview; Lockwood (1929) 180–181 (I do not agree with his interpretation of the meaning of ™joc in On Dinarchus); on ™joc and its use in rhetorical theory cf. further Fantham (1973); Gill (1984); Carey (1994), esp. 34–43. Generally, three basic meanings of the term can be distinguished: first, the accomplished character of the ideal orator in holistic pedagogical projects like those of Isocrates, Cicero, and Quintilian, on which cf. Winterbottom (1964); Brinton (1983); Morgan (1998), esp. 240–270; ead. (1998a); second, the purely technical use of ™joc in Aristotle. Here ethos is created through the speech alone (Rh. 1356a9–10, quoted in n. 221 below); finally, especially in Roman rhetoric, ethos describes an emotional effect of the speech on the recipients, a ‘mild emotion,’ designed to conciliate the hearer, which comes close to pathos (cf. Quint. inst. 2.4.8–13): cf. Sattler (1947); on the distinction between ethos and pathos see Gill (1984). 219 Greenblatt (1980) 2. 220 Brinton (1983) 174 (commenting on the connection between the moral qualities of an orator and his effectiveness as a speaker in Quintilian); cf. ibid. (on the virtues enumerated in the Nicomachean Ethics such as liberality, pride, and friendliness): ‘the inseparability of character and public behavior come through […] on what might be called “social virtues.” ’ 221 Arist. Rh. 1356a1–13, esp. 1–2, 5–8: ‘The orator persuades by moral character when his speech is delivered in such a manner as to render him worthy of confidence; for we

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a purely technical notion of ethos is not applicable to holistic pedagogical conceptions of language and identity, such as those of Isocrates, Cicero, Quintilian, and Dionysius. They used ethos in the sense of the speaker’s qualities of character. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s position illustrates that the primary means of displaying these qualities, be it to oneself or to others, are texts and language: 222 ‘the style is the man.’ 223 Only when considered against the ancient conception of ethos, can the close connection between a speaker’s language and his way of life, between feel confidence in a greater degree and more readily in persons of worth in regard to everything in general, but where there is no certainty and there is room for doubt, our confidence is absolute’ (DiÄ m‡n ofin to‹ ¢jouc, Ìtan o’tw leqj¨ Â lÏgoc

πste ÇxiÏpiston poi®sai t‰n lËgonta; toÿc gÄr ‚pieikËsi piste‘omen mêllon ka» jêtton, per» pàntwn m‡n Åpl¿c, ‚n oŸc d‡ t‰ Çkrib‡c mò Ístin ÇllÄ t‰ Çmfidoxeÿn, ka» pantel¿c); on the ethos as a function of the speech only see ibid. 1356a8–10: ‘But this confidence must be due to the speech itself, not to any preconceived idea of the speaker’s character […]’ (deÿ d‡ ka» to‹to sumba–nein diÄ to‹ lÏgou, ÇllÄ mò diÄ to‹ prodedoxàsjai poiÏn tina e⁄nai t‰n lËgonta […], emphasis mine); see also Rh. 1378a6–19, where Aristotle lists frÏnhsic, Çret†, and e÷noia as those qualities which will induce the audience to believe the speaker; cf. Quint. inst. 4.2.125 on the importance of auctoritas for the success of a speech. On auctoritas in rhetoric in general see Calboli Montefusco (1992), esp. 1178–1182 (1181 on the relation of ™joc and auctoritas); Wheeldon (1989) 40–41. 222 Cf. Gelzer (1979) 19–23. The idea that moral, cultural, and political values are related to language and rhetorical training is common also elsewhere in ancient rhetorical theory, e.g., in Quintilian’s definition of the ideal orator as vir bonus dicendi peritus, on which cf. n. 218 above. The idea that education is the precondition of rulership seems to go back to Stoic ideas on education and power, esp. the ‘philosopher king,’ cf. Devine (1970). 223 With Dionysius’ definition of the purpose of his work at Orat. Vett. 4.2 (‘Who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each of them should we imitate and which should we avoid? t–nec e s»n Çxiolog∏tatoi t¿n Çrqa–wn ˚htÏrwn te ka»

suggrafËwn ka» t–nec aŒt¿n ‚gËnonto proairËseic to‹ te b–ou ka» to‹ lÏgou ka» t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai, emphasis mine), cf. Ant. 1.1.3: ‘it is a just and a general opinion that a man’s words are the images of his minds’ (‚pieik¿c […] âpantec nom–zousin e kÏnac e⁄nai t®c ·kàstou yuq®c toÃc lÏgouc), referred to by Hidber (1996) 48–49 n. 278, and the similar statement in Cic. de or. 2.43.184: ‘[S]o much is done by good taste and style in speaking, that the speech seems to depict the speaker’s character. For by means of particular types of thought and diction, and the employment besides of a delivery that is unruffled and eloquent of good-nature, the speakers are made to appear upright, well-bred and virtuous men’ (tantum autem efficitur sensu quodam et ratione dicendi, ut quasi mores oratoris effingat oratio; genere quodam sententiarum et genere verborum, adhibita etiam actione leni facilitatemque significante efficitur, ut bene morati, ut boni viri esse videamur); see Hidber (1996) comm. on 1.5 (p. 108–109); Dominick (1997a); Michel (1972).

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his lÏgoi and his proa–resic, in Dionysius’ Classicism be fully understood. Learning Classical language has strong ethical implications for Dionysius because Classical style is the expression of the speaker’s adherence to certain moral and political values. The speaker uses language to demonstrate his proa–resic to others and to reassure himself of it. This feeling of being Classical through reading and writing Classical texts is the core of the Classicist’s self-definition, as Porter calls it, the ‘habitus of classicism.’ 224

2.2.2 Classicist Self-Fashioning: Re-enacting the Past through

M–mhsic The term which designates the process of Classicist self-fashioning is mimesis. 225 What Dionysius meant by this term is accessible to us mainly through two of his works. The fragments preserved of the essay On Imitation (Imit.) give us an idea of how Dionysius imagined the process of mimesis in general, and in his essay On Dinarchus (Din.) he gives a critical discussion of one concrete example of an orator who tried to be Classical, but failed. Dionysius’ treatment of mimesis in these essays will further our understanding of two aspects of Dionysius’ conception of Classical language as the carrier of Classical identity. The first aspect concerns language as a means of self-fashioning: how exactly did Dionysius imagine language to represent the speaker’s way of life? The second aspect is related to the first one and regards the temporal dimension of language. Since Classical identity is acquired and enacted through language, ‘practising politiko» lÏgoi’ implies a stance towards past and present: by acting out a Classical way of life in 224 Porter (2006b) 308–309. Porter defines the expression ‘habitus of classicism’ as ‘the sensation one has when reading a classical author’ (ibid. 309), but writing Classical texts is the necessary complement to reading them and should be included in the definition. Cf. ibid. 307: classicism ‘describes not a series of properties in the world but a set of attitudes about the world’ with ibid. 309: ‘in the realm of literary criticism, the question of what one feels is bound up with the question of how one experiences a classical text.’ 225 I agree with Halliwell (2002) 13–14 that ‘imitation’ is an insufficient rendering of the Greek mimesis; Halliwell therefore opts for leaving the term untranslated. Scholarly literature on mimesis in antiquity and its various forms abound; I found most helpful Halliwell (2002); for a useful survey see Clark (1951) (condensed version of id. [1957] 144–176); Bompaire (1958); Koller (1954) is still of interest, but see the critical remarks in Else (1958); Russell (1981) 99–113; Too (1998); Kardaun (1993); on imitation and literary criticism see McKeon (1936); on Dionysius’ use of the term mimesis in particular see Hidber (1996) 56–75; Classen (1993) 326–329.

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Augustan Rome through language, the Classicists claim to be continuing the Classical tradition. This raises the question of how Dionysius imagines the relationship between continuity of language and continuity of time. On Imitation is generally assumed to be an early work of Dionysius’. 226 Only parts of On Imitation have been preserved, a few fragments of the first and a late, very corrupt epitome of the second book. In addition, we have a brief summary of the content of the work given by Dionysius himself in the Letter to Pompeius (Pomp. 3.1). According to this precis the first book dealt with the ‘enquiry into mimesis’ (ô per» t®c mim†sewc z†thsic); the second book provided a list of authors, poets, philosophers, historiographers, and orators whom Dionysius regarded as suitable for mimesis; finally, the (then unfinished) third book explained how to practice mimesis (p¿c deÿ mimeÿsjai). At Pomp. 3.2–6.11, following this summary, Dionysius then repeats his assessment of the value of different historiographers for mimesis from the second book of On Imitation. 227 For our purposes, the opening chapters of the second book of On Imitation offer several interesting insights, insofar as they are accessible in the epitome. 228 There Dionysius illustrates the effects of mimesis by means of two famous anecdotes. The first one describes how an ugly farmer invents a trick to beget beautiful children, the second one relates how Zeuxis painted a picture of the naked Helen (Imit. 1.1–5). Because of its importance, I have quoted this passage in full:

ìOti deÿ toÿc t¿n Çrqa–wn ‚ntugqànein suggràmmasin, —n+‚nte‹jen mò mÏnon t®c ÕpojËsewc tòn ’lhn ÇllÄ ka» t‰n t¿n  diwmàtwn z®lon qorhghj¿men. Andr–, fas–, gewrgƒ tòn Óyin a sqrƒ parËsth dËoc mò tËknwn Âmo–wn gËnhtai pat†r.
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O’tw ka» lÏgwn ÂmoiÏthc t–ktetai, ‚pÄn zhl∏s˘ tic t‰ par+·kàst˙ t¿n palai¿n bËltion e⁄nai doko‹n, ka» kajàper ‚k poll¿n namàtwn Èn ti sugkom–sac ˚e‹ma to‹t+e c tòn yuqòn metoqete‘˘. Ka– moi par–statai pist∏sasjai t‰n lÏgon to‹ton Írg˙; Ze‹xic ™n zwgràfoc, ka» parÄ Krotwniat¿n ‚jaumàzeto; ka» aŒtƒ tòn <ElËnhn gràfonti gumnòn gumnÄc  deÿn tÄc par+aŒtoÿc Ípemyan parjËnouc; oŒk ‚peid†per ™san âpasai kala–, Çll+oŒk e k‰c ™n ±c pantàpasin ™san a sqra–; Á d+™n äxion par+·kàst˘ graf®c, ‚c m–an öjro–sjh s∏matoc e kÏna, kÇk poll¿n mer¿n sullog®c Èn ti sunËjhken ô tËqnh tËleion e⁄doc. Toigaro‹n pàresti ka» so» kajàper ‚n jeàtr˙ kal¿n swmàtwn  dËac ‚xistoreÿn ka» t®c ‚ke–nwn yuq®c Çpanj–zesjai t‰ kreÿtton, ka» t‰n t®c polumaje–ac Íranon sullËgonti oŒk ‚x–thlon qrÏn˙ genhsomËnhn e kÏna tupo‹n Çll+Çjànaton tËqnhc kàlloc. We have to dwell on the writings of the ancient authors not only to find material for the content, but also to appropriate their features of style. Under the influence of constant observation the reader’s soul attracts a similarity to the style of the Classical author, as is illustrated by the anecdote about the wife of the peasant. A peasant, it runs, was of ugly appearance and feared to beget children who looked like him. So his fear taught him the following trick to have beautiful children: he formed handsome likenesses and accustomed his wife to look at them; and when he had slept with her afterwards, the beauty of the likenesses exerted their positive influence [on their children]. In the same way, similarity in language is procreated, if one adopts what seem to be the best features of each of the ancient writers and, as if one were channelling many streams into one river, conveys these features in one channel into one’s soul. I will substantiate this idea with an example from practice: the painter Zeuxis was famous among the Crotonians. When he wanted to paint a portrait of the naked Helen, the Crotonians sent him all their maidens naked so that he could look at them. They did this not because the maidens were all beautiful, but because it was likely that they were not ugly in every respect. Zeuxis assembled those parts of them which were worthy of being painted to a picture of one body, thus combining many parts into one image of perfect beauty. Thus you too can watch out, as in a theatre, for appearances of beautiful bodies, pick the best parts of their souls, gather together a banquet of varied learning, and thus form a likeness which will not vanish through time but be a piece of art of immortal beauty. 229

Two aspects of these anecdotes deserve particular attention and will be discussed in greater detail on the following pages. First, metaphors of the 229 Transl. mine.

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body and terms of visual perception are employed to describe both the reception and the effect of speech. Thus the tales associate language with physical perceptibility and illustrate the power of language as a means of selffashioning; second, since this self-fashioning-through-language bridges the gap which separates the model from its ‘reproduction,’ mimesis is invested with a temporal dimension. 230 The comparison between a beautiful body and beautiful speech, a feature common to both anecdotes, suggests that Dionysius conceived of the aesthetics of rhetoric in terms of the aesthetics of the body and vice versa (s¿ma, imit. 2.1; ·n‰c t‘poc logiko‹ s∏matoc, ibid. 5.7), and Dionysius employs the same imagery to illustrate the process of mimesis itself (kal¿n swmàtwn  dËac ‚xistoreÿn, ibid. 1.5). 231 This is in keeping with the fact that words for the body and its parts are an important part of the conceptual vocabulary for the analysis of texts in ancient rhetoric and literary criticism. 232 Accustomed by her husband to look at beautiful likenesses regularly before going to bed, the peasant’s wife ‘internalizes’ 233 their beauty. In the appearance of her children this internalized beauty is converted into a real,

230 ‘Reproduction’ is as insufficient a rendering of mimesis as ‘imitation’ and is used here for the sake of convenience; see Hunter (2009) 112: the aim of mimesis is not ‘to reproduce the words of the ancients but rather to write new speeches as the ancients would have written them.’ This aspect of Classicist mimesis, which goes hand-in-hand with the idea that Classicists are able to surpass their models (imitatio vs aemulatio), has been widely discussed, cf., e.g., Heldmann (1980) and Wlosok (1993). 231 Hunter (2009) 118 comments that this comparison ‘holds out the possibility of a combination of art and nature […]; the repetition of s¿ma, even within such a complex and charged phrase, and the idea of nature improved by art both seem to pick up the Zeuxis anecdote, which may thus have been given a particular, programmatic importance.’ 232 See Most (1992) 406–408; Svenbro (1984) 221 points out that ‘the founding text of an entire rhetorical tradition which conceives of the speech in terms of the body’ (‘le texte fondateur de toute une tradition rhétorique pour laquelle le discours est un corps’) is Plato’s Phaedrus, esp. 264c–e; for a discussion of the metaphorical description of the unity of a literary text as a living organism with particular reference to Pindaric poetry see Most (1985), esp. 6–9. 233 Cf. ibid. 4; Battisti (1997) 101 speaks of ‘unconscious assimilation’ (‘inconscia assimilazione’); she also speaks of ‘the conviction that the continuous engagement with the literary model by itself can influence and shape the creative act’ (‘la convinzione che il costante rapporto con i modelli letterari possa già di per sé influenzare e plasmare l’atto creativo,’ ibid.).

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physical beauty. 234 The children are thus a direct expression of the beauty in their mother’s soul; this recalls the idea mentioned above, that words are the expression (e k∏n) of the speaker’s soul.235 Rather than a dichotomy, then, body and soul represent two different manifestations of the beautiful, an inner and an outer, which complement each other.236 The way beauty is transferred from the images into the woman’s soul and becomes visible again in her children illustrates how it is preserved by a process of reception and reproduction. In the same manner Zeuxis, in the second anecdote, converts the beauty of the invidual parts of the Crotonian maidens into a new, beautiful whole, the portrait of Helen. Perception plays a crucial role in this process because it connects its different stages. This explains the pervading notions of ‘seeing’ and ‘being seen’ in both anecdotes. They describe the passage (cf. the verbs of motion ‚fËlketai, 1.2, and metoqete‘˘, 1.3) of beauty from one manifestation into another. By looking at the beautiful e kÏnec, the peasant’s wife absorbs their beauty, and this beauty is manifest again in her children. This corresponds to Zeuxis’ looking at ( deÿn, 1.4) all of the Crotonian maidens in order to create an image of Helen, the mythic paradigm of beauty. These notions of perception are the key to Dionysius’ conception of the process which these anecdotes are meant to illustrate: how the Classical ideal is implemented in the present through language with an almost physical immediacy. Dionysius describes the act of reading the Classical authors as a parat†rhsic (1.2), a ‘close observation,’ and he likens it to a spectator watching a theatre performance (kajàper ‚n jeàtr˙ kal¿n swmàtwn  dËac ‚xistoreÿn, 1.5). 237 Through this act of looking/reading, the qualities of the texts are channelled into the reader’s soul (yuq† […] ‚fËlketai, 234 Reeve (1989) has traced the idea that the appearance of the offspring is influenced by what a woman is looking at during the conception from the doxographer Aetius down to its reception in the twentieth century; he calls it the ‘Andromeda effect.’ For further examples of this theme in ancient literature see Battisti (1997) 100. 235 Cf. the passage from the Antiquitates 1.1.3, quoted above, n. 223 (‚pieik¿c gÄr âpantec nom–zousin e kÏnac e⁄nai t®c ·kàstou yuq®c toÃc lÏgouc); Hunter (2009) 111 notes that ‘the language of pregnancy and birth are […] ubiquitous […] in ancient discussions of literary production’; cf. ibid. 112–113. 236 Hunter ibid. 119 speaks of a ‘body-soul distinction’ which he traces back to Platonic philosophy, especially the Symposium. 237 Hunter ibid. 121 detects an echo of Herodotus’ proem in ‚xistoreÿn which ‘seems to reflect the effort of Dionysius or the epitomator not merely to “acknowledge” the coming debt to Herodotus but also to reflect the shift between the Zeuxis-anecdote and its moral from a purely visual and aesthetic activity to an intellectual …stor–h.’

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1.2; kajàper ‚k poll¿n namàtwn Èn ti sugkom–sac ˚e‹ma to‹t+e c tòn yuqòn metoqete‘˘, 1.3). 238 The result is an Çjànaton tËqnhc kàlloc, which is itself compared to modelling a visible object, a likeness (e kÏna tupo‹n, ibid.). The comparison of reading to visual perception and of texts to (representations of) bodies reveals how Dionysius imagined the effect of language. The impact of language upon the recipient is as immediate and as plastic as that of the appearance of a person (or its likeness). On the speaker’s side, this corresponds to the idea that language and style are as powerful an instrument of a person’s self-representation and self-definition, and as important a sign for a person’s belonging to certain communities, as their outward appearance, i. e., their bodies and their clothes.239 The notions of tËqnh and active, artistic creation in this process play a crucial role in both anecdotes240 as well as in Dionysius’ description of the process of mimesis which the anecdotes are supposed to illustrate.241 It is through this active, technical process that the transfer from the qualities of the external object (body/ text) into the reader’s soul is achieved. On this transfer, in turn, depends the subsequent one of the thus acquired inner qualities of the reader back into 238 Hunter ibid. 120 compares Lucian’s Imagines 23.11, where ‘ “perfect beauty” (‚ntel‡c kàlloc) is a combination of yuq®c Çret† and eŒmorf–a s∏matoc.’ 239 Dionysius’ remarks on Demosthenes’ style at Dem. 32.1–2 are another striking illustration of the ‘physical’ or ‘bodily’ quality which he ascribes to language: ‘Every reader […] would admit that the passage which I have just quoted [De Corona 199–208] is as different from the preceding one [Plt. Mx. 246c4–248e2] as are the weapons of war from those used in ceremonial processions, real things [literally, ‘appearances’] from images, and bodies developed by hard work in the sunlight from those that pursue a life of ease in the shade’ (oŒje–c ‚stin Ác oŒq Âmolog†seie […] toso‘t˙ diafËrein

tòn Çrt–wc tejeÿsan lËxin t®c protËrac Ìs˙ diallàttei polemist†ria m‡n Ìpla pompeuthr–wn, Çlhjina» d‡ Óyeic e d∏lwn, ‚n ôl–˙ d‡ ka» pÏnoic tejrammËna s∏mata t¿n skiÄc ka» ˚¯st∏nac diwkÏntwn, emphases mine). 240 The fear of begetting ugly children ‘teaches’ the peasant a ‘technique’ (‚d–daxe tËqnhn, 1.2) which allows him to overcome the problem; this ‘technique’ consists of ‘forming handsome likenesses’ (e kÏnac plàsac eŒprepeÿc, ibid.). And it is Zeuxis’ ‘technical skills’ (tËqnh) which enable him to create an image of perfect beauty (1.4). 241 The Classicist reader actively has to identify and combine the most beautiful parts of the models (zhl∏s˘, sugkom–sac, 1.3), thus conveying it himself (metoqete‘˘, ibid.) into his own soul. Similarly, it is he himself (note so–, 1.5) who has to ‘watch out for appearances of beautiful bodies […], pick the best parts of their souls,’ and ‘gather together a banquet of varied learning’ (kal¿n swmàtwn  dËac ‚xistoreÿn ka» t®c ‚ke–nwn yuq®c Çpanj–zesjai t‰ kreÿtton, ka» t‰n t®c polumaje–ac Íranon sullËgonti, 1.5) in order to ‘form’ (tupo‹n) a ‘piece of art of immortal beauty’ (Çjànaton tËqnhc kàlloc, ibid.).

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external objects, as the reader turns into a speaker creating his own texts of Classical beauty. On the one hand, Dionysius thus emphasises that the process of both Classicist reading and writing/speaking presupposes a certain technical knowledge and competence. This idea, that reading Classical texts requires a process of learning in the same way as composing Classical texts does, is a crucial element of Dionysius’ strategies of authority and will be discussed in detail in chapter 4 below. On the other hand, the emphasis on the speaker’s self-representation through language as an active process brings us back to the idea of mimesis as a process of self-fashioning: representing oneself as a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi’ presupposes a conscious and almost artistic process of shaping one’s own soul according to the standards of Classical beauty by studying Classical texts. The Classicist’s identity, his soul, itself is a product of art, tËqnh, which is then re-presented, and re-enacted with an almost physical immediacy, in the Classicist’s own texts. Our discussion of On Imitation thus complements the results of the preceding discussion of Dionysius’ conception of Classical language as the carrier of a set of moral and political values in two respects. First, the close connection between language, morals, and politics established by Dionysius suggests that we should not conceive of ‘Classical beauty,’ as dealt with in On Imitation, as a purely abstract category. Rather, in Dionysius’ notion of ‘Classical beauty’ moral and political values are endowed with an aesthetic value just as the aesthetics of Classical style and language are politically and morally charged. Second, we can now understand more fully how Dionysius envisaged the interaction of Isocrates’ speeches and the reader: Dionysius did not simply expect his reader to learn the values encoded in Isocrates’ works by heart. Rather, he imagined Isocrates’ speeches, their content as well as their style, to exert a shaping influence on the reader’s soul and thus to render the reader’s soul ‘Classical,’ provided that the reading process was performed properly. Another significant aspect of Dionysius’ notion of mimesis is the interrelation of (self-fashioning through) language and time. The physical presence of the speaker’s soul through his language amounts to a physical presence of the past. The transfer of the qualities of the original into a new medium – be it children, a new image, or a text – is also a passage through time from past into present and from present into future. 242 In the first anecdote, beauty 242 On the classical as the basis of conceptions of the future cf. Gethmann-Siefert (1987).

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is passed on from the present (likeness into the wife’s soul) to the future generation (wife to children). In the second anecdote, the ideal beauty of the mythical past consists entirely of elements from the present: the artist’s product integrates past and present, and ideal and reality, into a unity. In the same way, the Classicist’s texts make the ideal of the Classical past an integral part of the present. Creating an Çjànaton tËqnhc kàlloc, the Classicist preserves the ideal of the past not only in the present, but also for the future (oŒk ‚x–thlon qrÏn˙). Read alongside each other, the anecdotes illustrate two interrelated key points of Dionysius’ Classicism: first, a person’s way of speaking is a powerful expression of his soul; second, since the speaker’s soul is imbued with the Classical past, the speaker himself and his language give the past an immediate, almost physical, representation by, quite literarily, ‘visualizing’ it.243 Dionysius’ essay On Dinarchus will now help us explore more fully this temporal aspect of Classicist mimesis. Whereas the preserved parts of On Imitation deal with mimesis in a rather abstract manner, On Dinarchus presents the readers with a concrete example of how mimesis should, or rather should not, be done. Dinarchus provides such an interesting case-study for Dionysius because he lived in the divide between the Classical and post-Classical periods. Therefore, in no other case would the necessity to overcome this break seem more obvious, or easier, because Dinarchus profitted from immediate contact with the Classical authors. Potentially, this makes Dinarchus an ideal example to illustrate how to continue the Classical tradition through language after its end. But despite spatial and temporal proximity to the Classical masters, Dinarchus fails: his style is not Classical, but a mish-mash of bits and pieces taken from Classical authors. His method is the same as Zeuxis’ in the second anecdote: he combined individual parts of his models. But unlike Zeuxis, he did not succeed in making a new, coherent whole out of them, i.e., in recreating the perfect beauty of the past. The result is not a Helen, but an assemblage of different parts of the bodies of Crotonian maidens. By demonstrating that immediate contact with the Classical past is not necessary, nor even sufficient, for being Classical, the example of Dinarchus helps Dionysius to solve a central problem of himself and his readers: their temporal and spatial distance from the Classical past is no hindrance for being Classical. What

243 Cf. Hunter (2009) 110: the Classicists’ ‘study of the past is, at least in part, a means to influence the present, not a hopeless admiration across an unbridgeable divide.’

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counts is the right technique of dealing with the Classical texts, the right technique of mimesis. In the biographical introduction at the beginning of his essay, Dionysius says that Dinarchus lived in the boundary between Classical and nonClassical times. As in Orat. Vett., the divide between both epochs is marked by the death of Alexander the Great (Din. 2.2–4):

De–narqoc […] Çf[–keto] d‡ e c >Aj†nac kaj+Án qrÏnon ¢njoun a— te t¿n filosÏfwn ka» ˚htÏrwn diatriba– […]. EŒfuòc d‡ per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc genÏmenoc ÇkmazÏntwn Íti t¿n per» DhmosjËnhn ¢rxato lÏgouc gràfein ka» pro§ei katÄ mikr‰n e c dÏxan. Màlista d‡ ¢kmase metÄ tòn >Alexàndrou teleut†n, DhmosjËnouc m‡n ka» t¿n ällwn ˚htÏrwn fugaÿc Çid–oic ka» janàtoic peripesÏntwn, oŒden‰c d+ÕpoleipomËnou met+aŒtoÃc Çndr‰c Çx–ou lÏgou. He came to Athens at the time when the philosophical and rhetorical schools were in their heyday […]. Having revealed a natural talent for political oratory, he began to write speeches when Demosthenes and his party were still at the height of their power, and gradually acquired a reputation. His finest period was after the death of Alexander, when Demosthenes and the other orators had been sentenced to permanent exile or death, and no other orator worthy of note was left to succeed them.

Dionysius adopts Isocrates’ idea that the way of speaking correlates to the political system in which the speaker lives. Under the Athenian democracy philosophical and rhetorical culture flourished (¢njoun a— te t¿n filosÏfwn ka» ˚htÏrwn diatriba–). After Alexander’s death, oligarchy and civic unrest took its place (Din. 2.5, 9.2, 11.11). The changes of the political system are reflected by changes in the art of speaking: good oratory together with noteworthy orators such as Demosthenes virtually died with Alexander (oŒden‰c d+ÕpoleipomËnou met+aŒtoÃc Çndr‰c Çx–ou lÏgou). At first, the development of Dinarchus’ rhetorical competence seems to conform to this pattern: while Alexander was still alive, Dinarchus was (albeit gradually, katÄ mikrÏn) becoming famous for his talent in the art of speech. Above all, the genitive absolute, ÇkmazÏntwn Íti t¿n per» DhmosjËnhn, suggests that Dinarchus’ progress in rhetoric was directly related to the fact that Demosthenes and his peers were still alive and active as orators. 244

244 Cf. the discussion of suntrof–a (Din. 7.5) below, pp. 89–90.

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All the more striking, and probably deliberately so, is Dionysius’ subsequent statement that Dinarchus ‘flourished’ (¢kmase) in the years after Alexander’s death, when ‘no other orator worthy of note was left to succeed them [Demosthenes and the other great orators].’ Whatever Dinarchus’ fame as an orator was based on in these years, it was not Classical oratory. Classical orators had been the representatives of Athenian democracy, whereas Dinarchus supported the anti-democratic tendencies of the post-Alexander period (Din. 2.5):

>Ep» d‡ >Anaxikràtouc ärqontoc […] a t–an Íqwn âma toÿc ‚pifanestàtoic >Ajhna–wn, ka–toi xËnoc aŒt‰c ∫n, katal‹sai t‰n d®mon Âr¿n örejismËnouc toÃc >Ajhna–ouc ka» màlista tƒ plouteÿn ·aut‰n ÕforwmËnouc, 245 mò diÄ to‹to pàj˘ ti deinÏn, e seljeÿn m‡n e c dikast†rion oŒq ÕpËmeinen, ‚xelj∞n d‡ t®c pÏlewc ka» ‚lj∞n e c Qalk–da ‚n EŒbo–¯ [‚keÿ diËtriyen]. But during the archonship of Anaxicrates […] he was accused, along with some of the most illustrious Athenians, of subverting the democracy. Seeing that the Athenians were incensed, and that in particular they were suspicious of his growing wealth, in order to avoid suffering some dire penalty for this he did not await trial, but left the city and came to Chalcis in Euboia […].

Dinarchus’ attempt to ‘subvert democracy’ (katal‹sai t‰n d®mon) reveals his oligarchic mentality (cf. âma toÿc ‚pifanestàtoic >Ajhna–wn), which is explicitly labelled as such by Dionysius at Din. 9.2 and 11.11.246 Dinarchus’ behaviour must be read against the ideal of a Classical way of life which Dionysius extrapolates from Isocrates’ writings. Dinarchus’ acts are in neat contradiction to the main tenets of Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic identity. Dinarchus could hardly count as a man ‘of sterling character, of 245 The ms has Õfor∏menoc, which Aujac adopts, but ka» màlista requires a precision of örejismËnouc, and this can only be ÕforwmËnouc, which was proposed by Radermacher: the Athenian people were already angry with Dinarchus, but in particular they disliked his wealth. This construction of the sentence requires a comma after ÕforwmËnouc. 246 Din. 9.2: ‘during the latter’s [Anaxicrates’] year [307/6 BCE] the oligarchy which had been set up by Cassander was removed and those who were impeached went into exile, inlcuding Dinarchus’ (‚p» to‘tou [>Anaxikràtouc] ô katastajeÿsa Õp‰ Kassàndrou Êligarq–a katel‘jh, ka» o… e saggeljËntec Ífugon, ‚n oŸc ka» De–narqoc ™n); 11.11: ‘it is surely not likely that Dinarchus, a friend of those who had established the oligarchy, should collaborate with those who were trying to overthrow it […]’ (o÷koun e k‰c f–lon Ónta t‰n De–narqon t¿n Êligarq–an katasthsàntwn toÿc katal‘ein ‚piqeiro‹sin sunagwn–zesjai […], emphases mine).

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positive service to [his] famil[y], to [his] state and to Greece at large’ (Isoc. 4.3), who would have emerged from Isocrates’ teaching. 247 Dinarchus’ flight from Athens and the detachment from his polis, which this implies, is incompatible with another essential element of Classical identity, being a filÏpolic and filÏdhmoc; 248 it also stands in stark contrast to Isocrates’ decision ‘to end his life with his city’s heroes’ (ibid. 1.6).249 From this point of view, Dinarchus appears like the caricature of a Classical orator. He even refused to defend himself in court, one of the main spheres of rhetorical activity in Classical Athenian democracy. It is also remarkable that after his return to Athens (granted by the ‘king’ [basile‘c], not by the d®moc, Din. 3.1), Dinarchus’ first lawsuit aimed at recovering the money which he had stolen from his closest friend Proxenus (ibid.). This shows him again using his rhetoric for his personal aims, but not to benefit the community of citizens, as the Isocratean ideal demanded. The distinctive characteristic of Dinarchus’ life (b–oc), which emerges from this description, is heterogeneity: Dinarchus lived in both Classical and non-Classical times, began as a Classical and ended as a non-Classical orator, he first supported democracy and then oligarchy. Dinarchus was a hybrid. This heterogeneity is directly reflected in his style (lÏgoi), which is as ‘difficult to define’ (dusÏristoc, Din. 5.1) as his way of life (ibid. 5.2):

247 Quoted above, pp. 70–71. 248 For these terms see Isoc. 5.1 with my remarks above, p. 73. 249 Dinarchus’ behaviour might also evoke the career of another master of Classical rhetoric as a contrastive foil, that of Lysias, as Dionysius describes it at the beginning of On Lysias. Both Lysias and Dinarchus have in common that they are xËnoi and received their education in Athens (Lys. 1.1). Lysias took part in the Athenian Çpoik–a to Sicily where he played a leading role in political life (ibid. 1.2), but after the Sicilian disaster in the Peloponnesian War, he was accused of collaborating with the Athenians (ÇttikismÏc) by the Sicilian people, was expelled, and then returned to Athens. There he became an outstanding representative of all kinds of political discourse. Against the background of Dinarchus’ actions, this last point is significant: although Lysias’ family was Sicilian by origin, he could not make a career in the homeland of his family, but flourished in the city where he had been educated, Athens. Dinarchus, in stark contrast, subverted the values of Classical Athenian democracy in which he had been brought up. Furthermore, Lysias’ success especially in those genres which are associated with the core institutions of Athenian democracy (‘he wrote many speeches for the lawcourts, and for debates in the Council and the Assembly, each well-adapted to its medium,’ ple–stouc d‡ gràyac lÏgouc e c diakst†rià te ka» boulÄc ka» pr‰c ‚kklhs–ac eŒjËtouc, ibid. 1.5), stands in stark contrast to Dinarchus’ refusal to defend himself in the Attic court.

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OŒd‡n gÄr o÷te koin‰n o÷t+“dion Ísqen o÷t+‚n toÿc  d–oic o÷t+‚n toÿc dhmos–oic Çg¿sin, ÇllÄ ka» toÿc Lus–ou parapl†sioc Ístin Ìpou g–netai ka» toÿc
Dionysius’ main concern, labelled shortly after this passage at Din. 6.2, is Âmoe–deia, ‘uniformity.’ The Classical authors are characterized by their homogeneous style, and although every one has his own particular style, each of these styles is consistent within itself. Dinarchus’ style, by contrast, is conspicuous by the absence of Âmoe–deia. This lack of Âmoe–deia provides the unmistakable criterion by which to distinguish his speeches from those of the original Classical orators: Dinarchus ‘is neither uniform in all his speeches nor the inventor of an individual style by which one can recognise him with accuracy, except this way; he displays many examples of imitation and of difference from the original models of the speeches themselves […]’ (o÷te Ìmoioc ‚n âpas–n ‚stin o÷t+ d–ou tin‰c eÕret†c, di+o› gn∏seta– tic aŒt‰n Çkrib¿c, £ to‹ton t‰n trÏpon; polà gÄr ‚mfa–nei mim†seic te ka» aŒt¿n ±c pr‰c t‰ t¿n lÏgwn ÇrqËtupon diaforàn […], ibid. 6.5). The ‘Dinarchean’ about Dinarchus’ style is the fact that it cannot be positively described, because it does not have any original, Dinarchean, features; this, in turn, reveals it as non-Classical. Dinarchus’ failure recalls an important aspect of the anecdotes in On Imitation. The qualities of the original must be transferred into a new, and thus equally original, medium. This is the difference between mere reproduction and mimesis, as Dionysius conceives of it. His Classicism does not aim at turning the styles of the Classical orators into museum objects. On the contrary, Dionysius envisages development of style and stylistic originality as essential aspects of practising Classical language. But style must develop along certain guidelines, and these guidelines are provided by the Classical texts. Dinarchus, by contrast, creates such a museum of Classical rhetoric. He does not work with the Classical material, making a Helen out of Crotonian maidens, but sets Classical elements alongside each other as they are. This method confirms, rather than overcomes, the demise of Classical rhetoric after Alexander, because it constitutes Classical rhetoric as a self-enclosed entity, a linguistic anachronism which is neither tied back to the present nor fits it.

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Dionysius highlights this aspect of Dinarchus’ style by referring to his nickname ‘rustic Demosthenes’: ‘it is for this very reason [the heterogeneity of Dinarchus’ style] that some have called him a “rustic Demosthenes,” deriving their opinion about him from his inferior arrangement: for the body of the rustic differs from that of the city dweller not in its essential appearance but in his clothing and deportment’ (di+aŒt‰ gÄr to‹to ka» ägroikÏn tinec DhmosjËnhn Ífasan 〈aŒt‰n〉 e⁄nai, katÄ t‰ ‚llip‡c

t®c o konom–ac ta‘thn per» aŒt‰n dÏxan labÏntec; t‰ gÄr ägroikon to‹ politiko‹ s∏matoc oŒ morf¨, kataskeu¨ d‡ ka» diajËsei tin» t®c morf®c di†negken, ibid. 8.7). The terms politik‰n/ägroikon s¿ma and morf† recall the idea of a bodily quality of speech and of language as an instrument of self-fashioning on a par with a person’s physical appearance. Dionysius wants to illustrate that a style like Dinarchus’ can never become the speaker’s nature, but will always remain an outward attribute. As a rustic who tries to look like a ‘city-dweller’ is betrayed by his ‘clothing and deportment,’ Dinarchus’ attempt to look Classical, instead of being Classical, betrays him as an epigone, an imitator. Dinarchus’ heterogeneous life-and-style thus demonstrates ex negativo how historical continuity is to be achieved through homogeneity of style (Âmoe–deia). The only way to achieve this continuity is the right technique of dealing with the Classical texts, in short, through mimesis. Dionysius explains Dinarchus’ failure by referring to two different kinds of mimesis, which seem to be devised after the two phases of Dinarchus’ life (Din. 7.5–6): […] d‘o trÏpouc t®c diaforêc t®c pr‰c tÄ Çrqaÿa mim†sewc e’roi tic än; ¡n  m‡n fusikÏc tË ‚sti ka» ‚k poll®c kathq†sewc ka» suntrof–ac lambanÏmenoc, Á d‡ to‘t˙ proseqòc ‚k t¿n t®c tËqnhc paraggelmàtwn. Per» m‡n ofin to‹ protËrou, t– än tic ka» lËgoi; Per» d‡ to‹ deutËrou, tout» ãn Íqoi tic e peÿn Ìti pêsi m‡n toÿc Çrqet‘poic aŒtofu†c tic ‚pitrËqei qàric ka» πra, toÿc d+Çp‰ to‘twn kateskeuasmËnoic, kãn ‚p+äkron mim†sewc Íljwsi, prÏsest–n ti Ìmwc t‰ ‚pitethdeumËnon ka» oŒk ‚k f‘sewc Õpàrqon. Generally speaking, two different forms of imitation can be found with regard to ancient models: one is natural, and is acquired by intensive learning and common nurture; the other is related to it, but is acquired by following the precepts of art. About the first, what more is there to say? And about the second, what is there to be said except that a certain spontaneous charm and freshness emanates from all the original models, whereas in the artificial copies, even if they attain the height of imitative skill, there is present nevertheless a certain element of contrivance and unnaturalness also?

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The first kind of mimesis, that which is based on ‘intensive learning and common nurture,’ recalls Dinarchus’ youth in Athens before Alexander’s death, where he benefited from the rich cultural climate and direct contact with the Classical orators. After the masters of rhetoric had been expelled or put to death, Dinarchus had to turn elsewhere for his training. This phase of the orator’s life is represented by the second, ‘textbook’ kind of mimesis, which substitutes learning from the originals with learning from rhetorical handbooks. The difference in outcome is the degree of intimacy with the Classical model: the first one makes the reader/hearer literally a ‘natural’ Classical (cf. fusikÏc; ‚k f‘sewc Õpàrqon) and blurs the difference between ‘imitator’ and ‘imitated.’ 250 The second one, even if brought to perfection, remains artificial, and this artificiality reveals the effort the speaker had to make to write like a Classical author. But this effort would be unnecessary, if the speaker had made the Classical his nature: the Classical and the speaker are separated by a difference which, small as it might be, prevents them from merging. The result is ‘imitation,’ not tradition. The introduction of the two kinds of mimesis is a turning-point in Dionysius’ essay. It marks the transition from the concrete example of Dinarchus’ life and style to a general level. When the two phases of Dinarchus’ life become the basis for a theory of mimesis, Dinarchus becomes a paradigm of the Classicist’s attempt to become Classical. This step is so important because it permits Dionysius to address a problem that was crucial to himself and his readers: they were separated from the Classical past by a spatial and temporal distance. Did this distance not render every attempt to be Classical preposterous? Dionysius’ discussion of Dinarchus answers this question. Spatial and temporal proximity were of no use to Dinarchus. Instead, what matters is the technique of mimesis: when reading the Classical texts, the readers must know who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians; what manner of life and style of writing they adopted; which characteristics of each of them they should imitate, and which they should

250 Cf. Battisti (1997) 102: ‘the instruction (kat†qhsic) and familiarity (suntrof–a) determine stylistic homogeneity and create a network of subtle interrelations which reproduce the fundamental structures of the model itself, thus producing a somehow “natural” effect’ (‘[…] l’istruzione (kat†qhsic) e la familiarità (suntrof–a) determinano l’omogeneità stilistica, realizzano una rete di sottili rapporti che riproducono le strutture profonde del modello stesso, determinando un effetto in qualche modo “naturale” (fusikÏc)’).

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avoid (Orat. Vett. 4.2). 251 Only thus can the Classical be internalized properly and be re-enacted through the readers’ own texts. Dionysius substitutes Dinarchus’ actual suntrof–a and kat†qhsic with the Classical models in the first phase of his life by a metaphorical suntrof–a and kat†qhsic: the intimate and direct contact with the Classical texts, guided by the expert, which alone guarantees success. The opposite is an approach to the Classical texts in which the immediate contact with the text is replaced with learning abstract rules from tËqnhc paraggËlmata; its disastrous effects are exemplified by Dinarchus’ second phase of life. On Dinarchus thus expresses temporal and spatial relations with the past in terms of how to read (and write) Classical texts properly. This attributes to literary and rhetorical criticism a crucial role in the attempt to connect with the past and to become Classical. No-one can undo the break between Classical and non-Classical times. But the problem of reading and of achieving the desired intimacy with the Classical can be solved with the help of a competent teacher. Dionysius’ programme, quoted in the preceding paragraph, shows that Dionysius saw himself as this teacher, the mediator between past and present. His new method of criticism (kalÄ jewr†mata

ka» Çnagkaÿa toÿc Çsko‹si tòn politikòn filosof–an ka» oŒ d†pou mÄ D–a koinÄ oŒd‡ kathmaxeumËna toÿc prÏteron, Orat. Vett. 4.2) offers his readers the privileged access to the Classical which they need in order to bridge the gap between past and present. 252 251 ‘The subject I have chosen for my discourse is one of general interest and great potential benefit to mankind. It is this. Who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each of them should we imitate, and which should we avoid? These are worthy subjects, which students of political thought must examine, yet they have certainly not become commonplace or hackneyed through the attentions of earlier writers’ ([…] ta‹ta peiràsomai lËgein, ÕpÏjesin to‹ lÏgou koinòn ka» filànjrwpon ka» pleÿsta dunamËnhn ≤fel®sai lab∏n. Ísti d‡ °de,

t–nec e s»n Çxiolog∏tatoi t¿n Çrqa–wn ˚htÏrwn te ka» suggrafËwn ka» t–nec aŒt¿n ‚gËnonto proairËseic to‹ te b–ou ka» to‹ lÏgou ka» t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai, kalÄ jewr†mata ka» Çnagkaÿa toÿc Çsko‹si tòn politikòn filosof–an ka» oŒ d†pou mÄ D–a koinÄ oŒd‡ kathmaxeumËna toÿc prÏteron, emphases mine). 252 Dionysius’ essays are distinguished from the tËqnhc paraggËlmata by the fact that the handbooks present ready-made rules, which are already abstracted from the Classical texts. Dionysius, by contrast, offers his readers a ‘guided reading’: his works abound with verbatim quotations which Dionysius uses to demonstrate how to deal with the Classical texts correctly and which of their features are Classical and which are not. On this constituent of Dionysius’ critical method see below ch.s 4.1, 4.2, 5.1, and 5.2

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So far we have seen that ‘practising politiko» lÏgoi’ implies far more than a way of speaking. Following Isocrates, Dionysius conceives of Classical language as encapsulating a Classical ethos, a set of moral and political values. Speaking like a Classical Athenian implies adopting these values as the standard for one’s own life (proa–resic). Mimesis describes both the process by which Classical ethos is acquired through reading and by which it is enacted through composing Classical texts. Dionysius ascribes to language an almost physical immediacy: an author’s language characterizes him, and represents his character, no less than his whole physical appearance. Speaking like the Classical authors, a speaker literally embodies the Classical past and implements it in the present, thus establishing temporal continuity through continuity of language. This conviction of being Classical through Classical language is the specific attitude, or ‘habitus,’ which defines the Classicist. The focus of Classicism is therefore not on the past, as Norden, for example, has claimed, but on the present. 253 The Classical past is an ideal which serves as a point of reference for the Classicists’ self-definition. This strong emphasis on the present raises the question of how Dionysius deals with the fact that the present is not Greek any more, but is dominated, both culturally and politically, by the Romans. Since Dionysius could hardly ignore this fact, he had to think of a means to incorporate the Romans into the Classicist world view.

2.3 Language and Power: Getting the Romans into the Picture 2.3.1 Greeks, Romans, Barbarians: Dionysius’ Interpretation of Augustan Rome The most salient, and most debated, feature of the Romans was probably the extension of their power. Dionysius lists the establishment of Roman power as a major turning point in world history in his Antiquitates (1.2.1); he emphasizes that the spatial extension and temporal duration of Roman rule have no precedent in history (1.3.3). This fact, he reports, presented a great

253 The frequent references to Dionysius’ own times in Orat. Vett. reflect this: tƒ kaj+ômêc qrÏn˙ (1.1), n‹n (ibid.), t®c kaj+ômêc ôlik–ac (1.2), Â kaj+ômêc qrÏnoc (2.2), t‰n parÏnta qrÏnon (2.3), toÿc n‹n (3.2); note also the perfect tense proelhl‘jasi (3.2).

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problem to some Greeks who denied that the Romans had the right to rule (1.4.2). 254 If Dionysius wanted to integrate the Romans into his Classicist ideology, he had to find a way to conciliate ‘practising politiko» lÏgoi’ with Roman power. Isocrates’ conception of politiko» lÏgoi offered a solution to this problem. As mentioned in the last section, Isocrates connected rhetoric as a carrier of civic identity with the political superiority of the Greeks over the Barbarians. The link between rhetoric and power was thus already present in Isocrates’ adaption of the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis. Dionysius adopts this conception and couches the struggle between Classical rhetoric and Asianism in terms of the struggle of the Greeks against the Barbarians. 255 Classical rhetoric represents those virtues which are the cornerstones of Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic identity: it is ‚leujËra, s∏frwn, and filÏsofoc (Orat. Vett. 1.5, 1.7). Repeatedly, it is qualified additionally as Çrqa–a (Çrqa–a ka» filÏsofoc, Orat. Vett. 1.2; Çrqa–a ka» s∏frwn ibid. 2.2); this evokes another idea which is prominent in Isocrates, the long ancestral tradition of virtues which reaches back to the origins of Athenian history. The key elements of Athenian civic identity and, at the same time, the main characteristics of Classical rhetoric appear in a condensed form in the expression >Attikò mo‹sa ka» Çrqa–a ka» aŒtÏqjwn (ibid. 1.6): >Attik† refers to Attica and Athens as the primary example of Greekness, and Çrqa–a and aŒtÏqjwn recall the Athenians’ claim that they, the offspring of the Greek soil (aŒtÏqjwn), had represented Greek identity in its purest form since the beginning of their history. Asianist rhetoric, on the contrary, is the carrier of the vices that are usually ascribed to the Barbarians. 256 Its distinctive characteristics are addiction to luxury (‚n eŒpor–¯ ka» truf¨ ka» morf¨ ple–oni t®c ·tËrac, ibid. 1.4) and ’bric (cf. ibid. 1.2; 1.5), which goes hand-in-hand with a total lack of paide–a, the source of genuine ‘Greekness’ (o÷te filosof–ac o÷te ällou paide‘matoc oŒden‰c meteilhfuÿa, ibid. 1.3, cf. Çmaj†c ibid. 1.7, ÇnÏhtoc ibid. 2.2, Çmaj–a 2.4). Hence for Dionysius the struggle between Classical rhetoric and Asianism continues the opposition between Greeks and Barbarians in Classical times. Dionysius substantiates this parallel by employing political vocabulary 254 For further examples and a discussion of this passage see this chapter below and ch. 3.3.1, pp. 185–187. 255 Hidber (1996) 29–30. 256 On Asianist rhetoric symbolizing the opposite of Classical rhetoric see Hidber (1996) 26–27.

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and terms which describe a violent physical encounter between adversaries. The controversy between the two kinds of speaking is thus endowed with a political dimension, 257 and appears as a real struggle for political power just like the fight of the Greeks against the Persians in Classical times. 258 Thus Dionysius speaks of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† as being ‘grossly abused and maltreated’ (prophlakizomËnh ka» deinÄc ’breic ÕpomËnousa) by the Asianist to such an extent that it had almost ‘dissolved.’ This last expression in particular, in Greek katel‘eto, has strong political connotations, since katal‘ein is the technical term for the violent breakdown of political systems.259 Particularly significant is Dionysius’ description of the disastrous effects of the usurpation of power in Greece by Asianist rhetoric (Orat. Vett. 1.3–6):

<EtËra dË tic ‚p» ‚ke–nhc pareljo‹sa tàxin, ÇfÏrhtoc Çnaide–¯ jeatrik¨ ka» Çnàgwgoc ka» o÷te filosof–ac o÷te paide‘matoc oŒden‰c meteilhfuÿa ‚leujer–ou […] tÄc timÄc ka» tÄc prostas–ac t¿n pÏlewn, Éc Ídei tòn filÏsofon Íqein, e c ·autòn Çnhrt†sato […] ka» teleut¿sa paraplhs–an ‚po–hse genËsjai tòn <Ellàda taÿc t¿n Çs∏twn ka» kakodaimÏnwn o k–aic. ¤Wsper gÄr ‚n ‚ke–naic ô m‡n ‚leujËra ka» s∏frwn gametò kàjhtai mhden‰c ofisa t¿n aÕt®c 257 Scholars have recognized the alliance between rhetoric and politics in Dionysius’ conception of Classical language, see Fox (2001) (close connection of politics and rhetoric in Dionysius); Bonner (1939) 12 (Dionysius’ ‘conception of rhetoric as subordinate to citizenship’); cf. Gelzer (1979) 39. 258 I am not concerned here with any actual political influence which Classicists might have had in Augustan Rome, but with how Dionysius defines the relationship of Classical rhetoric and Roman power. Nevertheless, it should not be ruled out that adherence to classical values and ideas might have brought about advantages for a political career, as Hidber (1996) comm. on 1.4 (p. 105) points out: ‘only a training worthy of a free-born man engenders the ability to take responsibility in the community. In the present case, rather concrete interests are at stake, namely filling positions in the administrations of towns, provinces, and the Roman empire […]’ (‘[n]ur eine Ausbildung, wie sie eines freien Mannes würdig ist und wie sie allein die filÏsofoc ˚htorik† vermittelt, befähigt zur Übernahme von Verantwortung im Gemeinwesen. Konkret geht es hier um relativ handfeste Interessen, nämlich um die Besetzung von Ämtern in den Verwaltungen der Städte, Provinzen und des Reiches […]’); similarly, Gabba (1982). Hose (1999) argues that Greek classicism in Rome had political reasons. After all, Augustus programmatically associated himself and the ‘style’ of his principate with the sober classical rhetoric (and art) and branded Antonius as a representative of a corrupt Asianist style (Suet. Aug. 86.2); cf. Zanker (2003) 71–72 (on the interrelation of aesthetics and Weltanschauung in Augustan art); Reid (1996) 49. 259 See LSJ, pp. 899–900, s.v. 2a+b (with references).

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kur–a, ·ta–ra dË tic äfrwn ‚p+ÊlËjr˙ to‹ b–ou paro‹sa pàshc Çxioÿ t®c oŒs–ac ärqein, skubal–zousa ka» dedittomËnh tòn ·tËran; t‰n aŒt‰n trÏpon ‚n pàs˘ pÏlei ka» oŒdemiêc ©tton ‚n toÿc eŒpaide‘toic […] ô m‡n >Attikò mo‹sa ka» Çrqa–a ka» aŒtÏqjwn ätimon e l†fei sq®ma, t¿n ·aut®c ‚kpeso‹sa Çgaj¿n […]. Another rhetoric stole in and took its place, intolerably shameless and histrionic, ill-bred and without a vestige either of philosophy or of any other aspect of liberal education. […] [It] made itself the key to civic honours and high office, a power which ought to have been reserved for the philosophic art […] and finally made the Greek world resemble the houses of the profligate and the abandoned: just as in such households there sits the lawful wife, freeborn and chaste, but with no authority over her domain, while an insensate harlot, bent on destroying her livelihood, claims control of the whole estate, treating the other like dirt and keeping her in a state of terror; so in every city, and in the highly civilised ones as much as any […], the ancient and indigenous Attic Muse, deprived of her possessions, had lost her civic rank […].

Dionysius associates rhetoric with the acquisition of leading positions in politics (tÄc timÄc ka» tÄc prostas–ac t¿n pÏlewn), which had then been usurped by Asianist rhetoric. 260 These political implications of the struggle against Asianist rhetoric are further underlined by the political metaphors which describe the domination of Asianism over the Classical (mhden‰c ofisa t¿n aÕt®c kur–a, pàshc Çxioÿ t®c oŒs–ac ärqein, t¿n ·aut®c ‚kpeso‹sa Çgaj¿n, emphases mine); expressions like skubal–zousa ka» dedittomËnh further suggest a physical nature of the controversy and envisage it in terms of an actual coup d’état from the East. Such a strong association of Asianist rhetoric with a political threat from the East might seem somewhat far-fetched to us, but Dionysius’ contemporaries probably found it very plausible. In Dionysius’ times certain ‘orators and politicians’ (˚†torec âma ka» dhmagwgo–, Str. 14.2.24, 659C, 17–18 Radt) from Asia Minor, ‘Asiarchs,’ as Strabo calls them (ibid. 14.1.42, 649C, 2–4 R.), had a reputation for their extraordinary power and influence.261 More than once they had interfered with Roman politics and caused major 260 Hidber (1996) comm. on 1.4 (p. 105). 261 Gabba (1982) 51–52. Luzzatto (1988) 232 stresses the ‘peculiar geography of Hellenistic rhetoric: the activity is concentrated in the cities of Asia Minor. Athens’ role has not expired, but she is only one centre among many’ (‘la particolare geografia dell’oratoria ellenistica: l’attività si concentra nelle città d’Asia Minore ed il ruolo di Atene non è esaurito, ma essa è solo un centro fra i tanti’). Dionysius’ definition of Rome as the new centre of Classical rhetoric can be seen as an attempt to compensate for Athens’

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trouble for the Romans. Pythodorus of Tralles, for example, was involved in the Roman Civil War as a close friend of Pompey’s, and his property was confiscated and sold by Caesar (ibid., 649C, 4–8 R.). 262 Also Menodorus, a contemporary of Pythodorus, had obviously played no small part in the Civil War. Domitius Ahenobarbus held him responsible for a revolt of the fleet and put him to death (ibid. 649C, 10–13 R.).263 Similarly, Hybreas of Mylasa (Str. 14.2.24 R.), 264 a famous rhetorician and politician, apparently used his influence to support Octavianus and Antonius; he had to flee when Q. Atius Labienus came to Asia on a diplomatic mission to the Parthian king Orodes in 41 BCE. 265 The political dimension of the struggle between Classical rhetoric and Asianism is supplemented by a geographical dimension, which is, however, less prominent. Dionysius refers to Greece as a geographical entity, ô <Ellàc, as a victim of Asianism, and the name ‘Asianism’ evokes Asia, ô >As–a, as Greece’s geographical as well as cultural opposite. Space is thus ‘semanticized’:266 Classical and Asianist rhetoric represent the Western and the Eastern part of the oikumene, respectively. This sets the struggle between the two rhetorics into the framework of the opposition between the two parts of the oikumene and its archetypal manifestation, the Persian Wars. The ‘semanticization’ of space gains further support through terms of movement. Dionysius describes the expansion of Asianist rhetoric as an east-west movement which eventually reached Greece itself (ô […] Ík tinwn baràjrwn t®c >As–ac […] ÇfikomËnh, Orat. Vett. 1.7, cf. ibid. 1.4).

262 263 264 265

266

loss of this position by creating a geographical centre of Classical rhetoric in the West in opposition to the geographical concentration of Asianism in the East; cf. Schmitz/ Wiater (forthcoming-a). Schmitt (1963). Cf. Münzer (1903) 1330. Radermacher (1914). Ibid. 30. Nothing justifies Radermacher’s inference that Dionysius has Hybreas specifically in mind when calling Asianist rhetoric a Karik‰n kakÏn (Orat. Vett. 1.7) or when complaining that Asianist rhetoric ‘not only came to enjoy greater wealth, luxury and splendour than the other, but actually made itself the key to civic honours and high office’ (oŒ mÏnon ‚n eŒpor–¯ ka» truf¨ ka» morf¨ ple–oni t®c ·tËrac di®gen, ÇllÄ ka» tÄc timÄc ka» tÄc prostas–ac t¿n pÏlewn […] e c ·autòn Çnhrt†sato, ibid. 1.4) (Radermacher [1914] 31; similarly, Rohde [1886] 175). It is also hard to see what qualifies the few lines of speeches quoted in Plutarch (Ant. 24) and Strabo (14.2.24, 695C, 17–660C, 14 Radt) as a ‘specimen of the Asianist style’ (ibid.). The term ‘semanticization’ of space refers to the process by which space is endowed with meaning. Clarke (1999) 37 describes it as space and time linked by ‘emplotment’ or narrative; see in general Tilley (1994), esp. 10–33, and the introductory chapters in Clarke (1999).

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This is now reversed by the Romans who set filÏsofoc ˚htorik† back to her former rights (Orat. Vett. 3.1):

A t–a d+o⁄mai ka» Çrqò t®c tosa‘thc metabol®c ‚gËneto ô pàntwn krato‹sa
Krato‹sa and Çnagkàzousa (cf. önàgkastai) pick up the theme of the fight against Asianism as a violent struggle for political superiority. The domination of the Asianist Other is now overpowered by the Roman elite, who are characterized by the unity of education in filÏsofoc ˚htorik† (eŒpa–deutoi pànu ka» gennaÿoi tÄc kr–seic genÏmenoi) and power (dunaste‘ontec), which Isocrates propagates in his works. In the context of the notions of space and movement one might detect an allusion to the spatial extension of Roman power in Dionysius’ words at Orat. Vett. 2.4, that ‘a few Asianist cities’ ’ lack of knowledge still slows down the progress of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† (Íxw gÄr Êl–gwn tin¿n >Asian¿n pÏlewn, aŸc di+Çmaj–an bradeÿà ‚stin ô kal¿n màjhsic). This implies an advance of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† from Rome towards the cradle of Asianism, Asia. 267 The notion of a spatial advance notwithstanding, Dionysius identifies the 267 Reducing Rome’s role to that of a simple model or exemplar for the other cities, as do Hidber (1996) 119 and Usher (1974) 10 n. 2, does not do justice to the strong political and spatial metaphors which characterize Dionysius’ text. The notion of an exemplar or ‘Vorbild’ implies that the other cities can choose whether to adopt filÏsofoc ˚htorik† or not, but this is clearly not what Dionysius has in mind. To him, re-installing filÏsofoc ˚htorik† is an act of exerting political power; thus Heldmann (1982) 128 n. 194 rightly explains the expression ‘she [Rome] forces every city to focus its entire attention upon her’ (pr‰c ·autòn Çnagkàzousa tÄc Ìlac pÏleic ÇpoblËpein, Usher’s transl. modified) as a ‘technical term for the domination of one state over others’ (‘terminus technicus für die Herrschaft eines Staates über andere Staaten’).

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spread of Roman power over the oikumene with the spread of Classical Greek culture. Dionysius’ Roman contemporaries are the representatives of politiko» lÏgoi and help the Greeks to re-establish the dominating position of Classical Greek values and rhetoric which they had had in Classical times. 268 Dionysius thus turns the limits of the Roman Empire into ‘symbolic boundaries.’ 269 Rather than political lines of demarcation of the Roman territory, they mark out the sphere of influence of Classicism. 270 What is beyond them is the ‘Other’ which, like the last remaining Asianist cities, must be thoroughly e-liminated. Modelling the struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric after the fight of the Greeks against the Persians in Classical times, Dionysius turns the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis into a pattern of historical interpretation. 271 He associates Greek superiority with the predominance of politiko» lÏgoi and Barbarian superiority with the predominance of Asianism. The style of a certain period is only the expression of the political and moral values which prevail in it. The alternating periods of Classical and Asianist rhetoric, on which the Classicist Three-period model is based, thus couch history into terms of the Greek fight against the Barbarians: in the Classical times, Greek morals and politics prevailed, until, after Alexander’s death, the Barbarians rushed in; in the present, the alliance between filÏsofoc ˚htorik† and power has been re-established. There is only one difference between the struggle against the Barbarians in Classical times and its renewal

268 Wallace-Hadrill (1989) 162 points out the geographical character of the ancient debate of classicism vs. Asianism: ‘I suspect we could get further if we shifted the focus of discussion away from “classicism,” and thought more about the moral values Augustus attaches to the West.’ Dionysius’ interest in space and his attempt to ‘semanticize’ Roman political space fits into the construction of an ‘imaginary geography’ that is characteristic of the intellectual culture and political discourse in Dionysius’ times, see Nicolet (1991); Clarke (1999). On the conception of oikumene in Greek and Roman literature in Augustan times and beyond see the volume edited by Aigner Foresti/Barzanò/Bearzot et al. (1998), esp. the contributions of Schepens, Martin (on ‘œcuménisme’ in Dionysius’ Antiquitates), and Cresci Marrone. 269 Cf. Luhmann’s (1971) 73 notion of ‘Sinngrenzen.’ 270 Similarly, Philo, Leg. ad Gaium 147, praises Caesar for ‘extending the boundaries of Hellenism’ (cited in Momigliano [1975] 8). Cf. Clarke (1999) 321, commenting on Dionysius’ use of Greek chronology in his Roman Antiquities: ‘The assimilation of Roman history to the Greek past, and particularly to the events of the Homeric epics, was a major preoccupation of the writers on early Rome […].’ 271 Dionysius’ model of history can thus be seen as yet another instance of ‘Orientalism,’ as explored in Edward Saïd’s influential study Orientalism (New York 1978).

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after Alexander’s death: the controversy between Classicists and Asianists is not a physical fight. It is a fight between two different models of identity and the concomitant moral and political values which are symbolized by two different styles of rhetoric; but this makes it no less a fight for political power, at least for Dionysius. The association of rhetoric and political power explains Dionysius’ much criticized preference of Alexander’s to Demosthenes’ death as the end of the Classical period: Alexander’s military campaigns in the fourth century were regarded as the continuation of the successful fight against the Persians from the fifth century and of the political superiority established by the Athenians after the Persian Wars. 272 In Dionysius’ eyes, Alexander’s empire represents the climax of the superiority of Greek politics and morality in Classical times. Dionysius’ characterisation of Asianism reflects the historical changes of the power structure after Alexander’s death and re-interprets them as the result of Barbarian influences. Alexander’s empire fell apart and was split up into the rival realms of the Diadochs. Now Greek power was distributed among several rulers, who used it not to fight the Barbarians but to fight each other. The idea of Greeks fighting each other and thus causing the loss of their superiority is incompatible with Dionysius’ image of the Greeks which is based on the binary opposition of ‘the Greek’ vs ‘the Barbarian Other.’ Therefore he suggested a different explanation for the demise of Greek political influence after Alexander: the usurpation, and corruption, of Greek power by Asianism. The same association of rhetoric and power also permitted Dionysius to define Augustus and the Romans’ relation to the Classical Greek past. Dionysius draws a parallel between Alexander and Augustus. Alexander’s death marks the end, and Augustus’ principate the beginning of a period of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. The political and spatial dimension with which Dionysius endows the struggle between Classical rhetoric and Asianism strengthens this parallel: the alliance of the spread of Roman power and the expansion of Classical Greek culture over the o koumËnh evokes Alexander’s military campaigns against the Persians. The Asianist interlude, by contrast, appears as the reversal of Alexander’s successful campaigns: in the time between Alexander’s death and Augustus’ principate the struggle between Greeks and Barbarians broke out again and is now ended by Augustus and the Romans. The expansion of Roman power under Augustus is thus implicitly defined as the re-enactment of Alexander’s fight against the Per272 Cf., e.g., DS 17.4.9.

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sians: 273 Augustus and his principate are the successors to Alexander and his empire. Dionysius thus re-interprets the crucial event in contemporary Roman history, Augustus’ principate, as a turning point in the prolonged, Greek struggle against the Barbarians.

2.3.2 Dionysius’ Interpretation of the Roman Present in Context In order to appreciate fully the implications of Dionysius’ interpretation of the Augustan principate, we have to read it against alternative contemporary models of history and how these defined the relationship of Greeks and Romans. Such a comparison shows that it was not unusual to employ Alexander or the Hellene-Persian antithesis to define Roman power and its relationship with the Greek past; but it also reveals the distinctive feature of Dionysius’ interpretation: the role of the Barbarian Other which has usurped a position to which only the Greeks are entitled is usually attributed to the Romans. The following passage from Livy, for example, sums up, as Alonso-Núñez has argued, how the Greek intellectual opposition against Roman rule saw the Romans. 274 Far from being the heirs to Alexander’s empire, the Romans are described as Alexander’s opponents whom he would easily defeat if he were still alive (9.18.6): 275 Id vero periculum erat, quod levissimi ex Graecis qui Parthorum quoque contra nomen Romanorum gloriae favent dictitare solent, ne maiestatem nominis Alexandri, quem ne fama quidem illis notum arbitror fuisse, sustinere non potuerit populus Romanus. But there was forsooth the danger – as the silliest of the Greeks, who exalt the reputation even of the Parthians against the Romans, are fond of alleging –

273 Clarke (1999) 307–312 considers the importance of Alexander’s campaigns as a model for the interpretation of the Roman conquests, esp. 312: ‘[…] the new, extended geographical horizons of the first century BC and the attendant re-evaluation of the world would inevitably be formulated, at least in part, against the backdrop of previous periods of such expansions.’ 274 Alonso-Núñez (1982) 132. 275 In Pompeius Trogus, epit. 41.1, the Parthians figure as successors of the Persians. This sets the opposition between Romans and Parthians into the tradition of the Persian Wars. This interpretation is probably due to an influence of Timagenes’ per» basilËwn on Trogus’ historical work: see Matthews Sanford (1937) 440–441; Alonso-Núñez (1982) 134–135; on Timagenes see the discussion below.

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that the Roman People would have been unable to withstand the majesty of Alexander’s name, though I think that they had not so much as heard of him. 276

A similar view is expressed by ‘some’ authors whom Dionysius attacks in the preface to his Antiquitates and whose erroneous assumptions his work is meant to refute (1.4.2). 277 In their opinion, Rome does not deserve treatment in historical works, because [
dikaios‘nhn ka» tòn ällhn Çretòn ‚p» tòn Åpàntwn ôgemon–an sÃn qrÏn˙ pareljo‘shc, ÇllÄ di+aŒtomatismÏn tina ka» t‘qhn ädikon e k® dwroumËnhn tÄ mËgista t¿n Çgaj¿n toÿc Çnepithdeiotàtoic; ka» o… kakohjËsteroi kathgoreÿn e ∏jasi t®c t‘qhc katÄ t‰ faner‰n ±c barbàrwn toÿc ponhrotàtoic tÄ t¿n <Ell†nwn porizomËnhc Çgajà. professing openly that various vagabonds without house or home and barbarians, and even those not free men, were her founders, she in the course of time arrived at world domination, and this not through reverence for the gods and justice and every other virtue, but through some chance and the injustice of fortune, which inconsiderately showers her greatest favours upon the most undeserving. And indeed the more malicious are wont to rail openly at Fortune for freely bestowing on the basest of barbarians the blessings of the Greeks. 278

Such an image of the Romans is entirely at odds with Dionysius’ definition of the Romans as representatives of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† and the Classical virtues and values which are bound up with it. This passage shows that many Greeks regarded the Romans as Barbarians who had deprived the Greeks of their rightful rule over the oikumene. 279 This point of view was probably not very far from that of historians like Metrodorus of Skepsis (FGrH II B 184) or Timagenes of Alexandria (FGrH II A 88).280 Metrodorus, a fol-

276 Bowie (forthcoming) suggests that Potamon of Mytilene might be one of the Greeks criticised by Pliny in this passage for their exaggerated claims about Alexander. 277 See the discussion of this passage in ch. 3.3.1 below, esp. pp. 184–188. 278 Cary’s transl. modified (Cary reads eÕromËnhc, an emendation by Sauppe, instead of the transmitted eŒqomËnhc). 279 Cf. Champion (2000). 280 Martin (1969) 202 mentions further Hieronymus of Cardia, Timaeus, and historians of Hannibal, such as Silenus.

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lower of Mithridates and historian at his court,281 was known as a ‘hater of the Romans,’282 and Timagenes’ hatred of the Romans was no less notorious. 283 The Romans figured as Barbarians also in pieces of pro-Mithridatic historiography and some Sibylline prophecies which were probably still in circulation in Dionysius’ times. 284 They prophesized that a saviour (supposedly Mithridates himself) would rise from Asia, stand up for Greek culture and power and put Roman domination to an abrupt and violent end. In these works the Romans were not representatives of Classical culture, let alone partners in the fight against the Barbarians: they were the Barbarian enemy to be fought. But Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans also raised objections from another side. It was a commonplace belief among upper-class Romans, at least in the first century BCE, that their Greek contemporaries could not compete with their classical ancestors. In his speech Pro Flacco, Cicero distinguishes between Greece proper, mainly represented by classical Athens (Flacc. 26.62) and Sparta (ibid. 26.63), and the Greeks from Asia Minor of his times, who are characterized by levity (levitas), fickleness (inconstantia), and cupidity (cupiditas) (ibid. 27.66). 285 In the first letter to his brother Quintus (ad Qu. fr. 1.1.27), Cicero praises Greece as the cradle of humanitas; 281 FGrH II B 184 T 2 (Strb. 13.1.55); cf. Fromentin (1998) XXIX–XXX; other historiographers at Mithridates’ court were, e.g., Herakleides of Magnesia, Teukros of Cyzicus, and Hypsikrates of Amisus, see Rizzo (1980) 187. 282 FGrH II B 184 T 6a: ‘Metrodorus of Skepsis whose epithet derives from his hatred of the Romans’ (Metrodorus Scepsius, cui cognomen a Romani nominis odio inditum est, Plin. nat. 34.34; transl. mine); cf. F 12. 283 Timagenes was brought to Rome by Pompey as a prisoner of war in 55 BCE, see FGrH II A 88 T 1 (Suda, s.v. TimagËnhc). The elder Seneca says about him: ‘Timagenes, who was hostile to Rome’s prosperity, said that fires in Rome caused him pain for the only reason that he knew that what rose from the ashes was going to be even better than what had burnt down’ (Timagenes felicitati urbis inimicus aiebat Romae sibi incendia ob hoc unum dolori esse, quod sciret meliora surrectura quam arsissent, FGrH II A 88 T 8 [Sen. ep. 91.13]; transl. mine); cf. Fromentin (1998) XXX–XXXI; Alonso-Núñez (1982) 132–135. 284 Gabba (1982) 51–52; on opposition to Roman rule in historical writing see the balanced overview in Gabba (1974), esp. 634–635 (on the third Sibylline Oracle) and 641 (on Mithridatic historiography); on Mithridatic historiography and propaganda in general see Rizzo (1980), esp. 185 (on ‘filoromanismo’ and ‘filoorientalismo’ as the main elements of Mithridatic propaganda) and 195 (on the third Sibylline Oracle, ‘the most reckless expression of Asiatic hostility at the times of Mithridates,’ ‘la più spregiudicata espressione dell’animosità asiatica al tempo di Mitridate’); Alonso-Núñez (1982); Matthews Sanford (1937). 285 See the discussion of these passages in Syme (1963) 570.

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nevertheless, he had warned Quintus only a few paragraphs earlier not to socialize with the inhabitants of his provinces since only very few of them were worthy of the Greece of old (vetere Graecia, 1.1.15–16).286 Cicero’s position is summed up by Woolf as follows: the ‘Greeks may have invented civilization, but now they have lost it’ 287; their place, it is implied, has now been taken over by the Romans with their ancestral virtutes, which make them superior to any other people.288 In contrast to the point of view expressed in these passages, Dionysius does not define Roman power and Greek culture as opposites; on the contrary, he regards them as complementing each other. Romans and Greeks are united by Classical Greek paide–a and the opposition against the Barbarian Other. Basing his interpretation of history on the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis, Dionysius assigns the Romans a role in history analogous to that of the Classical Greeks. The combination of moral values and political power in Classical times, which had been disjointed by the invasion of Asianism, is now re-established, and filÏsofoc ˚htorik† has become the language of the ruling elite again. 289 Augustan present and Classical past are thus set into a relation of mutual dependence: Roman power in the present derives its legitimacy from being the representative of the virtues and values which had been constitutive of Greek superiority in the Classical times. The Classical Greek period, in turn, is invested with an importance for the present which is greater than that of any other period in history. Classical Greek rhetoric and culture are now also a Roman tradition. 286 287 288 289

Cf. ibid.; Woolf (1994) 119. Woolf (1994) 120 with further examples of this view held by Roman authors ibid. 120–121. Cf. Cic. Tusc. 1.2 (discussed on pp. 182–183 below). I have discussed the relationship between language and power in Dionysius’ ideology at greater length in Wiater (2008). The connection between Classical rhetoric and Roman power is rightly stressed by Gabba (1982) 48–49, but his discussion focuses somewhat one-sidedly on the role of classicism for the upper classes of Greek cities. It is to them, Gabba holds, that the Roman elite ‘serve as a model’ so that they ‘acquire power, while the uneducated part (the masses who had been easily swayed by the Asian eloquence) is constrained to submit’ (48). Gabba takes Dionysius’ description of a century-long struggle between Classicism and Asianism literally. This creates insoluble problems of chronology, for example, the question of when precisely ‘domination of Asian eloquence’ was ‘most intense’ (46). By contrast, as I shall argue below, the division of the past into a Classical and an Asianist period should not be regarded as a factual description but as a model of historical understanding; from this point of view, it is not surprising that the main epochs cannot be subdivided further into different stages with precise dates: there were none.

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Augustan Rome as the heir of Classical Greece and the Romans as partners in the fight against the Barbarians – would such a world view be plausible to Dionysius’ readers? Several factors suggest that it would. First of all, it is a commonplace in Classical rhetoric to use the Barbarian Other as a contrastive foil to highlight the features which all members of the audience had in common. Above all, this device, which aimed at motivating the audience to prefer unity, ÂmÏnoia, against the common enemy over quarrels and differences among each other, was a leitmotif in the speeches of Isocrates himself whom, as shown above, Dionysius regarded as the embodiment of Classical Athenian identity. 290 Dionysius’ recipients were not only familiar with Classical literature, but many of them venerated it as the climax of literary production. It is quite likely, therefore, that Dionysius’ definition of Romans and Greeks as united against the threat from the Barbarian Other appealed to his readers. Dionysius’ use of the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis differs from its use in Classical rhetoric in that Dionysius argues for unity not among rivalling Greek city states, but among Greeks and Romans. 291 But Dionysius had a solution to this problem too: his Antiquitates proves that the Romans had Greek origins and that they had adopted a Greek way of life ever since the foundation of Rome.292 More important, Dionysius could draw on some of the main currents of the political and cultural discourse in Late Republican and Early Imperial Rome to support his interpretation of the present. 293 As for the comparison of Augustus and Alexander, Alexander was an accepted paradigm for Augustus’ reign also among Roman intellectuals. Cicero, for example,

290 See ch. 2.2.1 above, esp. p. 73 with n. 213 (on ÂmÏnoia). 291 Pace Gabba (1982) 50, who views Classical paide–a as ‘a fundamental instrument for the formation of a unified consciousness among the upper classes in the Greek cities’ (emphasis mine) (but cf. ibid. 53). A common idea of the classical past and a paide–a that was shared by all Greeks, no matter where and when they lived, was an important factor in the creation of a feeling of community among members of the Greek upper class all over the Mediterranean. But Dionysius’ main concern in Orat. Vett. is the Classical Greek past as the unifying element between Greeks and Romans. 292 See ch. 3.3 below. 293 On similarities between Dionysius’ Classicism and Augustus’ classicistic programme in art and architecture see Zanker (2003), esp. 240–241. Zanker points out that in contrast to late Hellenistic classicism, in Augustan times classicism was turned into a ‘symbolical manifestation of moral renewal’ (‘symbolisch[e] Manifestation der moralischen Erneuerung,’ 241; cf. ibid.: ‘Formensprache der “apollinischen Kultur” ’); cf. v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 45–46, 50.

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compared the future Augustus with Alexander in his Philippic Speeches (Phil. 3.14; 5.28, 44, 48; 13.25). 294 But also Augustus himself was keen on drawing parallels between himself and the Macedonian: his visit to Alexander’s tomb in Alexandria was a programmatical claim to the Alexandrian heritage, 295 and he set the Roman fight against the Parthians and the revenge for the defeat at Carrhae into the tradition of Alexander’s campaigns against the Persians. He also associated himself with Alexander the Great in his fight against Marc Antony and Cleopatra 296 and explicitly compared his victory over Marc Antony at Actium with the Greek victory over the Persians at Salamis. 297 Moreover, Augustus programmatically adopted classical Greek art and classicizing, Attic rhetoric as symbols of the new morality and integrity his principate was meant to introduce; his opponents Marc Antony and Cleopatra, by contrast, were slandered as representatives of both Asianist lÏgoi and b–oc.298 It should also be kept in mind that upper-class Romans, under the Republic as well as the principate, valued Greek education highly.299 There is no need to go so far as to assume an ‘inferiority complex’ which the Romans desperately tried to overcome by seeming as Greek as possible; to ‘seek admission to the magic circle’ of Greek culture was surely not ‘all that a Roman could do.’300 Quite to the contrary, the Romans were as keen to distinguish themselves from Greek culture as they were to adopt elements of it. 301 Nevertheless, Greek was the language of advanced education and therefore was indispensable to any kind of career in Rome; from this point of view, it was indeed the language of the Roman elite. 302 Greek intellectuals were well aware of the symbolic value of the education they offered, and they knew that this commodity could be converted into concrete material advantages:303 Archias’ poetry gained him Roman citizenship from the 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303

Kienast (1999) 32. Ibid. 74. Ibid. 461, 463. For evidence see Spawforth (1994); Hölscher (1984). Cf. Suet. Aug. 86.2; see Zanker (2003); cf. Gelsomino (1958) on the influence of Greek on Augustus’ language use. Cf., e.g., Crawford (1978) 203–204 (Pompeius) and 205 (Lucullus); Griffin (1997). Crawford (1978) 202. Cf. Wallace-Hadrill (1998), esp. 80: ‘for every example of Roman absorption you can produce a counter-example of Roman resistance and independence.’ Fantham (1996) 25–27, esp. 27. Crawford (1978) 205–206; Griffin (1997) 1–2. On the material and social benefits which Roman patrons were prepared to give to Greek authors in exchange for the cultural

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Luculli, and Cicero arranged the same for Cratippus in 46 BCE as a reward for the education of his son. 304 As far as the specific symbolic value of Greek rhetoric is concerned, we have the elder Seneca’s testimony that public declamation flourished in Augustan Rome. Show speeches, it has been suggested, compensated the loss of the real political influence of oratory in the Roman Republic. 305 Performances included speeches both in Greek and Latin, and particularly skilled speakers like Clodius Sabinus managed to give a Latin speech in the morning and a Greek one in the afternoon, and both were equally perfect. 306 Such demonstrations found a large audience in Augustan Rome which included the leaders of Roman public and cultural life: according to Seneca, it was not exceptional to see Maecenas, Agrippa, and even the princeps himself among the spectators. Rhetorical skills in Latin as well as Greek were objects of high prestige in Augustan Rome, and accomplished speakers could gain fame and admiration among the members of the highest strata of Roman society. These characteristics of the intellectual and political culture of Dionysius’ time laid the foundations for Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans and their role in history and made it easy for his readers to accept it. They could find parallels in contemporary intellectual and political culture for almost any of the cornerstones of the world view offered by Dionysius: the conception of Classical language as the carrier of an ethos which was the prerequisite to political superiority, the definition of the Roman present as the continuation of the Classical Greek past, and, finally, the association of Augustan power with Classical Greek moral and political values.

prestige they gained from being praised by them see now the articles by Bowie and Whitmarsh on the careers of Greek intellectuals from Asia Minor such as Crinagoras, Theophanes, and Polemo from Mytilene, and Borg on the way the Athenians of the first century BCE secured the Romans’ financial and political support by advertising in their material culture an image of the Greeks that conformed to that of upper-class Romans in Schmitz/Wiater (forthcoming). 304 On Archias see Reitzenstein (1895) 463; on Cratippus von Arnim (1922) 1659. 305 Fantham (1996) 91–93, here 93. 306 Ibid. 93.

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2.3.3 Greek or Roman? The Ambiguity of Dionysius’ View of Augustan Rome In his 1903 PW-article, Schwartz blamed Dionysius for ‘having sniffed out’ the classicizing slant to Augustus’ political programme and having uncritically adapted key ideas of it for his Classicism. 307 The above discussion suggests a different view. Like many of his Greek as well as Roman contemporaries, Dionysius was concerned with explaining the relationship between the Romans and the Greeks, the Classical past and the Augustan present. 308 The world view he offered allowed his Greek readers to conciliate their Greek heritage with the Augustan present. It did not force them to declare themselves as either Greek or Roman, because it conceived of both categories as complementary. Dionysius invited them to view the preservation of the Classical heritage and the composition of texts in the Classical manner as an active contribution to and participation in Roman power. The close similarities between Dionysius’ system of thought and contemporary tendencies invested this claim with credibility. As did the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis: it provided a conceptual framework for Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans which was familiar to his readers from their study of Classical literature. Not every Greek reader would have liked Dionysius’ positive interpretation of Rome; on the contrary, as mentioned above, many Greeks preferred to view the Romans as the Other and as a threat to the Greeks. Nevertheless, the decisive advantage of Dionysius’ interpretation was that it permitted Greek readers to integrate the Romans into history without any loss of prestige to the Greek Classical heritage. Matters become somewhat more complex with potential Roman readers. Members of the ‘literary circle’ like Tubero, Ammaeus, and Metilius Rufus probably shared Dionysius’ enthusiasm and veneration for the Classical Greek past. Dionysius’ idea, that Roman power was the representative of Classical Greek culture, might have appealed to them. But, as mentioned above, many Romans felt uneasy about the overwhelming influence 307 Schwartz (1903) 934; the German term ‘auswittern,’ translated here as ‘to sniff out,’ evokes the image of a dog following the traces of an animal just as Dionysius slavishly followed the tendencies of the Augustan principate. 308 Dionysius’ Classicism therefore belongs in the broader context of the ‘Hellenization’ of the Romans to which many excellent studies have been dedicated in the last two decades or so; see, e.g., Rawson (1985) with the remarks of Wallace-Hadrill (1988); id. (1989), (1990), and (1998); MacMullen (1991); Momigliano (1975); Gruen (1992); Hölkeskamp (1999); Vogt-Spira (1996); id. (1999); id./Rommel (1999).

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of the Greeks upon their culture, and we can imagine that their reception of Dionysius’ interpretation of history would be less favourable: after all, he reduces the historical relevance of Roman political superiority to its being the continuation of the Classical Greek past. The similarities between Dionysius’ Classicism and Augustus’ political programme only superficially conceal the principal difference in emphasis between Dionysius’ approach to Roman power and a Roman point of view: in the Augustan programme, the Greek is subservient to the Roman, whereas in Dionysius’ Classicism, the Roman is subservient to the Greek. 309 This difference comes to the fore most prominently in Dionysius’ claim that filÏsofoc ˚htorik† is the language of Roman power. This is in outright contradiction to the assertion of some Romans that only Latin should be used in official contexts, whereas the use of Greek should strictly be confined to spare time and private space. 310 The use of Latin was meant to demonstrate to the Roman subjects that the exertion of power was an exclusively Roman domain which must be kept free from Greek influences. To these Romans the choice of language was clearly ‘an implicit part of a power struggle.’ 311 Valerius Maximus, for example, reports that (2.2.2): magistratus vero prisci quantopere sui populique Romani maiestatem retinentes se gesserint hinc cognosci potest, quod inter cetera obtinendae gravitatis indicia illud quoque magna cum perseverantia custodiebant, ne Graecis unquam nisi Latine responsa darent. quin etiam ipsos linguae volubilitate, qua plurima valent, excussa per interpretem loqui cogebant non in urbe tantum nostra, sed etiam in Graecia et Asia, quo scilicet Latinae vocis honos per omnes gentes venerabilior diffunderetur. nec illis deerant studia doctrinae, sed nulla in re pallium togae subici debere arbitrabantur, indignum esse existimantes inlecebris et suavitati litterarum imperii pondus et auctoritatem donari. How carefully the magistrates of old regulated their conduct to keep intact the majesty of the Roman people and their own can be seen from the fact that 309 The ambiguity of Dionysius’ Classicism thus reflects an ambiguity which was characteristic of Augustan culture: ‘culture does not respond to the food-blender: you cannot throw in chunks of Greek and Roman, press a button, and come out at the end with a homogeneous suspension of bland pap. […] The tensions and conflicts between Greek and Roman are not the same as they had been under the late Republic; but they are there’ (Wallace-Hadrill [1989] 164); cf. Momigliano (1975) 12–13. 310 See Wallace-Hadrill (1998). 311 Ibid. 80.

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among other indications of their duty to preserve dignity they steadfastly kept to the rule never to make replies to Greeks except in Latin. Indeed, they obliged the Greeks themselves to discard the volubility which is their greatest asset and speak through an interpreter, not only in Rome but in Greece and Asia also, intending no doubt that the dignity of Latin speech be the more widely venerated throughout all nations. Not that they were deficient in attention to polite studies, but they held that in all matters whatsoever the Greek cloak should be subordinate to the Roman gown, thinking it unmeet that the weight and authority of empire be sacrificed to the seductive charm of letters.

Latin is not only the symbol of Roman maiestas, but is also used as an instrument to suppress others, especially the culturally superior Greeks, and speaking Greek would imply an acknowledgment of Roman inferiority (nulla in re pallium togae subici debere arbitrabantur). In a similar vein, Metellus blamed Cicero for addressing the senate of Syracuse in Greek, calling this an indignum facinus (Cic. Verr. 5.147). This evidence does not justify the assumption that the point of view expressed in these passages was ‘an accepted convention.’ Nevertheless it cannot be doubted ‘that some Romans felt strongly enough to try to impose such a convention.’ 312 This assumption is not contradicted even by examples of Romans using Greek in an official context, such as Flamininus, who had declared the freedom of Greece (most likely) in Greek (cf. Plut. Flam. 10), or Aemilius Paulus, who negotiated with Perseus in his native language (Livy 45.8). 313 For neither of these examples is free from ambiguity. These Roman officials used Greek less out of respect or veneration for the Greeks, but as an instrument of domination: an efficient system of communication is a prerogative for any stable form of control,314 and the Romans’ ability to speak Greek was an essential element of the establishment and maintenance of their domination abroad.315 What mattered was the element of choice. The Romans could speak Greek as a favour to their subjects when they wanted, but they did not have to. Their subjects, by contrast, did not have the same liberty to choose: forced to speak Latin, they were forced to acknowledge Roman rule.316 Wallace-Hadrill even argued that it was this ability to switch between

312 313 314 315 316

Ibid. 83. These and further examples in Wallace-Hadrill (1998) 80–81. Wallace-Hadrill (1998) 81. Momigliano (1975) 38, quoted also in Wallace-Hadrill (1998) 81. See esp. ibid. 83–86.

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Greek and Latin in the appropriate context which defined the Romans as the successful rulers of the world.317 Reading Dionysius’ ideology against this background reveals the ambiguity inherent in his definition of the relation between filÏsofoc ˚htorik† and Roman power. It permitted his Greek readers to combine their Classical tradition with a sense of being part of contemporary Roman power. But Dionysius’ Roman recipients were not conceded such an option: ‘the Roman’ does not play a role on its own for Dionysius but has value only as an expression of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. It is not hard to imagine that not a few Roman readers would have had difficulties with accepting this view. This warns us of adopting Schwartz’ point of view: Dionysius’ Classicism is not an uncritical adoption of tendencies in contemporary Roman politicocultural discourse with the sole aim of flattering the Romans at the expense of Greek cultural identity. On the contrary, Dionysius’ Classicism re-asserts the importance of the Greek Classical past for contemporary Roman power. Dionysius does not attempt to bring Greek tradition into favour with the Roman rulers; quite to the contrary, he re-claims for the Greek those spheres of life which the Romans either tried to keep free from Greek influences or in which they instrumentalized the Greek for the exertion of their power. Classicism is a model of Greek cultural identity.

2.3.4 Coda: How Historical is Dionysius’ Model of History? The preceding discussion has shown that Dionysius’ interpretation of the present is firmly rooted in the intellectual and cultural discourse of his times. Dionysius’ Classicist model of history addresses and proposes solutions to subjects which presented a major concern to Greek as well as Roman intellectuals in Rome in the first century BCE, most prominently the relationship between Romans and Greeks in general and between Greek culture and Roman power in particular. Dionysius avails himself of the classicizing tendency of Augustus’ self-image and combines it with the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis which provides him with a framework for his interpretation of past and present which is itself of Classical provenance. The Hellene-Barbarian antithesis is itself not a historical reality but a scheme employed by Classical authors to define the relationship between Greeks and Barbarians 317 Ibid. 87–91, esp. 87 (separation of public and private spheres), 91 (the Roman defined by switching codes).

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after the Persian Wars. Dionysius turns this scheme into a functional part of his Classicist world view and employs it to explain the relationship of Greeks and Romans. This prompts a few questions concerning the historicity of the struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric, which will be addressed on the following pages, which will conclude this section. There is no doubt that rhetorical style changes over the centuries. A comparison between the style of Lysias, Isocrates, and Demosthenes, paradigms of Classical oratory, and that of Hegesias of Magnesia, allegedly the primary example of Asianism, 318 would bring differences to the fore. But the decisive questions are: (a) whether the differences between the individual representatives of the Classical style are small enough, and their similiarities to each other significant enough, to conceive of them as a distinct group; and (b) whether the differences between, say, Lysias and Isocrates are smaller than the differences between Hegesias and either of them. 319 Only if the answer to each of these questions is positive, is Dionysius’ assumption of a radical break in style and mentality after Alexander’s death justified.320 318 See Comp. 4.11; 18.22; Cic. orat. 230 (quoted in Usher [1985] 41 n. 1, his reference ibid. to orat. 69 is erroneous); Strabo 14.1.41, 648C, 6–8 R. 319 There is good reason to believe that a sudden break with classical language and style, such as Dionysius claims was brought about by ‘Asianism’ after Alexander, never occurred. What Dionysius defined (post festum) as ‘Asianist’ style can, in fact, be shown to continue the style of the classical authors in many respects, and authors whom Dionysius labelled ‘Asianists’ regarded themselves as the heirs of their classical predecessors, see Wooten (1975) 97–102 and the discussion below. 320 Dionysius never explains why Hegesias’ style reveals him as ‘bedevilled and mentally deranged’ (jeoblàbeia ka» diafjorÄ t¿n fren¿n, Comp. 18.22) or what qualifies his arrangement of words as so ‘precious, degenerate, effeminate’ (mikrÏkomyon, ÇgennËc, maljakÏn, ibid. 4.11) that it ‘could be adopted only by women or emasculated men, and not seriously even by them, but in a spirit of mockery and ridicule’ (Õp‰ gunaik¿n £ kateagÏtwn Çnjr∏pwn lËgoit+ãn ka» oŒd‡ to‘twn metÄ spoud®c, Çll+‚p» qleuasmƒ ka» katagËlwti, ibid. 18.28). The only reason, it seems, is that they are his. To a certain degree Dionysius bases his judgment on a metrical analysis, and he detects ‘effeminate’ or ‘degenerate’ rhythms in Hegesias’ prose; but first, whether one foot is ‘mean,’ ‘lacking both dignity and nobility’ (tapeinÏc te ka» äsemnÏc ‚sti, ka» oŒd‡n ãn ‚x aŒto‹ gËnoito gennaÿon, ibid. 17.7), like the choree, or ‘has great dignity and much solemnity’ (Çx–wma d‡ Íqei mËga ka» semnÏthta poll†n, ibid. 17.4), like the spondee, are criteria as subjective and unfounded as Lysias’ alleged ‘charm’ (qàric, Lys. 10, see below), which distinguishes him as a Classical author (Pritchett [1975] xxi n. 1 speaks of ‘impressionism’ and ‘undefinable qàric’); second, as a passage like Comp. 18.11 shows, which rhythm Dionysius identified in a text depended less on the actual rhythmic structure of a passage than on Dionysius’ preconceptions: ‘I should certainly not think it right to scan this clause as an iambic metre, considering that not running, swift

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Several aspects of Dionysius’ account of the struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric suggest that we are dealing with a construction rather than with a description of an existing phenomenon. Problems arise already with Dionysius’ conception of the Classical. Dionysius presupposes that the Classical style is an abstract principle the elements of which have to be extrapolated from the works of the Classical authors. This is the aim of his essays: they point out those features which are, and those which are not, Classical. 321 This leads to the paradoxical conclusion that not even the Classical authors themselves are purely Classical. The Classical thus turns out to be a preconception which Dionysius projects upon the Classical texts, rather than a given which he extrapolates from them.322 His essays do not describe the Classical, they construct it. The discussion of On Isocrates or Dionysius’ judgment on Hegesias show that the criteria upon which Dionysius’ conception of the Classical is based are moral or political.323 ‘Classical’ are all those aesthetic features of a text which Dionysius regards as conforming to this moral-cum-political image of the past. This explains why Dionysius so often resorts to vague concepts like Lysias’ charm (qàric, Lys. 10), Dinarchus’ ‘heterogeneity’ (see above), and movements, but slow and measured times are appropriate as a tribute to those for whom we mourn’ (oŒ gÄr dò ±c  ambik‰n Çxi∏saim+ãn Ígwge t‰ k¿lon to‹to ˚ujm–zein,

‚njumo‘menoc Ìti oŒk ‚pitroqàlouc ka» taqeÿc Çll+ÇnabeblhmËnouc ka» bradeÿc toÿc o ktizomËnoic pros®ken Çpod–dosjai toÃc qrÏnouc); similarly, Usher (1985) 137 n. 1. Depending on where Dionysius chose to divide the syllables into rhythms, he could measure the same passage in several different feet. Therefore it is not surprising that Hegesias’ texts abound with ‘effeminate’ and ‘degenerate’ feet. For a discussion of Hegesias’ style see Calboli (1987) 34–40. See also my discussion of On Composition as a normative aesthetics of Classical texts below, ch. 4.2.4; cf. Vaahtera (1997), who critically reexamines Dionysius’ analysis of combinations of semivowels and consonants at word boundaries. He concludes that the results of Dionysius’ analyses are often not supported by the textual evidence. v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 24–29 has some good remarks on the subjectivity of the aesthetic categories of ‘Asianism’ and ‘Atticism’ alike. 321 Orat. Vett. 4.2: ‘what characteristic of each of them [the Classical authors] should we imitate, and which should we avoid?’ (t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai). 322 Cf. already Gelzer (1975) 166–167: ‘it is not classicism which is the consequence of the classical […], as chronology suggests; on the contrary, classicism is the precondition for the notion of the classical’ (‘nicht der Klassizismus [ist] eine Folgeerscheinung der Klassik […], wie das der rein zeitlichen Reihenfolge nach scheinen könnte, sondern […] im Gegenteil der Klassizismus die Voraussetzung für die Vorstellung von einer Klassik […]’); Weitman (1989), esp. 180–181. 323 On Dionysius’ judgment on Hegesias see above n. 320.

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the notorious älogoc a“sjhsic, when explaining the stylistic qualities of a text. 324 These imprecise notions permit Dionysius to circumvent any clear-cut definition of the Classical in terms of a list of concrete features. Instead, the readers/critics are referred to their intuition and their emotional response to the text when determining whether a text is genuinely Classical and written by, say, Lysias, or pseudo-Classical and written by Dinarchus (Din. 7.1–2): [Â boulÏmenoc poieÿsjai tòn diàgnwsin] […] ‚Än m‡n Çret†n te ka» qàrin toÿc lÏgoic ‚panjo‹san “d˘ ka» tòn t¿n Ênomàtwn ‚klogòn ‚no‹san ka» t‰ mhd‡n äyuqon e⁄nai t¿n legomËnwn, jarr¿n legËtw to‘touc Lus–ou. ‚Än d‡ m†te 〈t‰〉 qar–en Ìmoion eÕr–sk˘ m†te t‰ pijan‰n ka» t‰ t¿n Ênomàtwn Çkrib‡c m†te 〈t‰〉 t®c Çlhje–ac ÅptÏmenon, ‚n toÿc Deinàrqou lÏgoic aŒtoÃc ‚àtw. If [anyone who wishes to decide between the two authors] […] sees that the speeches are adorned with excellence and charm, and contain his careful choice of words and no lack of animation in what is said, let him confidently assert that these are by Lysias. But if he finds no such qualities of charm or persuasiveness or precision of language or close adherence to reality, let him leave them among the speeches of Dinarchus.

What is recognized as Classical or not does not depend on any characteristics intrinsic to the texts in question, but is a quality of the readers’ experience of the texts. The Classical is a short-hand for the ‘set of attitudes’ and feelings ‘about the world’ 325 which define the Classicist, but not a particular text or group of texts. Moreover, there is no reason to assume that the existence of classicism has always necessarily presupposed the existence of any Asianist counterpart. As was mentioned above, a classicist attitude towards the texts of the Athenian orators of the fifth and fourth centuries BCE can be traced back at least as far as the third century. The same, however, cannot be said of Asianism;326 on the contrary, there is evidence that the very man whom

324 óAlogoc a“sjhsic is particularly problematic. Dionysius’ use of this notion has been thoroughly studied by Schenkeveld (1975) and Damon (1991) and need not be treated in detail here, but cf. my remarks below, pp. 345–346. 325 Porter (2006b) 307. 326 The term Asiatici occurs first in Cicero’s On the Orator (de or. 3.43) in 55 BCE (Calboli [1997] 79), but there the term is used in a geographical sense only, see Wooten (1975) 94–95; v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 1. It is not before 46 BCE, at Brutus 51, that

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Dionysius presents as the primary example of Asianist rhetoric, Hegesias of Magnesia, regarded himself as an ‘imitator’ of Lysias.327 It is not before the first century BCE that an opposition between Attic and Asianist style seems to have appeared and at first the terms were used to describe alternative conceptions of Latin and Greek oratory, possibly different styles of declamations.328 As far as we can judge, it is only with Dionysius that they are employed for two diametrically opposite conceptions of identity in which language, style, and aesthetics are inextricably bound up with political and moral values and a model of past and present. Hence we should be wary of taking Dionysius’ account of a centurieslong struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric at face value. The controversy between Classical rhetoric and Asianism is imposed on, rather than ‘found’ or ‘discovered’ in the texts so as to construct a framework for the spectator’s interpretation of his own times. 329 The Classicist Three-

the term is used to denote a style of oratory, see Calboli (1987) 42; cf. Hidber (1996) 35–36; v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 7. From the evidence for ‘Asianist’ orators such as Craton (contr. 10.5.21, quoted above n. 127) in Seneca the Elder Luzzatto (1988) 238 concludes that there was not one uniform ‘Asianist school’ but ‘different schools led by famous orators who now migrated from the Orient to Rome’ (‘scuole, costituitesi al seguito di retori di prestigio che dall’ Oriente convergevano ora verso Roma’). In Seneca the Elder, she argues ibid., asianus is a positive and generally acknowledged term denoting ‘a specific style of declamation’ (‘l’etichetta di “asiano” […] individu[a] in positivo, e in modo condiviso dai diretti interessati, uno specifico stile declamatorio’). 327 Orat. 226; see the discussion above, p. 15, with n. 54 and the titles cited there; cf. v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 30; Wooten (1975) 95. 328 This is an important difference between Roman Atticism and Dionysius’ Classicism the importance of which has not always been sufficiently acknowledged: in stark contrast to Dionysius, Cicero presents the ‘Asiatic style’ (genus Asiaticae dictionis, Brut. 325) as a way of speaking alternative to, albeit less elegant than, its Atticist counterpart, see esp. Brut. 51: ‘[…] the Asiatic orators, who are not to be despised for their speed and their abundant style, but their expression is not restrained enough and too exuberant’ ([…] Asiatici oratores non contemnendi quidem nec celeritate nec copia, sed parum pressi et nimis redundantes, transl. mine; cf. Brut. 315; a more negative judgment is passed on the ‘Asian style’ at Orat. 24–27), see the important remarks in v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 1–3; similarly, Luzzatto (1988) 231 speaks of ‘different fashions of style’ (‘una varietà di mode stilistiche’). How Roman Atticism and Greek classicism are related is a much debated, and maybe insoluble, question which need not concern us here; see, e.g., Norden (1909); Dihle (1977); Gelzer (1975) and (1979); Bowersock (1979); Flashar (1979a); Wisse (1995); Hidber (1996) 30–37. I hope to address this subject in a separate study. 329 See ch. 3.1 below for a more detailed discussion of these points; cf. Kellner (1982), esp. 135.

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period model is a form of ‘emplotment’ 330 which employs categories of language and style as tools of historical explanation. It belongs in one category with Hesiod’s myth of the Five Races and various other conceptions of (the return of) the Golden Age. 331 All of them are not descriptions of an actual historical development but forms of ‘historical imagination.’332 Because of their cultural universality, Reinhart Koselleck appropiately calls these schemes ‘transhistorical patterns of interpretations’ 333: Such periodizations pervade mythology as well as modern philosophies of history. Their main concern is the idea of origins and destinations; they continuously redefine our own position according to commonly postulated states of beginning and ending. […] They provide a grid to perceive similarities and provide constancy to allow predictions about the future.

This is not to deny that in Dionysius’ times there was a polemic about different styles of rhetoric: the lively debate among Dionysius and the other members of the literary circle is a historical fact, as is the controversy between Roman Atticists and Asianists some 15 years earlier, for which we have the testimony of Cicero and Seneca the Elder. 334 We have also seen that the opposition between East and West was a recurrent theme in the intellectual discourse in the Late Republic and principate, and the Hellene-Barbarian

330 On emplotment cf. White (1973), (1980), (1984), and the essays collected in id. (1985) and (1997). 331 The myth of the Golden Age played a particularly important role in Dionysius’ own times because it was an essential part of Augustus’ self-definition, see Zanker (2003) 171–196; cf. Gatz (1967) 72; Hidber (1996) comm. on 2.2 (pp. 113–114). The archetype of the various conceptions of the Golden Age is Hes. op. 106–201 (West [1978] on vv. 106–201, p. 177); the idea of a gradual decline from the Golden Age is still employed in modern models of periodization (Morrison [1999]; cf. Ax [1996]). 332 Rosenmeyer (1957), 267–268 (the quotation at 267); cf. Gatz (1967) 104–105; Koenen (1994), esp. 23–24; Fuhrmann (1983). 333 Koselleck (1989) 139: ‘Derartige Periodisierungen, die von der Mythologie bis in die modernen Geschichtsphilosophien hindurchgreifen, beschäftigen sich grundsätzlich mit Ursprungs- und Zielvorstellungen, sie bestimmen immer wieder die eigene Situation nach allgemein unterstellten Ausgangs- und Endlagen. […] Sie bieten ein Raster, um Vergleichbarkeit zu sehen, sie bieten Konstanten, um Prognosen zu ermöglichen.’ 334 See above, nn. 326, 328. Previously, scholars seem to have relied too much on Dionysius’ image of ‘Asianism’ in their assessment of ‘Asianist’ rhetoric as a historical phenomenon. The evidence in Cicero and Seneca suggests that contrary to, e.g., Hidber’s (1996) 43 assumption, ‘Asianism’ was, in fact, a ‘conception of rhetoric’ and not simply a ‘polemical keyword.’

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antithesis was frequently employed as an interpretive framework for the present. But as with Dionysius’ depiction of his cultural environment in the introduction to the First Letter to Ammaeus, we have to distinguish between the historical reality of ‘Asianist’ oratory and ‘Asianist’ (schools of) declamation and the image of it which Dionysius presents. Whatever the historical ‘Asianism’ was and which standards of style and language those orators who defined themselves as ‘Asianist’ followed, it was obviously fundamentally different from the image of ‘Barbarian Asianism’ presented by Dionysius: as he did with the competition among intellectual communities, Dionysius turned elements of his cultural environment, in this case ‘Asianist’ rhetoric, into constituents of his Classicist world view. He projected the opposition between ‘Classicism’ and ‘Asianism’ onto the past, thus turning it into a model of history. On the basis of contemporary ideas and themes he constructed a centuries-long controversy between two different models of identity. 335 The result is a framework for his interpretation of the present and the role of his and his readers’ intellectual activity in it. 336

2.4 Summary It was the subject of this chapter to explore the implications of ‘practising politiko» lÏgoi’ in Dionysius’ ideology. It has become apparent that defining oneself as a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi,’ a Classicist, implies much more than simply a preference for a certain kind of style. Choosing

335 Cf. Luzzatto (1988) 231 (the Augustan critics subsumed the whole of Hellenistic rhetoric under ‘Asianism’ in order to provide their Atticism with an ‘ideological presupposition,’ ‘il presupposto ideologico’); similarly, Hidber (1996) 43; v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1900) 5. 336 Such a procedure was by no means unique. At about the same time, the Roman scholar Varro expanded the polemics about analogy and anomaly between Krates and Aristarchus into a general controversy between ‘analogists’ and ‘anomalists’ in order to set his own teaching into a historical perspective; see Fehling (1956), esp. 264–270, and (1957), esp. 95; similarly, Blank (1994) has argued that the kritiko– against which Philodemus is arguing in his works are a construction of Philodemus rather than the name of ‘a group which called itself by that name’ (55). If Blank is right (but see the criticism in Porter [1995]), this would be yet another instance of a Greek scholar using an imaginary controversy among intellectuals as both a structural device of his own writings and a general framework within which to position himself and his work.

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the Classical style as the yardstick of one’s own literary expression is bound up with choosing a Classical way of life, proa–resic, on the one hand, and with accepting an interpretation of past and present on the other. Chapter 2.2 explored the relationship between language and identity in Dionysius’ Classicism. Adopting Isocrates’ conception of politiko» lÏgoi, Dionysius conceives of Classical language as encapsulating Classical Athenian identity. Dionysius’ conception of being Classical is drawn from Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic identity, and Dionysius extrapolates the constituents of Classical identity from Isocrates’ writings. Thus Dionysius provides his readers with an idealized image of the Classical Athenians, whom he presents as the representatives of a set of moral and political virtues, such as eŒsËbeia, dikaios‘nh, swfros‘nh, ‚leujer–a, and ÂmÏnoia. Speaking like a Classical Athenian implies accepting these virtues as the standard of one’s own behaviour and the speaker expresses his Classical identity through composing Classical texts. ‘Practising politiko» lÏgoi’ can therefore be seen as a form of self-fashioning: Classical language provides the speaker with the means to present his Classical ethos to his readers and to re-assure himself of it every time he produces a Classical text (chapter 2.2.1). A discussion of On Imitation and On Dinarchus has shown how Dionysius imagines this process of self-fashioning. Mimesis describes the transition of the Classical ideal into the Classicist’s soul and its re-emergence in the Classicist’s texts. Language represents the speaker’s character with an almost physical immediacy so that the Classicists’ diction seems to embody the past and to implement it in the present: Classicism is a culturally charged act of repetition. In order that this continuity between past and present can be established successfully, mimesis must be done properly: the orator Dinarchus was not able to continue the Classical tradition although he lived on the edge between the Classical and the post-Classical period, because he applied the wrong technique of mimesis. Instead of creating an original style of his own along the lines of the Classical masters by working creatively with the rhetorical tradition, he stitched together elements of style taken from various Classical authors. But the essence of proper mimesis is Âmoe–deia: a Classicist’s aim is not to imitate the style of one, or several, Classical authors, but to create an original style ‘in the Classical spirit’: his style is Classical and his own at the same time. Only thus can the tradition of Classical rhetoric be kept alive. Dionysius uses the negative example of Dinarchus to solve a central problem of the Classicist, the undeniable temporal and spatial gap which separates him from the Classical past. Dinarchus serves to demonstrate that

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proximity to the Classical orators is no prerequisite for being Classical; proximity to the past is established through the right, ‘natural’ technique of mimesis that establishes such intimacy (suntrof–a) with the Classical authors as is necessary in order for the Classical to become the speaker’s (second) nature (chapter 2.2.2). Chapter 2.3 discussed how Dionysius integrates the Romans into this Classicist model of history. Choosing the Classical as the standard of his words and character, a speaker inevitably accepts the idea of a struggle between politiko» lÏgoi and Asianist rhetoric and a model of history which is based on the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis. The Classical period was characterized by the Greeks’ political and moral superiority, of which filÏsofoc ˚htorik† is the expression. The demise of Greek power after Alexander’s death is explained by Dionysius as having been brought about by a new invasion of the Barbarians who took revenge for the Greek victory in the Persian War, corrupting Greek identity and driving Greece close to ruin. Asianism is the expression of the loss of Classical Greek values and power which characterizes this period. In contrast to the Persian War, the struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric is symbolic: Classicists do not fight against Barbarian forces like their Classical ancestors but against the corruption of genuinely Greek identity through Asianism. Their weapon is language. Drawing on the classicizing tendencies of contemporary Roman intellectual and political culture, Dionysius defines the Romans and Roman power as the representatives of Classical Greek rhetoric and culture: the Romans support the Classicists’ fight against the Barbarian Other and spread politiko» lÏgoi over the oikumene. Thus Roman power is defined as the agent of Classical Greek identity and Augustan Rome as the legitimate successor of the Classical Greek past (chapter 2.3.1). The alliance of Roman power and Greek culture makes Dionysius’ Classicism a powerful model of cultural identity for his Greek readers. It invites them to see their Classical heritage as an integral, if not the crucial, element of contemporary Roman politics and culture. It is open to doubt, however, whether all of Dionysius’ Roman readers would have liked to see their dominating position in the world reduced to the vehicle of Classical Greek culture: many Roman intellectuals regarded the right to rule as a Roman prerogative; and in their view, this power was represented by the Latin, and certainly not the Greek, language. To these Romans, Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman power as the representative of Classical Greek language and culture must have been a provocation (chapter 2.3.2).

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Dionysius’ interpretation of the Roman present should therefore not be seen as an attempt to flatter the Romans; rather, Classicism is a strategy of re-appropriation which stresses the crucial importance of Greek elements for Roman politics and culture and thus implicitly asserts the superiority of Greek culture over Roman power (chapter 2.3.3). The chapter closed with a brief discussion of the historicity of the centuries-long struggle between Classicism and Asianism, on which Dionysius’ model of history is based. This discussion confirmed that this struggle should be seen as a pattern of historical interpretation, rather than a description of a historical fact (chapter 2.3.4).

3. History and Criticism: The Construction of a Classicist Past The preceding chapter explored what ‘practising filÏsofoc ˚htorik†’ meant to Dionysius, but it has also brought up questions which deserve further investigation. Above all, the interpretation of history which is implied by his notion of being a Classicist raises several difficulties. These concern above all Dionysius’ idea of the Classical past as a ‘Golden Age.’ This creates an image of the years stretching from the Persian Wars to Alexander’s death as a homogeneous period which is characterized by the predominance of Greek virtues. The beginning and end of this period are marked by political events which demonstrate the superiority of Classical virtues over the Barbarian Other, the Greek victories over the Persians and the establishment of Alexander’s empire, respectively. Dionysius imagined the Classical Greeks, and especially the Athenians, as representatives of Isocratean ethics. But such a simplified version of the Classical past was heavily contradicted by Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians in the Peloponnesian War. Since Thucydides was a Classical authority, Dionysius could hardly dismiss his testimony. On the other hand, if Thucydides were right, his portrayal of the Athenians would jeopardize Dionysius’ entire conception of history and of Classical rhetoric as the carrier and representative of moral and political superiority. Therefore he had to find a way to deconstruct Thucydides’ version of the Peloponnesian War, and this strategy will be explored in chapter 3.2 below. But first chapter 3.1 will give a brief assessment of the contemporary discussion about history, narrative, and emplotment of historical events which will provide novel insight into Dionysius’ attitude towards the past. Furthermore, Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans as the heirs to the Classical Greek tradition was controversial not only from the point of view of Roman readers. Many of his Greek contemporaries preferred to see the Romans as the Barbarian Other which had usurped a position of superiority to which only the Greeks were entitled. Dionysius’ definition of the role of the Romans in history on which his Classicism is based required further

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substantiation which he provided in his Antiquitates Romanae. Chapter 3.3 will discuss Dionysius’ historical programme, to re-write Roman history in Greek terms so as to reveal the Romans’ Greek identity, both ethically and ethnically, from the very beginnings of their history.

3.1 ‘Metahistory’ avant la lettre: Dionysius on Historical Writing Dionysius regards historiography as belonging to the domain of politiko» lÏgoi no less than political oratory. 337 Although it is uncertain whether Dionysius ever wrote a series of essays on Greek historians comparable with On the Ancient Orators, he presents a detailed discussion of several Greek historians in his Letter to Pompeius (Pomp.) and dedicates an entire essay to Thucydides and his History.338 Dionysius’ treatment of historiography is so systematic that it has been assumed that the discussion in Pomp. is a summary of an earlier treatise Per» …stor–ac which has been lost,339 and his precepts on writing historiography have been put alongside Lucian’s 337 Orat. Vett. 4.2: ‘[The aim of my essay is to show] who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each of them should we imitate, and which should we avoid? These are worthy subjects, which students of politikò filosof–a must examine’ (t–nec e s»n Çxiolog∏tatoi t¿n Çrqa–wn ˚htÏrwn te ka» suggrafËwn ka»

t–nec aŒt¿n ‚gËnonto proairËseic to‹ te b–ou ka» to‹ lÏgou ka» t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai, kalÄ jewr†mata ka» Çnagkaÿa toÿc Çsko‹si tòn politikòn filosof–an […], emphasis mine; Usher’s transl. modified); ibid. 4.4: ‘As to my own subject, […] I shall select the most elegant of the orators and historians and examine them chronologically, beginning with the present work on the orators and then proceeding to the historians, if I have the time’ (t¿n d‡ ˚htÏrwn te ka» suggrafËwn, Õp‡r ¡n  lÏgoc […] toÃc d‡ qariestàtouc ‚x aŒt¿n proqeirisàmenoc katÄ tÄc ôlik–ac ‚r¿ per» ·kàstou, n‹n m‡n per» t¿n ˚htÏrwn, ‚Än d‡ ‚gqwr¨, ka» per» t¿n …storik¿n, emphases mine; Usher’s transl. modified). It was a common belief in antiquity that historiography was part of rhetoric; Cicero, for example, discussed historiography in the second book of De Oratore, which was published just a decade or so before Dionysius arrived in Rome; cf. orat. 2.15.62: ‘Do you see how important a task of oratory history is?’ (videtisne, quantum munus sit oratoris historia? ). On the interrelation of rhetoric and history see Nicolai (1992), esp. 20, 32–61, 83–88, 89–155; cf. Pritchett (1975) xxviii–xxx. 338 The most important discussions of Dionysius’ ideas about Classical historiography are Fox (1993), (1996), and (2001); Sacks (1983); Fornaro (1997). 339 Sacks (1983).

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P¿c deÿ …stor–an xuggràfein. 340 As in his discussions of political oratory, Dionysius is not concerned exclusively with matters of style (the lektik‰c tÏpoc) in historiography, but deals also with the arrangement, structure, and interpretation of the subject matter (the pragmatik‰c tÏpoc). Content and style are inseparable for Dionysius and both contribute to an equal degree to the interpretation of the past in a historical work. It is particularly fruitful to read Dionysius’ discussion of the principles of historical writing against the background of the ongoing controversy about post-modern historiography, which focuses on the relation between historytelling and the reality of the past. Main issues concern the ‘emplotment’ of historical texts and their influence on the collective consciousness, empathy and emotional experience of the past, and the relationship between historical and fictional writing on the one hand, and between history and literary criticism on the other, to name only a few. The present section gives an overview of key topics of this debate but does not attempt to present a complete assessment of this multi-faceted discussion. This seems justified because this debate has changed considerably our views on the nature of historical writing and the process through which past events are transformed into texts. This, in turn, changes our perception of Dionysius’ view on historical writing and of his historical work, the Antiquitates. The theoretical debate about history-writing provides the background against which we approach Dionysius’ (theory of) historiography. As a consequence, the assessment of Dionysius’ statements given on the following pages is in many respects different from and, above all, less judgmental than that of previous scholarship.341 This is particularly the case with Dionysius’ judgment on Thucydides and his critique that Thucydides should have given a more positive image of the Athenians in the Peloponnesian War. We need not agree with Dionysius on that, but we have to acknowledge that Dionysius is correct in asserting that the interpretation of the past is not inherent in the past, but is constructed through the historical narrative. A historical narrative depends on explicative patterns in the mind of the historian, and does not necessarily (though occasionally may) re-present what happened; it is an interpretation and like any other interpretation it is shaped by the social-cultural, political, and intellectual background against which it is conceived. The image of the past depends to 340 Fox (2001). 341 But see the balanced assessment of Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides, including a survey of the opinions of earlier scholars, in Pritchett (1975) xxii–xxxiv.

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a great extent on the choices of the historian, whether conscious or unconscious. Therefore Dionysius is right in claiming that the same data produce an entirely different image of the past according to how they are ordered and presented by the historiographer: Thucydides, like any other historian, imposed an order and an interpretation upon the data, and there is no a priori reason to assume that Thucydides’ version of the Peloponnesian War is more reliable than any other. I should like to point out, however, that this should not be misunderstood as an attempt to idealize Dionysius as a Hayden White of antiquity. Dionysius is far from a self-reflexive intellectual who questions his own methods nor does he fit Dominick LaCapra’s conception of the historian of the future who respects careful research as much as the nature of texts and thus successfully combines history and criticism. 342 Nevertheless, reading Dionysius against the insight into historical writing brought about by the recent debate provides us with a novel perspective on and a better understanding of Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides’ image of the past. New light is shed also on Dionysius’ emphasis on the role of empathy for historical understanding. Whereas previous scholarship tended to dismiss emotions in writing and reading history as distorting, both the historian’s and the reader’s emotional involvement in the (account of the) past have now been recognized as essential for historical understanding. Finally, it is time to abolish the assertion that Dionysius’ ideas on historiography are not worth taking seriously because Dionysius was a rhetorician and rhetoric is no more than an often detrimental ‘embellishment’ of historical narratives. The contemporary debate has shown that there is no clear-cut distinction between rhetoric and history. Rhetoric, in antiquity as much as in our times, cannot be reduced to matters of style; rhetoric also provides the patterns and structural principles by which the data, the content of a historical work, need to be ordered and presented so as to be meaningful and understandable to the audience (and to the historiographer himself); this makes rhetoric the very basis for historical interpretation. Thus the discussion of Dionysius’ conception of historiography is a case in point that ancient authors must not be excluded from contemporary debates on historical writing – ‘metahistory’ may have been christened in 1973, but some of its main ideas were conceived more than two thousand years ago.

342 See LaCapra (1985).

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In our times the idea that historiography is able, or should even claim, to tell the truth is by no means as self-evident as it was a few decades ago; on the contrary, it has lost much of its previous axiomatic status. In Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore/London 1973) Hayden White maintains that the historian does not represent the order of events in the past as he ‘discovers’ it in his data.343 The presentation of his data and the image of the past that results from it, are not inherent in the events, but are imposed on them by the historian. The events of the past, which White calls in their entirety the ‘historical field,’ exist as facts but are ‘unprocessed’: 344 Unlike the novelist, the historian confronts a veritable chaos of events already constituted, out of which he must choose the elements of the story he would tell. He makes his story by including some events and excluding others, by stressing some and subordinating others. 345

In order to come to terms with the ‘chaos of events,’ the historian first orders the events chronologically, thus creating a chronicle; then he proceeds to what White calls the ‘emplotment,’ the transformation of the chronicle into a meaningful whole, a story: 346 the historian ‘prefigures the historical field and constitutes it as a domain upon which to bring to bear the specific theories he will use to explain “what was really happening” in it.’347 In the first instance the past is ‘immediately strange’ to us, ‘not to say exotic, simply by virtue of their [the ‘data’ of historiography] distance from us in time and their origin in a way of life different from our own’; therefore we have to give the events a shape by means of plot structures in order to make sense of them. 348 Emplotment is a mediation between past and present, it is the only way of getting, and keeping, in touch with the past so as to make it the foundation of our self-definition. 349 343 White’s approach and methods have been widely discussed in historical scholarship, see, e.g., Jameson (1976); the contributions in Metahistory: Six Critiques, esp. Kellner, Mandelbaum, Golob, Struever (all 1980); Momigliano (1981); Carroll (1998); Norman (1998) gives a helpful overview and a discussion of the pros and cons of recent trends in the theory of history; see in general Fay/Pomper/Vann (1998). 344 White (1973) 5. 345 Ibid. 6 n. 5; cf. also White (1974) 84. 346 White (1973) 5. 347 Ibid. x. 348 White (1974) 85–86 (the quotation p. 86). 349 Cf. ibid. 86 (plot structures familiarize the unfamiliar) with Golob’s (1980) 60 comment: ‘Historical inquiry, like all other inquiry, is a matter of asking questions which, as they

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White’s theory of ‘emplotment’ has serious consequences for the idea of historical truth, and he has often been criticized for eliminating the research for truth as the main task of the historian. According to White, our access to the past is always mediated by historical narrative, but a historical narrative is never an im-mediate representation of the past: 350 it ‘does not reproduce the events it describes; it tells us in what direction to think about the events and charges our thought about the events with different emotional valences; it calls to mind images of the things it indicates, in the same way that a metaphor does.’ 351 White does not mean that so far historians have been deliberately dishonest in their attempt to tell the truth about the past, that they have wilfully distorted ‘data’ or have given a biased account of them in order to make them suit their aims. White’s point is rather that because the only way of thinking and talking about the past is in narrative structures, 352 historical data are processed in a narrative which is shaped according to cultural paradigms, such as Tragedy, Comedy, and so forth; otherwise they remain unintelligible.353 Therefore the problem is not that there is no data

350

351 352

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proceed from each other, constitute the inquiry, and their answers the narrative. Thus the direction and content of the narrative depends on the kind of framing questions that is asked, as well as, it goes without saying, upon the prior intellectual equipment of the historian. […] This is also why each age will rewrite history to suit its needs, its questions, asked by minds differing through the very process of history from those of times preceding.’ White also maintains this point of view regarding historical narratives of such problematic subjects as the Holocaust, in which the question of historical truth has grave political and cultural implications. White states that the events influence the kind of story which can be told about them and that not every kind of emplotment is applicable to any set of events; see White (1992), esp. 39. This, however, pushes the problem only one stage further back, as a given emplotment of the past is accepted as true in a certain community at a certain time and therefore depends on social and cultural conventions. White (1974) 91. The idea of the human being as a story-telling animal, homo narrans, was put forth first by Alasdair MacIntyre in After Virtue; elaborating on MacIntyre’s idea, Fisher (1984) regards narrative as the paradigm of human communication (in contrast to rationality and an ‘Aristotelian’ logic), see esp. ibid. 6: ‘Regardless of the form they may assume, recounting and accounting for are stories we tell ourselves and each other to establish a meaningful life-world’; ibid. 7–8. Accepting White’s basic assumption, that historical data must be emplotted by the historian to make it meaningful, does not entail that we also have to accept his complex system of different modes of emplotment (such as Romance, Tragedy, Comedy, and Satire) and their different combinations with modes of formal arguments (Formist, Organicist, Mechanistic, and Contextualist) on the one hand, and ideological positions (Anarchism, Conservatism, Radicalism, and Liberalism) on the other, and the four basic

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or historical reality, the problem is our mode of historical perception. 354 White never maintained that historical texts do not have a referent or that we cannot know what happened – although this, too, can be problematic since the notion of what counts as a ‘fact’ is subject to change. Problems arise when the events have to be related to each other and when a How and Why is to be added to the What, in short, when events are given a meaningful structure beyond noting their factual occurence in a chronicle. 355 This problem has not been known only since White, but was pointed out by Karl Mannheim as early as 1936: No one denies the possibility of empirical research nor does anyone maintain that facts do not exist. […] [B]ut the question of the nature of the facts is in itself a considerable problem. They exist for the mind always in an intellectual and social context. That they can be understood and formulated implies already the existence of a conceptual apparatus. 356

The ‘data’ are given their narrative form (their emplotment) not just when the historian starts writing his account, but as soon as he starts thinking about them and when he tries to make sense of them for himself. ‘Emplotment’ must not be confused with a conception of the ‘outer form’ of the data in the finished book or article, a mere mode of presentation which does not affect the historical ‘content.’ On the contrary, the story-form itself is

tropes of historical writing (Metaphor, Metonomy, Synecdoche, and Irony) which result from these combinations. White himself stated that he had devised this system for studying 19th-century historical thinking; for a well-founded criticism of White’s system see Jameson (1976). 354 Nevertheless, as Norman (1998) 165 points out, there is no need to assume that necessarily the emplotment chosen by the historian does not represent the past: ‘a narrative certainly may impose a false coherence, or simply get the past wrong, but it need not’; on a certain tendency to return to ‘positivism’ in historical scholarship see Stuart Hughes (1977). 355 There is no ‘narrative’ structure inherent in the events (as is maintained by some scholars) which must simply be ‘discovered’ and verbalized by the historian, ‘the untold story to which histories approximate. Of course this does not put the past completely at risk; it does not imply that there is nothing determinate about the past, since individual statements of fact […] remain unaffected. But it does mean that the significance of the past is determinate only by virtue of our own disciplined imagination. Insofar as the significance of past occurrences is understandable only as they are locatable in the ensemble of interrelationships that can be grasped only in the construction of narrative form, it is we who make the past determinate in that respect’ (Mink [1978] 148). 356 Mannheim (1936) 91; Putnam’s ‘internal realism’ takes a similar approach, see Lorenz (1998).

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already an act of cognition and, therefore, of historical understanding. 357 Narrative and historical understanding are mutually interrelated: changes in one entail changes in the other. History is not a scientific, but a hermeneutic discipline. It is always the observer in the present who takes an interest in certain periods of the past from within a determined cultural and social situation and then addresses questions to it. The conceptual framework in which the observer approaches the past remains an integral element of the answers s/he ‘finds’ to his/her questions; but contrary to his/her impression, they are not actually ‘found’ in the data, but result from a dialectical process between the data and the enquiring subject. 358 From this point of view, notions such as ‘truth’ and ‘objectivity’ can no longer be regarded as fixed entities and qualities inherent in the facts or in the historical method. Rather, they are ‘a product of an enormously complex and diffuse cultural process’: the data is processed according to a ‘standard of verisimilitude’ which was defined by society or groups within society, such as, in our times, the consensus of professional historians. 359 If a version of the past conforms to this standard, it is regarded as ‘objective’ and ‘true.’ Yet, this standard itself and, therefore, the definition of ‘objectivity’ and of what is accepted as a ‘true’ account are social-culturally determined, 360 as Peter Novick demonstrated in his comprehensive study of the development of the notion of ‘objectivity’ and of the alterations it underwent in the American historical profession. 361 Therefore it seems more appropriate to conceive of ‘truth’ not as a metaphysical, but as a pragmatic category: it describes the way a community allows the past to influence their way of life, which account of the past 357 Cf. Mink (1998) 124: ‘The features which enable a story to flow and us to follow, then, are the clues to the nature of historical understanding. An historical narrative does not demonstrate the necessity of events but makes them intelligible by unfolding the story which connects their significance.’ 358 Gadamer’s ‘Truth and Method’ is still fundamental for this complex of questions, especially his discussion of ‘historical consciousness’ and his conception of our relationship with the past as a dialectical process. 359 Kellner (1998) 237. 360 Ibid.; Gorman (1998) demonstrates that ‘truth is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition for the relative acceptability of historical accounts, and [that it] is insignificantly necessary and not sufficient for the absolute acceptability of historical accounts’ (327); for a historical account to be accepted as true, Gorman argues, what matters is a suitable selection of statements (no matter whether true or not), rather than the truth of the individual statements themselves (esp. 329). 361 Novick (1988).

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its members (consciously or unconsciously) accept, and what role the past plays in the construction of their world view. Such a pragmatic conception of ‘true narratives’ takes into account an often neglected aspect of historical writing: historical narratives are always directed at a specific audience whose expectations the historian will try to meet. 362 What is accepted as a ‘true’ narrative of the past reveals much more about the social and cultural construction of reality of a specific community of people than about the past itself which this ‘true’ narrative claims to describe.363 A further strand in the contemporary discussion of historiography should be mentioned here which appears to stem from the related questions of ‘objectivity’ in historiography and the nature of historical experience. More and more historians are realizing the importance of emotions for both the narration and the perception of history. Emotions are now acknowledged to be motivating forces as important for the actions of historical actors as rational reasoning. In earlier scholarship – MacMullen refers to the works of Sir Ronald Syme as an example – by contrast, emotions were often discarded as pretexts behind which some ‘true,’ i.e., rational, political, or economical, motivation had to be sought. 364 Discussing the role of emotions as motivational forces in Thucydides’ account of the Sicilian Expedition, MacMullen points out that Thucydides presents the actors’ feelings as a historical reality, ‘the consequences of which are to be understood as historic […]. They are beyond quantification. To be estimated they must rather be felt; and the historian must be ready to help the reader to do this, by his art.’ 365 The same holds, MacMullen argues, for several other episodes in the History; to the Melian Dialogue, for example, ‘readers can hardly help responding emotionally; and it is natural to suppose, not only that they were meant to do so, obviously, but that the author himself was deeply engaged with his subject matter in the same way.’ 366 MacMullen’s discussion is indebted 362 As stressed by Lorenz (1998), esp. 363–365. 363 Cf. Lorenz (1998) 364–365: ‘[it is decisive] which of all possible true histories are also accepted as such. This is not a triviality since historians […] are not after the whole truth but only after the relevant truth. Because the primary sources do not directly “dictate” the mode of reconstructing the past, they always offer a narrative space for several explanatory accounts […]. Which of these accounts possess a priori plausibility varies not only with the cognitive expectations but also with the normative expectations of the audiences addressed.’ 364 Cf. MacMullen (1980). 365 MacMullen (2003) 5; cf. Marincola (2003), esp. 293–294. 366 MacMullen (2003) 6.

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to the conception of a ‘post-modernist Thucydides’ 367 which was popular in scholarship on Thucydides in the 1970s: representatives of this approach claimed that far from being a ‘detached observer,’ Thucydides deliberately engaged his audience emotionally in history. 368 Describing the emotions of the historical actors entails involving the readers in these emotions and inviting them to share or to refuse them. Emotions in historiography are thus an example of one of the crucial skills which were required from an ancient author, and especially from a historiographer: ‚nàrgeia, the ability to make the readers experience the events through the text as if they were present at them. The historian ‘enters’ into the emotions of the historical actors and describes them so that the readers can re-feel them. 369 This opens immediate access to the past: reexperiencing the emotions of the historical actors, readers understand their motivations. 370 Critics like Paul Hernadi even argue that we are interested in knowing about the past in the first place because we respond emotionally to historical narratives in the same manner as we respond to fictional stories. 371 The relation between historical narrator and reader is crucial in this process of mediation: by allowing the readers to share his superior knowledge of and insight into past events, Hernadi holds, the historian sets them, too, into a privileged position from which to judge and enjoy the fate of the historical actors; this enhances the readers’ self-esteem and produces a sensation of pleasure. 372 Although Hernadi’s claim that historiography is exclusively about the reader’s ‘ego-trip’ into ‘the thrill or gratification of selfhood’ 373 seems excessive, his main point is valid. Emotional reading experience and knowledge, or, as he puts it, the ‘esthetic and epistemological aspects’ of historytelling, cannot be separated from each other. Knowing about and 367 Connor (1977). 368 Besides Connor (preceding note) see also, e.g., Lateiner (1977); MacLeod (1982); Wallace (1964); cf. de Romilly (1966). 369 MacMullen (2003) 4 cites Plutarch, De Gloria Atheniensium 3 (347A), who praises Thucydides for his ‚nàrgeia through which he ‘reproduc[es] in their [the readers’] minds the feelings of shock and disorientation which were experienced by those who actually viewed the events’ (transl. MacMullen). 370 MacMullen (2003) 130 (‘replication [of emotions] is understanding’); ibid. 135: creating empathy is ‘a way of searching out emotions that determined behavior; and entering into them, ourselves; and representing them in all their colors, so as more accurately to reveal the past, or re-feel it, and so to understand it.’ 371 Hernadi (1980). 372 Ibid. 249. 373 Ibid. 249–250.

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empathetically experiencing the past contribute equally to historical understanding, and the relation between historical narrator and reader plays a decisive role in establishing this link with the past.374 The different aspects of historical writing mentioned above are related to ‘rhetoric’ insofar as they concern the process of ordering and presenting data. Whereas a few years ago rhetoric and history were often regarded as opposites, now ‘truth’ and ‘reality’ are themselves conceived of as ‘world choices, created and revealed through rhetoric.’375 The ‘content’ of a historical account cannot be abstracted from its ‘form,’ because the way a historian chooses to present data, regarding their order and interrelation (the pragmatik‰c tÏpoc) as well as language and style (the lektik‰c tÏpoc), constitute the interpretation of the past that the account seeks to convey. The past exists only ‘emplotted’ in a narrative structure, and rhetoric provides the patterns according to which the ‘emplotment’ is carried out. Through rhetoric the historian him-/herself establishes a dialogue with the past and through rhetoric he enables his/her readers to share his experiences:376 rhetoric endows the past with meaning.

3.2 Deconstructing Thucydides Empathy is a major issue in Dionysius’ discussion of Thucydides. Dionysius deals with the historian in the second part of his Letter to Pompeius (Pomp. 3–6), in his essay On Thucydides (Thuc.), which contains a detailed criticism of the History, 377 and in the Second Letter to Ammaeus, an addendum to On 374 The role of empathy is one of the major issues in the discussion about the historiography of the Holocaust. The adaptation of Freudian categories such as ‘transference,’ ‘acting out,’ and ‘working through’ have a prominent place in the attempt to develop a conceptual vocabulary for the assessment of how history is experienced, of the different stances taken by readers and authors towards the subject, and of how historiography can (or might not) contribute to coming to terms with collective traumatic experiences; see, e.g., Friedlander (1992); LaCapra (1994) and (2001); cf. the contributions in Friedlander (1992a), esp. White, Funkenstein, and Santner; for a general assessment of the adaptation of Freudian psychoanalytic categories to historical theory see LaCapra (1989). 375 Kellner (1980) 16. 376 LaCapra (1985) 36. 377 In general, Dionysius’ assessment of Thucydides’ choice of subject matter is less harsh in Thuc. than in Pomp. Whereas in Pomp., for example, Dionysius blames Thucydides for deliberately disregarding the tradition of historiography, in Thuc. Dionysius accepts the reasons for this peculiarity given by Thucydides in his introduction, namely that

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Thucydides in which Dionysius, on request from Ammaeus, presents the same arguments as in On Thucydides in a different manner. The following discussion will be centred on the first two works. 378 Unlike On Thucydides, the Letter to Pompeius contains a general discussion of the principles of historiography and a comparison (synkrisis) of the merits and failures of several historians, especially Herodotus and Thucydides (Pomp. 3), but also Xenophon, Philistus, and Theopompus (Pomp. 4–6). 379 Dionysius’ comparison of Thucydides’ work with those of the other historians allows us to understand why Thucydides’ History in particular presented a problem to Dionysius; it is therefore a suitable starting-point for the present discussion. As will become apparent, the most important aspect of historical writing about the Classical times is that Classicist readers can identify with the historical actors, the Athenians. This identification is acted out through the readers’ pleasure in the text, which is caused by the author’s selection of an appropriate subject matter and by an appropriate arrangement and presentation of his material. What ‘appropriate’ means to Dionysius must be assessed against Dionysius’ conception of Classical identity: the portrayal of the Classical Athenians has to conform to the Isocratean conception of Classical identity, and the whole design of the narrative (its diàjesic) has to convey the author’s sympathy with the past so that the readers can share it. The negative image of Classical Athens in Thucydides’ History prevents the reader from identifying with the Classical Athenians; quite to the contrary, reading the History causes an ‘alienation’ from the Classical past. Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians collides with the idealized vision of the Classical Athenians on which Dionysius and his readers’ self-definition is based. Dionysius therefore has to find a way to dismiss Thucydides’ version of the events: Thucydides, he maintains, deliberately distorted the Athenians’ character and motivations, because he wanted to take revenge on them for his exile (chapter 3.2.1). How proper Classicist history should be written is illustrated by Theopompus’ work. He was a pupil of Isocrates and devised an ‘Isocratean historical writing in the style of Hellanicus could not benefit the readers as much as it should, while historiography of the Herodotean type overwhelmed the reader with a bulk of material (Thuc. 6.1–2). 378 Pritchett (1975) gives a helpful outline of On Thucydides. 379 This part of the letter is a summary of Dionysius’ discussion of these authors in the second book of his essay On Imitation (Pomp. 3.1); cf. Aujac V, 74 and see ch. 2.2.2, p. 78 above.

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historiography,’ that is, a kind of historiography which has the same educational purpose as Isocrates’ speeches and presents the readers with moral examples (chapter 3.2.2). Dionysius’ discussion of the Melian Dialogue in On Thucydides 37–41 shows how Thucydides should have characterized the Classical Athenians along the lines of such an ‘Isocratean historiography.’ One by one, Dionysius refutes the statements Thucydides puts into the mouth of the Athenian spokesman and substitutes them with the ‘appropriate’ version, which portrays the Athenians as the carriers of Isocratean virtues. Dionysius uses literary criticism to deconstruct Thucydides’ account and to instil an Isocratean image of the past in his readers’ minds. The boundaries between history and criticism are thus blurred: what is a true account of the past is not defined by the historian any longer, but by the literary critic (chapter 3.2.3).

3.2.1 Identifying with the Past: Why Herodotus Succeeded where Thucydides Failed Discussing the pragmatik‰c tÏpoc of Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ works, Dionysius sets up a series of rules for good historiography, by which he means historiography that conforms to his conception of the Classical. The first and ‘most necessary task for writers of any kind of history’ is the choice of a ‘noble subject which will please [the] readers’ (pr¿tÏn te ka» sqed‰n

ÇnagkaiÏtaton Írgon Åpàntwn ‚st» toÿc gràfousin pàsac …stor–ac ÕpÏjesin ‚klËxasjai kalòn ka» keqarismËnhn toÿc ÇnagnwsomËnoic, Pomp. 3.2). Dionysius defines the reader’s positive emotional response to the subject matter of a historical text (kalòn ka» keqarismËnhn) as the main constituent of historical writing. 380 Herodotus’ work is an example of a good choice of subject, Thucydides’ an example of a bad one (Pomp. 3.3–4): >Ekeÿnoc [
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m‡n ∫feile mò genËsjai, e  d‡ m†, siwp¨ ka» l†j˘ paradoje»c Õp‰ t¿n ‚piginomËnwn ögno®sjai. He [Herodotus] has produced a general history of the Greek and barbarian world, “in order that the memory of men’s actions may not be erased by the passage of time nor the achievements …,” to use his own words: for this very introduction seems to embody both the beginning and the end of his History. Thucydides, however, writes of a single war, and one which was neither glorious or fortunate, but which had best never happened at all, or, failing that, should have been consigned to silence and oblivion and ignored by later generations.

Dionysius equates history with memory: 381 the past is preserved in the historical text and it exists for the reader only through the historical text; what is not reported, virtually did not happen. Therefore Dionysius regards preserving memories as the primary purpose of historical writing, and Herodotus’ History is the paradigm for this conception of historiography: his work is comprehensive insofar as it deals with the achievements of both Greeks and Barbarians and its express aim is to preserve these achievements.382 Since Herodotus’ History illustrates the most important rule of all historical writing (pàsac …stor–ac), his work represents Dionysius’ conception of good historiography in general. Not all events are equally worth remembering. Therefore, it is the historian’s obligation not only to preserve, but 381 Shrimpton makes a convincing case that no distinction was drawn between history and memory in antiquity in general. Adopting M. Carruther’s conception of ‘mnemonic literature’ (Shrimpton [1997] 190), he argues that ‘writing was done by and for people who already knew not just the alphabet but the subject as well. Like the medieval scholar, Thucydides made no distinction between the past and the (written) memory of it. In his opening remarks and throughout his history he uses the word polemos interchangeably to refer both to the events and to his account of them’ (references ibid. n. 169). Shrimpton seems to overstress somewhat the limitations foisted upon literature by the community, and his view of written works as mere receptacles of memory, the only purpose of which is to repeat endlessly what is already known, is exaggerated; Thucydides, whose work questions the traditional image of the past and defies the usual standards of historical writing, is an excellent counter-example, which Shrimpton himself acknowledges (see his remark on 204). Nevertheless, Shrimpton is right in pointing out the collective pressure upon writers in relatively small communities such as Athens, and his observation that ancient writers tend to blur the distinction between the past and its representation in their works is convincing. 382 Dionysius’ conception of historiography conforms to the general interest in Universal History in his times; reporting the achievements of both Greeks and Barbarians, for example, was a cornerstone of Diodorus’ historical programme, too, and the scope of his Bibliotheke is to preserve those past events which Diodorus has selected as relevant to the present; see Wiater (2006), esp. 253–260 (with further literature).

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also carefully to select the events which he intends to make the subject of his account. If necessary, he has to correct the past for future generations by condemning certain events to ‘silence and oblivion.’ Thucydides’ History illustrates what happens if a historian, for whatever reason, does not take this obligation seriously or deliberately neglects it. Thucydides could (and should) have spared later generations – by which Dionysius refers to himself and his contemporaries – the memory of the Peloponnesian War. Dionysius’ emphasis on the preservation of the past and his assertion that it is better for future generations not to hear about certain events implicitly contradicts the historical programme of Thucydides himself: in the ‘archaeology’ (Th. 1.1.3–1.19), Thucydides not only dismisses the Trojan and the Persian Wars as being of minor importance compared to the Peloponnesian War and questions their significance (ibid. 1.20); he also declares that he envisages future generations of readers for his account of the Peloponnesian War – they will appreciate the History because of its reliability and usefulness, whereas contemporary readers might find it disagreeable to read (ibid. 1.22.4). 383 Dionysius’ criticism reads like a negative response to this statement of Thucydides’: Dionysius and his contemporaries certainly do not enjoy Thucydides’ account nor do they appreciate it. Instead, the treatment which Dionysius regards as appropriate to the Peloponnesian War conforms to the practice of Classical orators: they either avoided this subject in their speeches altogether or, like Isocrates at 4.73–75, mentioned the War only in passing and glossed it over by stressing the Athenians’ achievements against the Persians. 384 We will see below that Dionysius proposes a different arrangement of Thucydides’ account which implements this principle.

383 ‘And it may well be that the absence of the fabulous from my narrative will seem less pleasing to the ear; but whoever shall wish to have a clear view both of the events which have happened and those which will some day, in all human probability, happen again in the same or a similar way – for these to adjudge my history profitable will be enough for me. And, indeed, it has been composed, not as a prize-essay to be heard for the moment, but as a possession for all time’ (ka» ‚c m‡n ÇkrÏasin “swc t‰ mò

muj¿dec aŒt¿n ÇterpËsteron faneÿtai; Ìsoi d‡ boul†sontai t¿n te genomËnwn t‰ saf‡c skopeÿn ka» t¿n mellÏntwn pot‡ afijic katÄ t‰ Çnjr∏pinon toio‘twn ka» paraplhs–wn Ísesjai, ≤fËlima kr–nein aŒtÄ Çrko‘ntwc Èxei. Kt®mà te e c Çe» mêllon £ Çg∏nisma ‚c t‰ paraqr®ma Çko‘ein x‘gkeitai). 384 Classical rhetorical practice: Pearson (1941) 228. On the use of the past in classical oratory in general see Pownall (2004) 38–45; Pearson (1941); Worthington (1994a); Rutherford (1994), esp. 59–62 (historical exempla in the speeches in Thucydides’ History compared with their use in the orators); on Isocrates’ view on the past and his use of history in his

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The criterion by which the historian has to decide whether to preserve an event or whether to consign it to oblivion is the effect which the account of that event will have upon the recipients. The aesthetics of the past and the aesthetics of the text are thus mutually dependent: the Peloponnesian War was an ugly event and it makes for an ugly subject, and reading about such an ugly subject creates negative feelings about the past. But concerning the Classical past, only a positive (kalÏn; eŒtuq®) effect on the readers, which allows them emotionally to identify with it, is desirable. Thus aesthetics is the link between text and past, and the past is experienced through the text. This transfers writing history from the historiographer to the critic: aesthetics is the domain of criticism, and only the critic is competent to determine which events of the past are worth preservation and, hence, which events readers are allowed to regard as part of their past. Dionysius is applying to historiography the general principle of his critical method, as he states it at Orat. Vett. 4.2, to define ‘which characteristics of each of them [the ancient orators and historians] [we] should imitate, and which [we] should avoid’ (t– par+·kàstou deÿ lambànein £ fulàttesjai). This regards the style of a work as much as its content. Dionysius’ own historical work illustrates how history is to be written if this principle is observed. In the proem Dionysius states that the purpose of historiography is to preserve the memory of noble subjects which are of use to the readers (ÕpojËseic […] kalÄc ka» megaloprepeÿc ka» pollòn ≤fËleian toÿc ÇnagnwsomËnoic fero‘sac, 1.1.2) and that his subject, the Roman empire, meets these requirements. 385 The Antiquitates demonstrates the interrelation of aesthetics and history and shows that a good literary critic is necessarily also a good historiographer. The association of positive reading experience with usefulness (≤fËleian) for the reader in particular recalls the passage in Thucydides’ proem (1.22) in which Thucydides defines pleasure and usefulness as opposites. Dionysius’ work is thus set in programmatic contrast to Thucydides’ History: Thucydides had an erroneous conception of what is useful and therefore he had an erroneous conception of what is a noble subject.386 Dionysius is not interested in the past for its own sake, and this distinguishes him from modern historiographers. He regards historiography speeches see Bradford Welles (1966). The passage from the Panegyricus is referred to by Worthington (1994a) 111. 385 Ant. 1.1.3; 2.1; see ch. 3.3.1 below. 386 Cf. the discussion in chs. 3.2.2 and 3.3.1 below.

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as an instrument to shape collective memory. Past events are selected or disregarded according to the emotional effect they have on the readers. The criteria by which Dionysius determines the emotional value of a past event are provided by his conception of Classical Greek identity (Pomp. 3.4–5. 8–9):

ìOti d‡ ponhrÄn e“lhfen ÕpÏjesin, ka» aŒtÏc ge to‹to poieÿ faner‰n ‚n tƒ prooim–˙; pÏleic te gÄr di+aŒt‰n ‚xerhmwj®na– fhsi pollÄc <Ellhn–dac, tÄc m‡n Õp‰ barbàrwn, tÄc d+Õp‰ sf¿n aŒt¿n, ka» fugàdac ka» fjÏrouc Çnjr∏pwn Ìsouc o÷pw prÏteron genËsjai, seismo‘c te ka» aŒqmoÃc ka» nÏsouc ka» ällac pollÄc sumforàc. ìWste toÃc ÇnagnÏntac t‰ proo–mion öllotri¿sjai pr‰c tòn ÕpÏjesin, <Ellhnik¿n mËllontac Çko‘ein. […] [>HrÏdotoc] ärqeta– te Çf+ ©c a t–ac ¢rxanto pr¿ton kak¿c poieÿn toÃc ìEllhnac o… bàrbaroi, ka» proelj∞n e c tòn 〈t¿n〉 barbàrwn kÏlasin ka» timwr–an l†gei. √O d‡ Joukud–dhc Çrqòn ‚poi†sato Çf+©c ¢rxato kak¿c pràttein t‰ <EllhnikÏn […]. In his Introduction he makes it clear himself that he has chosen a bad subject, for he says that many Greek cities were laid waste because of the war, partly by barbarians and partly by one another, while there were more expulsions or massacres of whole populations than ever before, and more earthquakes, droughts, plagues and other disasters of many kinds occurred than ever before. The result of this is that readers of the Introduction feel alienated from the subject, for it is about the affairs of Greece that they are about to hear. […] [Herodotus] begins with the reasons why the barbarians injured the Greeks in the first place, and proceeds until he has described the punishment and the retribution which befell them: at which point he ends. But Thucydides made his beginning at the point where Greek affairs started to decline. 387

The comparison between Thucydides’ and Herodotus’ choice for the beginning and the end of their narratives in this passage (the second rule for good historiography, pÏjen te ärxasjai ka» mËqri po‹ proeljeÿn deÿ, Pomp. 3.8) explains why Dionysius regards Herodotus’ ‘general history of the Greek and barbarian world’ as a noble subject, whereas he disapproves of Thucydides’ work. The problem with Thucydides’ History is not that it relates sufferings – Herodotus does this, too (kak¿c poieÿn). But Herodotus tells his reader how the Barbarians, who had unlawfully attacked the Greeks, were defeated and justly punished. In stark contrast, Thucydides reports 387 Usher’s transl. modified.

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the gravest sufferings inflicted upon Greeks by Barbarians or, even worse, by other Greeks, among which the Classical Athenians played a major part. Again, Herodotus’ account is the standard against which Thucydides’ is measured, and as a result Thucydides appears almost as an anti-Herodotus: the structure of Herodotus’ work leads the readers from the Greeks being wronged to the Greeks triumphing over the enemy, from bad to good; Thucydides’ History begins with the Greeks already faring badly and ends with them faring even worse. This, Dionysius says, ‘alienates’ the readers from Thucydides’ work as early as the introduction, and in alienating them from the History, it alienates them from the Classical past itself. The readers which Dionysius envisages are first and foremost himself and the other ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ Such Classicist readers’ self-image as Greeks (cf. <Ellhnik¿n mËllontac Çko‘ein) renders it impossible to read about the misery done to and by their Classical forebears. The discussion in the preceding chapter has shown the constituents on which the self-image of Dionysius and his (ideal) reader relies: they conceive of themselves as Classical in the sense of Isocrates’ conception of Athenian identity, that is, as representatives of a set of distinctly Classical moral and political virtues. These virtues unite them with the Classical Greeks and distinguish them from their common enemy, the Barbarian Other. Herodotus’ History conforms to the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis: it describes the Greeks’ victory in the archetypal struggle against the Barbarians, the Persian War, after which the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ model their own fight against Asianism. In the Greeks of Herodotus’ History, Classicists can see themselves, and the power and superiority of the Classical Greeks provides them with a sensation of their own power and superiority over all those who do not subscribe to their ideal of Classical language and way of life; Hernadi’s ‘ego-trip,’ ‘the thrill and gratification of selfhood’ might provide a suitable model to describe how Dionysius imagines the effect of Herodotus’ work on Classicist readers. 388 The opposite is true for Thucydides: reading about the Classical Athenians being wronged by the Barbarians and by other Greeks or about them unlawfully doing harm to other Greeks contradicts the central elements of Dionysius’ image of the Classical past and, therefore, his and his readers’ self-definition as ‘Classical.’ It aggravates matters that Thucydides could have easily avoided such a negative image of Athens by arranging the events differently, above all by 388 See above, pp. 129–130.

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choosing a different starting point and end for his narrative: although the Peloponnesian War is an inherently unpleasant subject, its negative character can be modified, or even nullified, depending on how the historian contextualizes it. Dionysius himself proposes a different order of the events which would have changed the role of the Peloponnesian War in Greek history and have shed a positive light on the Athenians (Pomp. 3.9–10):

Ka» ärxasja– g+Ídei t®c dihg†sewc mò Çp‰ t¿n Kerkuraik¿n, Çll+Çp‰ t¿n krat–stwn t®c patr–doc Írgwn É metÄ t‰n Persik‰n pÏlemon eŒjÃc Ípraxan (¡n ’steron oŒk ‚n ‚pithde–˙ tÏp˙ mn†mhn ‚poi†sato fa‘lwc pwc ka» ‚x ‚pidrom®c), dieljÏnta d‡ ta‹ta metÄ poll®c eŒno–ac ±c ändra filÏpolin, Ípeit+‚penegkeÿn Ìti to‘twn fjÏn˙ ka» dËei proeljÏntec LakedaimÏnioi profàseic ÕpojËntec ·tËrac ™ljon ‚p» t‰n pÏlemon, ka» tÏte lËgein tÄ KerkuraikÄ ka» t‰ katÄ MegarËwn y†fisma ka» e“ ti ällo toio‹to lËgein ‚bo‘leto. TÄ d+‚n tËlei ple–onoc Åmart–ac pl†rh; ka–per gÄr lËgwn Ìti pant» tƒ polËm˙ paregËneto, ka» pànta dhl∏sein ÕposqÏmenoc, e c tòn naumaq–an teleutî tòn per» Kun‰c s®ma gegenhmËnhn >Ajhna–wn ka» Peloponnhs–wn […]. Kreÿtton d+™n diexeljÏnta pànta teleutòn poi†sasjai t®c …stor–ac tòn jaumasiwtàthn ka» màlista toÿc Çko‘ousi keqarismËnhn, tòn kàjodon t¿n fugàdwn t¿n Çp‰ F‘lhc, Çf+©c ô pÏlic ÇrxamËnh tòn ‚leujer–an ‚kom–sato. He might have begun his narrative not with the events at Corcyra, but with his country’s splendid achievements immediately after the Persian War (achievements he mentions later at an inappropriate point in a rather grudging and cursory way). After he had described these events with all the good will of a patriot, he might then have added that it was through a growing feeling of envy and fear that the Lacedaemonians came to engage in the war, although they alleged motives of a different kind. He might then have described the events at Corcyra and the decree against the Megarians, and anything else of the kind that he wished to mention. The concluding portion of the narrative is dominated by an even more serious fault. Although he states that he was an eye-witness of the whole war, and has promised to describe everything that occurred, yet he ends with the sea-battle which took place off Cynossema between the Athenians and the Peloponnesians […]. It would have been better, after describing all the events of the war, to end his history with a climax, and one that was most remarkable and especially gratifying to his audience, the return of the exiles from Phyle, which marked the beginning of the city’s recovering of freedom.

Dionysius is re-writing Thucydides’ version of the past in Herodotean terms: as Herodotus’ History described how the Greeks were wronged by

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the Barbarians and ended with their splendid triumph, Thucydides should have attributed all responsibility to the Lacedaemonians: out of personal and irrational motives (fjÏn˙ ka» dËei) they attacked the Athenians whose integrity was beyond doubt because of the extraordinary service they performed for their country in the Persian War. In the end the Athenians re-establish the cornerstone of Athenian democracy, freedom (‚leujer–a), despite the sufferings they endured during the Peloponnesian War, just as Herodotus’ account ends with the assertion of Greek virtue and ‚leujer–a over Barbarian vices and slavery by the ‘punishment and the retribution’ of the Persians. A version of the Peloponnesian War which creates a favourable image of the Athenians would have conformed to the first rule of good historiography and presented the reader with an agreeable subject ([ÕpÏjesin] jaumasiwtàthn ka» màlista toÿc Çko‘ousi keqarismËnhn); this positive portrayal of their idols, in turn, would have allowed them to identify with the Classical past emotionally. Dionysius’ alternative version of Thucydides’ presentation of the Peloponnesian War is not only inspired by the key elements of Herodotus’ interpretation of the Persian War. Dionysius also combines two strategies from Classical Athenian rhetoric to play down the Peloponnesian War: 389 as mentioned above, it was common practice in Classical speeches to divert attention from the negative events of the War by focusing on the Athenians’ achievements against the Persians. But the defeat at Aigos Potamoi was also re-interpreted as a ‘moral victory’ of the Athenians and as an example of Athenian bravery by, for example, Demosthenes (22.15), Lysias (2.58), and Isocrates (14.39–41). 390 In a similar way, Classical orators glossed over the rule of the ‘Thirty Tyrants’ after the Peloponnesian War: although, as Pownall points out, the orators sometimes mention the terror exerted by the Thirty, ‘they usually draw out of this episode something that reflects positively upon the Athenian democracy,’391 for example by focusing on ‘the reconciliation that took place after the democratic victory, when the opposing groups vowed to put aside their differences and live in harmony.’392 Dionysius’ suggestions for a different order of the events in Thucydides’

389 390 391 392

Cf. Aujac V, 89 n. 8. Pownall (2004) 43. Ibid. Pownall (2004) 42–43 and n. 27, citing as evidence Andocides 1.140, Lysias 2.63–65 and 25.28, Isocrates 7.67 and 18.46, Demosthenes 40.32, and Aeschines 1.39, 2.176, and 3.208.

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History, which would have resulted in a positive portrayal of the Athenians, implement Classical rhetorical practice. At the same time, these suggestions further substantiate his allegation that Thucydides deliberately refused to write a historical work that was favourable to the Athenians: Thucydides could have easily presented an entirely different image of the past, but chose not to. Dionysius substantiates this point throughout his discussion: Thucydides, he says, was aware that ‘he has chosen a bad subject’ (Ìti d‡ ponhrÄn e“lhfen ÕpÏjesin, ka» aŒtÏc ge to‹to poieÿ faner‰n ‚n tƒ prooim–˙, Pomp. 3.4), and Dionysius repeatedly attributes peculiarities of Thucydides’ account to logismÏc, ‘reasoning,’ (e.g., Thuc. 15.2; 18.1) or intentions (e. g., Thuc. 19.1; 24.2; cf. boulÏmenoc and ·k∏n at Pomp. 3.6–7 below). 393 In so doing, Dionysius demonstrates that the interpretation of an event depends on its presentation and, thus, on the intentions of the historian. This casts doubt on the reliability of Thucydides’ image of the past: the negative image of Athens and of the Athenians in Thucydides’ work is the result of a choice, and not an absolute truth. The motivation behind Thucydides’ choice was his desire to take revenge on the Athenians for his exile. His interpretation of the past is the result of his alienation from Athens and the Athenians, and this causes the readers’ alienation from his work. 394 As the next quotation shows, Dionysius thinks of an author as encapsulating his attitude towards his subject in the structure and arrangement of his account, its ‘disposition’ (diàjesic). Thus the author transfers his own feelings into reading experience and thus enables his readers to share it (Pomp. 3.15):


393 The (re)construction of an author’s intention is an important element of Dionysius’ conception of an ‘authentic’ reading: readers in the first century BCE can experience a Classical text as it was experienced by the Classical hearers by reconstructing the effect which the author had intended his text to have on the recipients, see ch. 4.2.4 below. 394 On ‘Ancient Views on the Causes of Bias in Historical Writing’ see Luce (1989), who mentions Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides at 20.

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The attitude of Herodotus is fair throughout, showing pleasure in the good and distress at the bad. That of Thucydides, on the other hand, is outspoken and harsh, revealing the grudge which he felt against his native city for his exile. He recites a catalogue of her mistakes, going into them in minute detail; but when things go according to plan he either does not mention them at all, or only like a man under constraint.

The last sentence shows that diàjesic does not refer to explicit comments of the historical narrator about the events but to the general manner in which these events are arranged and presented: failures and negative events are given ample room in Thucydides, but positive achievements and successes of the Athenians are mentioned only reluctantly. A historian conveys his interpretation of the events through the form and structure of his account. Also the choice of the beginning and end influences the diàjesic of a historical narrative, as is illustrated by Dionysius’ criticism of the beginning and ending of Thucydides’ History at Pomp. 3.9–10, which was discussed above. Thucydides, Dionysius says, mentions the Athenians’ ‘splendid achievements’ after the Persian War only ‘at an inappropriate point in a rather grudging and cursory way,’ and Dionysius demonstrates how this could be corrected by a simple change in the order of events and by the choice of a different beginning and ending. 395 The length and elaboration of an episode (‚xergas–a) in general are signals to the reader as to how to judge an event: important and positive events deserve long treatment, less important or negative events must be treated in a short and cursory way. 396 To name only one example, Dionysius criticizes Thucydides for dealing with the embassy in 430 BCE, which the Athenians sent to the Spartans under enormous hardship, when their ‘land had been ravaged and their city depopulated by the plague, despairing of every other remedy’ (Thuc. 14.3), 397 in an ‘indifferent and careless manner, as if the episode were a minor one of no importance’ (fa‘lwc dË pwc ka» ˚¯j‘mwc ±c per» mikr¿n ka» ÇdÏxwn pragmàtwn ta‹ta e“rhke, ibid.). 398 The embassy of the enemy, the Spartans, by contrast, is given detailed treatment (Çkrib¿c, Thuc. 15.1) in Thucydides’ account. Dionysius 395 Cf. Dionysius’ more detailed discussion of this point at Thuc. 10.3–5. 396 Dionysius discusses ‚xergas–a in detail in Thuc. 13. 397 ìOte >Ajhnaÿoi tetmhmËnhc m‡n aŒtoÿc t®c q∏rac, o kofjorhmËnhc d‡ t®c pÏlewc Õp‰ loimo‹, pêsan ÇpognÏntec bo†jeian ällhn ÇpËsteilan presbe–an e c Spàrthn e r†nhc tuqeÿn deÏmenoi […]. 398 Usher’s transl. modified.

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regards this as a clear sign of bias: Thucydides wanted to diminish the toils and hardships of the Athenians by focusing on the Spartans (Thuc. 15.2): ‘I cannot imagine why he attached more importance to the Spartan than to the Athenian [embassy] – more to the later than to the earlier, to the enemy’s rather than to his own city’s, to the one made under the lighter rather than under the greater weight of misfortune’ (oŒk Íqw sumbaleÿn katÄ t– tòn Lakwnikòn proËkrine t®c >Attik®c mêllon, tòn ÕstËran

toÿc qrÏnoic Çnt» t®c protËrac ka» tòn Çllotr–an Çnt» t®c  d–ac ka» tòn ‚p+‚llàttosi kakoÿc genomËnhn Çnt» t®c ‚p» me–zosi). 399 Through these and similar devices a historian encodes his attitude towards his subject into the structure of the narrative; the image of the past, which results from this structure, creates a sensation of pleasure or displeasure in the readers. 400 Herodotus is sympathetic with the Greeks, he shares their joy in triumphs (sunhdomËnh) and their distress at failures (sunalgo‹sa). His narrative passes these feelings on to the readers and involves them emotionally in the past so that they identify with the Classical Athenians. The disposition of Thucydides’ work is the opposite: it is pikrÏc, literally ‘bitter, esp. of what yields pain instead of pleasure,’ 401 and hostile. It is a direct reflection of Thucydides’ disturbed relationship with his native city and passes it on to the readers as a sensation of alienation. The result is a paradox: though written by a Greek and an Athenian, his work is incompatible with Greek and Athenian identity: 402 ‘this should not have 399 At Thuc. 19.1 Dionysius counts the lines which Thucydides dedicates to the events between the Persian and the Peloponnesian War in his proem and concludes that the importance of the events would have required a longer treatment: ‘One can see even better the unevenness of the historian’s treatment if one considers that, while omitting many important events, he nevertheless makes his introduction some five hundred lines long as he attempts to prove that prior to this war the Greeks achieved little, and nothing worthy to be compared with it’ (Íti d‡ mêllon “doi tic ãn t‰ per» tÄc ‚xergas–ac to‹ suggrafËwc Çn∏malon ‚pilogisàmenoc Ìti, pollÄ ka» megàla pràgmata paralip∏n, t‰ proo–mion t®c …stor–ac mËqri pentakos–wn ‚kmhk‘nei

st–qwn, tÄ pr‰ to‹de to‹ polËmou praqjËnta toÿc ìEllhsi mikrÄ boulÏmenoc Çpodeÿxai ka» oŒk äxia tƒde parabàllesjai, emphases mine). 400 Cf. Marincola (2003) 306–307. 401 LSJ, p. 1404, s.v. III.1. 402 Thucydides’ rejection of his Athenian identity is also manifest in the language of the speeches which Dionysius defines as incompatible with Athenian political and social life at Thuc. 49.2–3: Thucydides’ diction is so strange and remote from normal language, Dionysius asserts, that the Athenians would have needed an interpreter to understand each other if they had really spoken like the characters in the History. See the discussion of this passage in chapter 5.2.2, pp. 328–329.

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been done by a Greek and an Athenian, especially an Athenian who was not one of the outcasts, but one whom his fellow citizens counted among their foremost men in appointing to commands and other offices of state’ (Ìper ìEllhna Ónta ka» >Ajhnaÿon oŒk Ídei poieÿn (ka» ta‹ta oŒ t¿n ÇperrimmËnwn Ónta, Çll+¡n ‚n pr∏toic ™gon >Ajhnaÿoi strathgi¿n te ka» t¿n ällwn tim¿n Çxio‹ntec), Pomp. 3.9). 403 This un-Athenian character of the History culminates in Dionysius’ description of Thucydides’ diàjesic as ‘revealing the grudge which he felt against his native city for his exile’ (t¨ patr–di t®c fug®c mnhsikako‹sa, Pomp. 3.15). In Classical oratory mò mnhsikakeÿn is a technical term meaning ‘to pass an act of amnesty.’ This procedure was official Athenian policy after the defeat in the Peloponnesian War and the overthrow of the Thirty in order to restore civic order between the democratic and the oligarchic parties. But the expression had been used in a more general sense already in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata (411 BCE) where it referred to the refusal to speak about the horrible events of the Peloponnesian War.404 Thucydides’ diàjesic mnhsikako‹sa contradicts both senses of the term: Thucydides did speak about the Peloponnesian War, although he should not have, and, by doing so, he himself refused to pass an act of amnesty on the Athenians for his exile. 405 Thucydides’ bitterness and hostility is the reason for his choice of 403 This statement might imply a contradiction to Polybius who argued that historians might well and, indeed, should be patriots and loyal to their friends in their private lives, but should drop this attitude in their works (Plb. 1.14.4–5, criticizing Philinus and Fabius): ‘In other relations of life we should not perhaps exclude such favouritism; for a good man should love his friends and his country, he should share the hatreds and attachments of his friends; but he who assumes the role of a historian must ignore everything of the sort […] (‚n m‡n ofin tƒ loipƒ b–˙ tòn toia‘thn ‚pie–keian “swc

oŒk än tic ‚kbàlloi ka» gÄr filÏfilon e⁄nai deÿ t‰n Çgaj‰n ändra ka» filÏpatrin ka» summiseÿn toÿc f–loic toÃc ‚qjroÃc ka» sunagapên toÃc f–louc. ìOtan d‡ t‰ t®c …stor–ac ™joc Çnalambàn˘ tic, ‚pilajËsjai qrò pàntwn t¿n toio‘twn […], Paton’s transl. modified). On Dionysius and Polybius see below, ch. 3.3.1, pp. 194–198. 404 Lys. 590, quoted in Shrimpton (1997) 171; he translates mnhsikakeÿn as ‘to call (past) evils to mind’ (ibid. 165). The passage suggests that already during the war the events of the war were a taboo subject in Athens. 405 Shrimpton (1997) gives an interpretation of the History which is similar to Dionysius’, without mentioning him. He refers to Andocides, who relates in 1.79–80 that after the terror of the Thirty the Athenians had sworn not to ‘mnhsikakeÿn against any citizen, barring only the Thirty and their senior executive officers from prosecution’ (165). Reading this passage alongside Lys. 586–590 (see preceding note and discussion in the text), Shrimpton argues that although ‘technically Thucydides’ investigation of the last years of the war was no breach of the amnesty […] it would be difficult for him to

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an ugly subject and for the improper arrangement of his material and thus creates the bitter and hostile disposition of his work. The History reflects Thucydides’ refusal to identify with his native city and the Athenians and transfers his alienation from Classical Athens to the readers, in whom it manifests itself as an alienation from both the text and the past. This allows Dionysius to define Thucydides’ work as not representative of Classical historiography. Thucydides deliberately refused to write an account which conformed to the Classical standard. Technically, Thucydides is a Classical author, but he is an isolated figure and stands outside the Classical tradition. Therefore, Classicist readers do not have to take his image of the Athenians and his account of the Peloponnesian War seriously. Thucydides achieved this alienating effect of his work by consequently rejecting not only traditional subjects, but also traditional modes of presentation. His deliberate isolation as a Greek and an Athenian goes hand-in-hand with his isolation within literary tradition. The result is his idiosyncratic mode of diction and narration: in order to compose his un-Greek version of the past, he had to reject the usual forms of Greek historical narrative. The most compelling proof for Thucydides’ rejection of tradition is found in his ‘archaeology’ (Pomp. 3.6–7):

oŒd‡ gÄr oŒd‡ to‹to Ínestin e peÿn Ìti di+Çnàgkhn ™ljen ‚p» ta‘thn tòn graf†n, ‚pistàmenoc 〈m‡n ±c〉 ‚keÿna kall–w, boulÏmenoc d‡ mò taŒtÄ ·tËroic gràfein; pên gÄr toŒnant–on ‚n tƒ prooim–˙ dias‘rwn tÄ palaiÄ Írga mËgista ka» jaumasi∏tata tÄ kaj+ ·aut‰n ‚pitelesjËnta fhs»n e⁄nai, ka» fanerÏc ‚sti ta‹ta ·k∞n ·lÏmenoc. OŒ mòn
avoid implicit accusations, and in the lesser, Aristophanic sense he was engaged in an act of mnesikakein, contrary to the spirit of the amnesty’ (166).

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published works on the same subject, he was not deterred, but trusted in his own ability to produce something better; and this is what he has done.

The stark contrast between the positive, even praiseful, adjectives mËgista ka» jaumasi∏tata, which qualify the ‘achievements of [Thucydides’] own day,’ and the expression dias‘rwn, literally ‘tear in pieces, disparage, ridicule,’ which characterizes Thucydides’ treatment of the Athenians’ past achievements, underscores Thucydides’ contemptuous attitude towards tradition. Dionysius is probably referring to Thucydides’ treatment of the Trojan and the Persian Wars in his proem (Th. 1.9–10, 18, 23), especially 1.23.1,406 where Thucydides summarizes and dismisses in only two lines the Trojan and the Persian Wars as of minor importance compared to the Peloponnesian War. 407 In particular, Thucydides’ curt dismissal of the Persian War stands in stark contrast to Herodotus who dedicated a whole work to this event. Given that Dionysius’ conception of Classical identity was for the most part based on the Persian Wars, this passage was no doubt a provocation to him. But the link between Thucydides’ rejection of tradition and identity becomes apparent only when it is considered against Dionysius’ conception of mimesis. As seen in chapter 2.2.2, mimesis is crucial to the Classicists’ desire to be Classical and to enact their Classical identity through their texts. The principle of proper mimesis is self-confidently to re-work the tradition and to create a style ‘in the Classical spirit’ which is both Classical and one’s own. 406 ‘The greatest achievement of former times was the Persian war, and yet this was quickly decided in two sea-fights and two land-battles. But the Peloponnesian war was protracted to a great length, and in the course of it disasters befell Hellas the like of which had never occurred in any equal space of time’ (t¿n d‡ prÏteron Írgwn mËgiston ‚pràqjh t‰ MhdikÏn, ka» to‹to Ìmwc duoÿn naumaq–ain ka» pezomaq–ain taqeÿan tòn kr–sin Ísqen. To‘tou d‡ to‹ polËmou m®kÏc te mËga pro‘bh, paj†matà te xunhnËqjh genËsjai ‚n aŒtƒ t¨ <Ellàdi oŸa oŒq Ètera ‚n “s˙ qrÏn˙). 407 Thus Dionysius explains one of Thucydides’ major innovations, the ordering of the events by season, as a result of his attempt to isolate himself (Thuc. 9.3). Dionysius’ assertion at Thuc. 9.10 that no other writer after Thucydides ever adopted his division in summers and winters is not true. As Aujac IV, 55 n. 1 points out, the author of the Hellenica Oxyrhynchia did adopt Thucydides’ system, as did Xenophon at the beginning of his Hellenica, although he abandoned it quite soon afterwards; probably, Hieronymus of Cardia also organized his narrative by campaigning seasons, see Hornblower (1995) 51; on Thucydides’ division of his material by summer and winter and an (in my opinion unconvincing) attempt to link this to ancient mnemonic techniques see Shrimpton (1997) 192–195 and his Appendix 2 (266–286). Hornblower (1995) deals with the reception of Thucydides in the fourth century and Hellenistic times.

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Only thus can tradition be kept alive and continuity be established between past and present. The same interconnection of literature, tradition, and identity underlies Dionysius’ assessment of Thucydides’ and Herodotus’ respective attitude towards tradition. Dionysius connects Herodotus’ good choice of subject matter and his positive attitude towards the Athenians, which allows Classicist readers to identify with their past, with his attempt to work with and surpass the historical tradition (Pomp. 3.6–7 above).408 Herodotus applies the ‘natural’ kind of mimesis which Dionysius describes in On Imitation and On Dinarchus, and his method anticipates the programmatic opening paragraph of Isocrates’ Panegyricus in which Isocrates defines the attempt to re-work subjects which have been dealt with by previous authors so as to deal with them better as the essence of good writing.409 Herodotus’ method to express his identification with the Athenians and their achievements by re-working literary tradition exemplifies the Classicists’ own method to achieve and enact Classical identity. All those features of Thucydides’ account which are at odds with previous historical writing, such as his choice of subject, his singular diction, and his division of the events by season, manifest Thucydides’ rejection of 408 Dionysius emphasizes this point again at On Thucydides 5.5: ‘[Herodotus] enlarged the scope and added to the splendour of the subject […] furthermore, he invested his style with all the virtues which previous historians had neglected’ ([
per» t¿n aŒt¿n pollaq¿c ‚xhg†sasjai ka» tà te megàla tapeinÄ poi®sai ka» toÿc mikroÿc mËgejoc perijeÿnai, ka» tà te palaiÄ kain¿c dieljeÿn ka» per» t¿n newst» gegenhmËnwn Çrqa–wc e peÿn, oŒkËti feuktËon ta‹t+‚st», per» ¡n Èteroi prÏteron e r†kasin, Çll+ämeinon ‚ke–nwn e peÿn peiratËon. A… m‡n gÄr pràxeic a… progegenhmËnai koina» pêsin ômÿn katele–fjhsan, t‰ d+‚n kairƒ ta‘taic kataqr†sasjai ka» tÄ pros†konta per» ·kàsthc ‚njumhj®nai ka» toÿc ÊnÏmasin efi diajËsjai t¿n efi frono‘ntwn “diÏn ‚stin, emphasis mine). The last sentence in particular seems to encapsulate Dionysius’ approach to historiography.

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Athenian identity: historiographers before Thucydides, and Herodotus in particular, had described the events in which the Athenians had excelled and on which their fame was based. Since Thucydides intended to denigrate the positive image of Athens, he had to refute traditional subjects and modes of representation, too, because these had been favourable to the Athenians. For Dionysius, the originality of Thucydides’ work, which is so highly appreciated by modern readers, and the effect of the un-familiar which it creates, 410 is thus partly responsible for the effect of ‘alienation’ on the Classicist reader envisaged by Dionysius, which is, in turn, an expression of Thucydides’ own alienation from Classical Athenian identity. We can now understand why Thucydides’ History was such a problem for Dionysius and how he attempted to solve this problem. Being a Classicist is based on identity through tradition: the basis of a Classicist’s self-definition is the conviction that he is re-enacting the Classical ideal; language and literature are the means to achieve the desired continuity with the Classical past or, more precisely, with the Classicist’s idea of the Classical past. Hence to Dionysius, originality in literature means not absolute originality, but originality along the lines of tradition. Originality is a way to preserve by improving: good writers are good writers because they deal with the same subjects in the same manner as the Classical writers – only better, if possible. Therefore only the familiar, familiar subjects and familiar modes of presenting them, is acceptable and enjoyable: familiarity confirms continuity, and continuity is established by continuously re-working the material provided by tradition. The Classicist’s Classical tradition is a construction from a selective reading of Classical oratory. It is based on an idealized, Isocratean conception of Athenian politics and morals, which manifests itself in the Greek, especially the Athenian, superiority over the Barbarians, the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis. 411 Events like the Peloponnesian War, which do not fit this image, have to be re-interpreted so as to make them fit; the way Classical orators glossed over the War in their speeches demonstrates how this is to be done, and Dionysius applies this procedure to suggest a different

410 At Thuc. 9.8 Dionysius criticizes the ordering by seasons (cf. above n. 407) because of its unpleasant effect on the readers: ‘we wander here and there, and have difficulty in following the sequence of the events described, because our mind is confused […]’ (plan∏meja dò […] ka» duskÏlwc toÿc dhloumËnoic parakolojo‹men, tarattomËnhc […] t®c diano–ac […]). 411 Cf. ch. 2.3.1 above.

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arrangement of Thucydides’ account. Classical rhetoric and the orators’ use of history are the yard-stick against which Dionysius measures historical works; they determine both the parameters of an author’s portrayal of the Greeks in Classical times and the Classicist readers’ acceptance of a work. Classicist readers expect a historian to confirm their idealized image of the Classical past and, thus, the basis of their self-definition. Herodotus’ History conforms to this ideal: the subject of his work describes the superiority of the Greeks over the Barbarians in the Persian Wars, and both in subject matter and style Herodotus anticipated the Isocratean, and Classicist, principle of literary production, that literature has to preserve tradition. Thus Herodotus’ whole work, its diàjesic, reflects the accordance with the Classicist image of the past, and this accordance, in turn, is reflected by the reader’s pleasure in the History: readers like Dionysius, Classicist readers, take delight in the History because they can share their veneration for the Classical Athenians with the Classical historiographer himself. The Classicists’ pleasure in historical writing is pleasure in the familiar. Problems arise if a historical work does not conform to the Classical standard, because it questions the Classicists’ image of the past and, with it, the basis of their self-definition. Thucydides’ History turned this image of the past upside-down. Unlike Herodotus, Thucydides did not portray the Greeks as morally and politically superior to the Barbarians, but described how the Greeks suffered hardship from both the Barbarians and from each other and how the Athenians inflicted destruction upon themselves; far from making an attempt to gloss over the catastrophic impact of the Peloponnesian War, he chose this subject on purpose because the Greeks’ sufferings (paj†mata) had no precedent in history (Th.1.23.1); at the same time, he overtly refused to write yet another history on the traditional topics, the Trojan and Persian Wars, and maintained that the fame and the alleged importance of these events relied on questionable foundations (Th. 1.20.1). Thus the subject, the presentation of the material, and the diction of Thucydides’ History were at odds with the tradition of historiography. To Dionysius, whose world view was based on continuity with the past through language, style, and subject matter, Thucydides’ claim to absolute originality was a provocation and threatened to undermine his conception of the Classical. Dionysius finds a simple solution to this problem: Thucydides’ work is un-Greek and un-Athenian, in short, un-Classical, because Thucydides wanted it to be like this. Thucydides wanted to take revenge on the Athenians for his exile and he used his work to achieve his aim. Since the representatives of historical tradition, such as Herodotus, wrote accounts

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which were favourable to the Athenians, Thucydides’ rejection of Athenian identity necessarily entailed a rejection of the historical tradition. Dionysius is deliberately oversimplifying the relationship between Thucydides and literary tradition to prove his main point: Thucydides did not want to conform to the standard, neither literary nor linguistic nor moral, of his times and neglected the obligations to his native city (Ìper ìEllhna Ónta ka» >Ajhnaÿon oŒk Ídei poieÿn (ka» ta‹ta oŒ t¿n ÇperrimmËnwn Ónta,

Çll+¡n ‚n pr∏toic ™gon >Ajhnaÿoi strathgi¿n te ka» t¿n ällwn tim¿n Çxio‹ntec), Pomp. 3.9). Therefore neither his portrayal of the Athenians needs to be taken at face-value nor are his diction or his presentation of the material to be regarded as an example of Classical language and style, let alone proper Classical historiography. The remainder of this section will pursue two aspects which are related to the foregoing considerations. The first one concerns Dionysius’ conception of Classical historiography. Can we get a more precise idea of how Dionysius imagined proper history to be written? Dionysius’ discussion of Theopompus of Chios provides an answer to that question. Dionysius describes Theopompus’ work as an example of ‘Isocratean’ historiography: Theopompus focused on the moral motivations of the historical actors; he pointed out their virtues and laid bare their vices, so that his work has the same ‘ethical’ influence upon the reader as Isocrates’ speeches.412 The second aspect regards Dionysius’ criticism as an instrument to shape his reader’s image of the past. Dionysius’ proposal for a different beginning and ending of Thucydides’ History shows that criticism not only points out Thucydides’ mistakes, but aims actively to correct Thucydides’ distorted image of the Classical past. Dionysius’ discussion of the Melian Dialogue is a good example to illustrate how Dionysius uses his criticism to substitute Thucydides’ ‘inappropriate’ portrayal of the Athenians with an appropriate, Isocratean, one. 3.2.2 Classicist History: Theopompus’ ‘Isocratean’ Approach to the Past Although Isocrates never wrote a historical work proper, Dionysius lists him as a model for historical writing alongside Herodotus and Thucydides in his discussion of Xenophon, Philistus, and Theopompus in the Letter 412 On the moral effect which Dionysius ascribes to Isocrates’ speeches see ch. 2.2.1 above.

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to Pompeius 4–6. Dionysius categorizes the three fourth-century historians according to the model they followed. Xenophon was an emulator of Herodotus (Ajhna–wn, É LakedaimÏnioi kajeÿlon, afijic Çn–stantai, ibid.). This passage should be read alongside Dionysius’ criticism of the ending of Thucydides’ History at Pomp. 3.10. 414 Thucydides, he argued there, should have ended his account with ‘the return of the exiles from Phyle, which marked the beginning of the city’s recovering of freedom.’ Dionysius approves of the Hellenica, because Xenophon’s account corrects Thucydides’ failure; furthermore, starting with a positive event in Athenian history, Xenophon demonstrates his positive attitude towards Athens. Xenophon’s adherence to Classical virtues manifests itself also in his ethos, his qualities of character, which are revealed by his work. Xenophon is conspicuous for ‘piety, justice, perseverance, and affability – a character, in short, which is adorned with all the virtues’ (™jÏc te ‚pide–knutai jeoseb‡c ka» d–kaion ka» karterik‰n ka» eŒpetËc, Åpàsaic te sull†bdhn kekosmhmËnon Çretaÿc, Pomp. 4.2). These virtues recall the set of virtues on which Isocrates’ conception of Athenian identity is based; Xenophon implemented them in his work and, in so doing, provided positive moral examples for his readers. 415 Just as Dionysius had compared Herodotus with Thucydides, he compares Xenophon, an emulator of Herodotus, with an emulator of Thucydides. Philistus’ narrative presents the same, or even worse flaws than Thucydides’ (Pomp. 5). His ethos is incompatible with Classical values:

413 Contrast Cic. de or. 2.14.58: Cicero points out Xenophon’s philosophical background but does not mention that he was a follower of Herodotus (a philosophia profectus princeps Xenophon, Socraticus ille […]); cf. Pownall (2004) 110 on the influence of Socratic ideas on Xenophon’s historical method. 414 See above, pp. 136–140. 415 On Xenophon’s Hellenica see Pownall (2004) 65–112; she points out that Xenophon is ‘the first historian to make the moral paradigm the central focus of his works’ (85); thus he became the model for historians in the late fourth century and in Hellenistic and Roman times (110).

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he was ‘a fawning tyrant-lover, mean and petty’ (™jÏc te kolakik‰n ka» filot‘rannon ‚mfa–nei ka» tapein‰n ka» mikrolÏgon, Pomp. 5.2).416 Dionysius reserves the most detailed treatment for the historian whom he appreciates most: the entire sixth chapter of the Letter to Pompeius is devoted to Theopompus, and the length of Dionysius’ discussion is an indicator of Dionysius’ high opinion of the historiographer. 417 Theopompus is distinguished from both Xenophon and Philistus because he was as accomplished an orator as a historian. Since he had learned his skills from no less than Isocrates (Pomp. 6.1), 418 his work is of the highest quality. Dionysius approves of Theopompus’ choice of subject and praises his arrangement of material (o konom–a) as ‘lucid and easy to follow’ (eŒparakolo‘jhtoi ka» safeÿc, Pomp. 6.2), a quality which sets Theopompus apart from the choice of subject and its arrangement in both Thucydides’ and Philistus’ works. The variety of Theopompus’ subject matter (t‰ pol‘morfon t®c graf®c, Pomp. 6.3) and the broad range of knowledge it offers to the readers (Pomp. 6.4) provide the wealth of information necessary for the ‘practitioners of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†’ (toÿc Çsko‹si tòn filÏsofon ˚htorik†n, Pomp. 6.5); additionally, they make his work an enjoyable read (yuqagwg–a, Pomp. 6.4).419 Dionysius makes special mention of ‘the philosophical comments

416 In contrast to Dionysius, Cicero, de or. 2.13.57, does not judge Philistus for his close acquaintance with the Sicilian tyrant Dionysius, but confines himself to mentioning that he was Dionysi tyranni familiarissimus. 417 On Theopompus’ Philippica see the discussion in Pownall (2004) 143–175; on Theopompus in general see Flower (1994). Avenarius (1956) 161–162 argued that Dionysius’ discussion in Pomp. 6 is directed against Polybius’ criticism of Theopompus at 8.10.1–2 and 12, a view which is accepted by Gozzoli (1976) 162. 418 Cf. ibid. 419 ‘Who will not admit that it is necessary for “practitioners of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†” to acquire a thorough knowledge of the many customs of the barbarians and the Greeks, to hear about the various laws and forms of government, the lives of their men and their exploits, their deaths and their fortunes? For them he has provided an absolute abundance of material, not divorced from the events narrated, but side by side with them’ (t–c oŒq

Âmolog†sei toÿc Çsko‹si tòn filÏsofon ˚htorikòn Çnagkaÿon e⁄nai pollÄ m‡n Íjh ka» barbàrwn ka» <Ell†nwn ‚kmajeÿn, polloÃc d‡ nÏmouc Çko‹sai politei¿n te sq†mata, ka» b–ouc Çndr¿n ka» pràxeic ka» tËlh ka» t‘qac; To‘toic to–nun âpasin Çfjon–an dËdwken oŒk ÇpespasmËnhn t¿n pragmàtwn ÇllÄ sumparo‹san, Usher’s transl. modified). The idea that history provides the orator-politician with information that is essential for effective speeches dates back at least to Aristotle (Rh. 1360a31– 37). It plays an important role in the discussion of the relation between rhetoric and historiography in the second book of Cicero’s De Oratore (2.15.62–63) and is part of the

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scattered throughout the whole of his history in which [Theopompus] reflects at length on justice, piety and the other virtues, and utters some fine statements’ (filosofeÿ par+Ìlhn tòn 〈suggrafòn per»〉 dikaios‘nhc ka»

eŒsebe–ac ka» t¿n ällwn Çret¿n polloÃc ka» kaloÃc diexerqÏmenoc lÏgouc, Pomp. 6.6).420 Dionysius probably has these moral tendencies of Theopompus’ work in mind when turning to what he calls Theopompus’ ‘final and most characteristic accomplishment […] which no other historian, either before or since, has achieved with comparable exactness or effect’ (teleutaÿÏn ‚sti t¿n Írgwn aŒto‹ ka» qarakthrik∏taton, Á par+oŒden» t¿n ällwn suggrafËwn o’twc Çkrib¿c ‚xe–rgastai ka» dunat¿c o÷te t¿n presbutËrwn o÷te t¿n newtËrwn, Pomp. 6.7): t‰ kaj+·kàsthn prêxin mò mÏnon tÄ fanerÄ toÿc polloÿc Ârên ka» lËgein, Çll+‚xetàzein ka» tÄc Çfaneÿc a t–ac t¿n pràxewn ka» t¿n praxàntwn aŒtÄc ka» tÄ pàjh t®c yuq®c, É mò ˚ådia toÿc polloÿc e dËnai, ka» pànta ‚kkal‘ptein tÄ must†ria t®c te doko‘shc Çret®c ka» t®c ÇgnooumËnhc kak–ac. It is the ability, in the case of every action, not only to see and to state what is obvious to most people, but to examine even the hidden reasons for actions and the motives of their agents, and the feelings in their hearts (which most people do not find easy to discern), and to reveal all the mysteries of apparent virtue and undetected vice.

larger notion of history as magistra vitae (ibid. 2.9.36), on which see, e.g., Gabba (1981), esp. 54; Malitz (1990) 325–326. 420 Pownall (2004) 148–151 provides a list of virtues which Theopompus seems to have approved of: ‘justice, piety, trustworthiness and loyalty toward one’s friends and allies, moderation, and self-control are important moral virtues for Theopompus’ (151); cf. Flower (1994) 63–97. It is a controversial question in modern scholarship whether Theopompus really was a pupil of Isocrates, cf. Flower (1994) 42–62 (contra) with Pownall (2004) 27–29. The moralizing tendencies and the values and ideas propagated by Theopompus (but also by Xenophon and Ephorus) are thought to reflect the views of the intellectual elite of the fourth century BCE in general rather than Isocrates’ in particular; Pownall (2004) 141–142, 151; Flower (1994) 90–97. Nevertheless, both scholars note the striking similarities between key ideas of Isocrates’ and Theopompus’ works, e.g., Flower (1994) 90; Pownall (2004) 175. However, for Dionysius there is no doubt that Theopompus’ historical method and the moral tendency of his work were due to his teacher Isocrates. Dionysius would certainly not have subscribed to Flower’s (1994) opinion that Isocrates influenced only Theopompus’ style but not the ‘form and content’ of his works (62), but see Bradford Welles (1966) 12.

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The antithesis of ‘obvious’ and ‘hidden’ causes is reminiscent of Thucydides’ distinction between ‘true’ and ‘apparent’ causes. Theopompus, however, seems to have laid stronger stress on the reasons hidden in the souls of the actors (tÄ pàjh t®c yuq®c), thus giving his work a moral slant: the enquiry into the ‘hidden motives of the agents’ permitted Theopompus to distinguish between actions which were really motivated by the actors’ virtues and actions in which noble motives were only a pretext for selfish interests.421 The central role of Isocrates as the theoretician of Classical moral and political virtues in Dionysius’ Classicism explains why Dionysius so strongly approves of the emphasis on the ‘feelings in [the] hearts’ of the historical actors and of ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’ in Theopompus’ narrative. Theopompus made virtues and vices the decisive forces in history; he pointed out which motivations were worthy of praise or blame, showed the consequences of actions which were motivated by either, and thus provided models of behaviour for his readers. Dionysius regards Theopompus as an ‘Isocrates of historiography’: like his teacher, he used his works as an instrument of civic education and, in particular, aimed to correct moral and political misbehaviour through harsh judgments on the historical actors and their achievements or failures. Dionysius illustrates the salutary effects of Theopompus’ works on the soul by comparing it to a surgeon’s ‘cut[ting] and cauteris[ing] the morbid parts of the body’ (Pomp. 6.8). 422 Their moral 421 Various ancient historiographers and critics accused Theopompus of pikr–a, i.e., of expressing his opinion on the historical actors and their actions in a harsh and judgmental fashion, e.g., Polybius (8.11–12); Nepos, Alc. 11; Lucian, Quomodo 59; Cicero sets ‘Theopompean’ on a par with ‘polemical’ at Att. 2.6 (these references are quoted in Gozzoli [1976] 173 n. 79). Gozzoli (1976) argues convincingly that Dionysius seeks to mitigate this criticism by re-interpreting Theopompus’ alleged harshness as honest judgment (‘franchezza,’ 173 and n. 80); cf. Marincola (2003) 309–310. It was a commonplace in ancient historical criticism that frank judgment was the prerequisite for the historian’s task to blame or praise the historical actors when necessary so as to offer a balanced account of the past which alone was thought to benefit the reader, see, e.g., Plb. 1.14; cf. Pownall’s (2004) discussion of Pomp. 6.7 at 147–148. 422 ‘Indeed, I feel in some way that the fabled examination before the judges of the other world, which is conducted in Hades upon the souls that have been released from the body, is of the same searching kind as that which is carried out through the writings of Theopompus. This gave him a reputation for malice, because he added unnecessary details to the criticisms of famous persons that he was compelled to make; but in fact he was acting like surgeons who cut and cauterise the morbid parts of the body, operating to a certain depth, but not encroaching upon the healthy and normal parts’ (ka–

moi dokeÿ pwc  mujeuÏmenoc ‚n ìAidou t¿n yuq¿n Çpolujeis¿n to‹ s∏matoc

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impact and educational purpose make Theopompus’ historiography the equivalent to Isocrates’ civic education through speeches: 423 Theopompus created ‘Isocratean historiography’ and is therefore an ideal model for Classicist historical writing.

3.2.3 Between History and Criticism: Re-writing the Melian Dialogue Dionysius uses his literary criticism to turn Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue at Thuc. 37–41 into a piece of such an ‘Isocratean historiography.’424 Discussing the paragraphs of the Dialogue one by one, he points out in which respects Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians is mistaken and suggests what Thucydides should have written instead. Dionysius’ discussion of the Melian Dialogue is exemplary of his attitude towards Thucydides’ History in general because he regards the Melian Dialogue as paradigmatic of Thucydides’ view of the Classical Athenians: Thucydides was not present at the negotiations and, according to Dionysius, could not have obtained any reliable information from any of the participants (Thuc. 41.3). Therefore, the image of the Athenians in this scene is all Thucydides’, and Thucydides used his freedom to turn the Melian episode into a cornerstone of his systematic attempt to make his native city ‘universally hated’ in revenge for his exile (e  mò ära mnhsikak¿n  suggrafeÃc t¨ pÏlei diÄ tòn katad–khn ‚xetasm‰c ‚p» t¿n ‚keÿ dikast¿n o’twc Çkribòc e⁄nai ±c  diÄ JeopÏmpou graf®c gignÏmenoc. Di‰ ka» bàskanoc Ídoxen e⁄nai, proslambànwn toÿc Çnagka–oic tinÄ Êneidismoÿc katÄ t¿n ‚ndÏxwn pros∏pwn oŒk Çnagkaÿa pràgmata, ÌmoiÏn ti poi¿n toÿc  atroÿc oÀ tËmnousi ka» ka–ousi tÄ diefjarmËna to‹ s∏matoc Èwc bàjouc tÄ kaut†ria ka» tÄc tomÄc fËrontec, oŒd‡n t¿n ÕgiainÏntwn ka» katÄ f‘sin ‚qÏntwn stoqazÏmenoi); for an illustration of how Theopompus implemented these virtues in his narrative see, e.g., FGrH 115 F 27 (cited and discussed by Pownall [2004] 149). 423 Gozzoli (1976) provides a detailed discussion of similarities between Dionysius’ historical method and the characteristics of Theopompus’ historical work; cf. Pownall (2004). Pownall acknowledges the educational purpose of historical works such as Xenophon’s Hellenica, Ephorus’ History, and Theopompus’ Philippica, but believes that these works were addressed to the oligarchic elite and that they aimed to undermine the influence of political oratory (177–178). Dionysius, by contrast, conceives of Theopompus’ historiography as complementing Isocrates’ political rhetoric. 424 On the Melian Dialogue, esp. on the question of why Thucydides chose the dialogue form for this particular scene, see MacLeod (1974); Hudson-Williams (1950).

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ta‹ta tÄ Êne–dh kateskËdasen aŒt®c, ‚x ¡n âpantec mis†sein aŒtòn Ímellon, Thuc. 41.8). Moreover, Thucydides has an Athenian spokesman represent the Athenians, and Dionysius points out that readers will take the spokesman to represent the attitude and mentality of the entire Athenian people (Thuc. 41.8). The Melian Dialogue is thus the primary example of how Thucydides acts out his mnesikakia in his work. Hence by refuting Thucydides’ version of the Melian controversy, Dionysius refutes Thucydides’ characterisation of Athens in the History as a whole. Dionysius focuses on the moral and political ideas which lie behind the statements of Thucydides’ Athenian spokesman in the Dialogue and compares them with the values and ideas on which Isocrates’ conception of Athenian identity is based. Dionysius’ assessment of Theopompus’ historical works shows how he thinks Thucydides should have portrayed the Athenians, namely as the representatives of Classical-Isocratean virtues. But the behaviour of Thucydides’ Athenians neatly contradicts the Isocratean conception and needs to be corrected. Thus Dionysius’ discussion of the Melian Dialogue also illustrates how Dionysius imagined the Classical Athenians and the motivations for their actions. A few examples will suffice to illustrate this procedure. At Th. 5.89 the Athenian envoy refuses to justify the Athenians’ methods to enlarge their dominion. This, says Dionysius at Thuc. 38.2, ‘conjures up a sentiment which is both unworthy of the Athenians, and does not fit the situation’ (e’rhken ‚nj‘mhma o÷te t®c >Ajhna–wn pÏlewc o÷t+‚p» toio‘toic pràgmasin ÅrmÏtton lËgesjai), because such an attitude is ‘tantamount to an admission that the expedition is against innocent victims’ (to‹to dË ‚stin Âmologo‹ntoc tòn ‚p» toÃc mhd‡n Çdiko‹ntac stràteusin). Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians collides with the idea of dikaios‘nh, and it is at odds with the role of the Athenians as the defenders of helpless victims against aggressors in various battles at all times, from the raids of the Amazons to the fight against the Persian invasion on behalf of all Greeks. 425 Furthermore, the Athenian’s assertion that the stronger are entitled to do whatever they please because they are stronger, contradicts the role of the Athenians as liberators of Greece from the Barbarians and as prÏmaqoi of ‚leujer–a. Such a statement would not only be impossible for a genuine Greek, it is appropriate only to a Barbarian (Thuc. 39.1): ‘These would have been suitable words for barbarian kings to address to Greeks, but no Athenian should have spoken thus to Greeks whom they had liberated from the 425 For referencess see my discussion above, pp. 66–68.

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Persians, saying that right is a matter of reciprocity between equals, whereas force is exerted by the strong against the weak’ (basile‹si gÄr barbàroic

ta‹ta pr‰c ìEllhnac °rmotte lËgein; >Ajhna–oic d‡ pr‰c ìEllhnac oœc öleujËrwsan Çp‰ t¿n M†dwn, oŒk ™n pros†konta e r®sjai Ìti d–kaia toÿc “soic ‚st» pr‰c Çll†louc, tÄ d‡ b–aia toÿc  squroÿc pr‰c toÃc Çsjeneÿc). Dionysius regards the inversion of the usual roles of Greeks and Barbarians as one of Thucydides’ main strategies to construct a negative image of his native city (Thuc. 41.5–6): flAr+ofin πsper toÿc Mhl–oic o keÿoi ka» pros†kontec ™san o… per» t®c ‚leujer–ac lÏgoi parakalo‹ntec toÃc >Ajhna–ouc mò katadoulo‹sjai pÏlin <Ellhn–da mhd‡n Åmartànousan e c aŒto‘c, o’twc ka» toÿc >Ajhna–wn strathgoÿc prËpontec ™san o… per» t¿n dika–wn m†t+‚xetàzein ‚¿ntec m†te lËgein, ÇllÄ t‰n t®c b–ac ka» pleonex–ac nÏmon e sàgontec, ka» ta‹t+e⁄nai d–kaia toÿc ÇsjenËsin Çpofa–nontec Ìsa toÿc  squrotËroic dokeÿ; Eg∞ m‡n gÄr oŒk o“omai […]. The arguments about freedom, calling upon the Athenians not to enslave a Greek city that has done them no wrong, were fitting and appropriate for the Melians. But were the speeches of the Athenian generals equally appropriate, when they did not allow discussion or even mention of justice, but introduced the law of violence and greed and declared that for the weak justice is the will of the stronger? I don’t think so … 426

Instead of liberating the Greeks, Thucydides’ Athenians bring slavery over other Greek cities (katadoulo‹sjai), even over those that are their suggeneÿc. 427 But bringing violence and slavery are common characteristics of the Barbarian despÏthc in Classical rhetoric, and not of the Athenians; and the Athenians’ refusal to ‘allow discussion or even mention of justice’ is incompatible with Athenian justice and equal right of speech ( shgor–a), both of which were constituents of Classical Athenian democracy (eŒnomwtàthc in the next quotation) (Thuc. 41.6):

>Eg∞ m‡n gÄr oŒk o“omai toÿc ‚k t®c eŒnomwtàthc pÏlewc ‚p» tÄc Íxw pÏleic ÇpostellomËnoic ôgemÏsi ta‹ta pros†kein lËgesjai, oŒd+ãn Çxi∏saimi toÃc m‡n mikropol–tac ka» mhd‡n Írgon ‚pifan‡c ÇpodeixamËnouc Mhl–ouc plËona to‹ kalo‹ poieÿsjai prÏnoian £ to‹ Çsfalo‹c, ka» pànta ·to–mouc e⁄nai tÄ deinÄ ÕpofËrein —na mhd‡n 426 Usher’s transl. modified. 427 Cf. Thuc. 40.4.

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äsqhmon Çnagkasj¿si pràttein, toÃc d‡ proelomËnouc t†n te q∏ran ka» tòn pÏlin ‚klipeÿn katÄ t‰n Persik‰n pÏlemon >Ajhna–ouc —na mhd‡n a sqr‰n Õpome–nwsin ‚p–tagma, t¿n taŒtÄ proairoumËnwn ±c Çno†twn kathgoreÿn. O“omai d+Ìti kãn e“ tinec älloi, parÏntwn >Ajhna–wn, ta‹ta ‚peqe–roun lËgein, ‚paqj¿c ¢negkan ãn o… t‰n koin‰n b–on ‚xhmer∏santec. I do not think that such arguments as these would be fittingly used by the leaders of the city with the best laws in the world when they are on missions abroad, nor should I expect the inhabitants of a tiny state like Melos, who never did anything to distinguish themselves, to prefer the nobler to the safer policy and to be prepared to undergo every kind of suffering in order to avoid the necessity of a discreditable course of action; while the Athenians, who during the Persian War chose to leave their land and their city rather than submit to any base imposition, accuse them of being senseless when they follow the same principles. I think that if anyone else had attempted to express these views in the presence of the Athenians, the latter, who had civilised the life of all mankind, would have been offended.

The frequency of terms meaning ‘appropriate’ in this and the other passages shows that Dionysius is constantly comparing Thucydides’ Athenians with the image of the Athenians as the heroes of the Persian War (katÄ t‰n Persik‰n pÏlemon) which he adopts from Classical oratory. 428 Thucydides turned the distinction between the virtuous and civilized Athenians (o… t‰n koin‰n b–on ‚xhmer∏santec) and the Barbarian Other upside-down:429 428 Cf. Thuc. 39.1. See the brief discussion in Fox (2001) 83, who concentrates on the ‘overlap between the moral and the aesthetic’ (ibid.). 429 Cf. Thuc. 19.3–4: ‘[It was unnecessary for Thucydides] to drag in that lengthy disparagement of the greatness of Greece: that at the time of the Trojan War the whole of Greece was not yet called by that single name [Th. 1.3], and that it was through shortage of food that they had begun to cross by sea into one another’s territory, and “attacked cities that were unwalled and inhabited in small settlements, and made most of their livelihood by this means” [Th. 1.5]. Why was it necessary to mention the luxury enjoyed by Athenians in early times: how they plaited up their hair into top-knots and wore gold cicadas on their heads [Th. 1.6.3]?’ (πste tÄ pollÄ ‚keÿna ka» katablhtikÄ t®c <Ellàdoc oŒk Çnagka–wc aŒtƒ parËlkesjai, Ìti katÄ t‰n Trwik‰n pÏlemon o÷pw s‘mpasa ‚kaleÿto ·n» ÊnÏmati ô <Ellàc, ka» Ìti peraio‹sjai naus»n ‚p+Çll†loic o…

trof®c Çporo‘menoi ¢rxanto ka» prosp–ptontec pÏlesin Çteiq–stoic ka» katÄ k∏mac o koumËnac °rpazon ka» t‰ pleÿston to‹ b–ou ‚nte‹jen ‚poio‹nto. T– d+™n Çnagkaÿon per» t®c >Ajhna–wn truf®c ≠ t‰ palai‰n ‚qr¿nto lËgein, Ìti krwb‘louc te ÇneplËkonto ka» qruso‹c tËttigac e⁄qon ‚p» taÿc kefalaÿc; Usher’s transl. modified) Dionysius criticizes Thucydides for depicting the Greeks as an assem-

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Classical Athenians would have never given up dikaios‘nh and ‚leujer–a for which they had fought against the Persians and left their home. 430 But Thucydides’ attempt to throw a bad light on the Athenians by making them act like Barbarians fails. Instead, the absurd inversion of the usual roles proves all the more Thucydides’ disturbed relationship with his Greek and Athenian identity (Pomp. 3.9 above): only someone who refuses to write as an Athenian and a Greek should write could blur the difference between Athenians and Barbarians. It was not the Athenians who acted in an un-Greek manner, but Thucydides. During Dionysius’ discussion of the Dialogue, the boundaries between rhetoric and history, and criticism and historiography, have become increasingly uncertain. 431 Subjects of historical works are suitable if they conform to prominent topics in Classical oratory, such as the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis and Isocratean ethics, and these subjects have to be dealt with according to Classical rhetorical theory and practice: the Peloponnesian War is to be glossed over by focusing on the Athenians’ achievements in the Persian War and on the return of the exiles from Phyle, and historiographers are supposed to improve on traditional subjects, arrangements, and modes of expression, as Isocrates had postulated it for oratory at the beginning of the Panegyricus; in his discussion of the Melian Dialogue, Dionysius applies blage of heterogeneous groups instead of stressing their unity, which is a prominent topic in Isocrates’ Panhellenic speeches, and for portraying them as subjected to luxury: wearing gold and precious ornaments was regarded as an oriental and degenerate custom which should not have been attributed to the Athenians. ‘Why was it necessary?’ (t– d+™n Çnagkaÿon) recalls Dionysius’ first rule of good historical writing, the choice of an appropriate subject, which entails the historiographer’s obligation not to mention events and details which could do damage to the reputation of the Classical Athenians. 430 Dionysius restores a further virtue, eŒsËbeia (combined with dikaios‘nh), to the Athenians in his comment on Th. 5.103.1 (Thuc. 40.3): ‘I do not know how these words can be considered appropriate in the mouths of Athenian generals. They imply that divinely-inspired hope is harmful to men, and that oracles and prophesy are of no use to those who have chosen a pious and just way of life. Now if one aspect of Athenian life is to be singled out for special praise it is that they followed divine guidance on every matter and in every crisis, and took no decisive action without consulting soothsayers and oracles’ (ta‹t+ofik o⁄da p¿c än tic ‚painËseien ±c pros†konta e r®sjai strathgoÿc >Ajhna–wn Ìti luma–netai toÃc Çnjr∏pouc ô parÄ t¿n je¿n ‚lp–c,

ka» o÷te qrhsm¿n Ófeloc o÷te mantik®c toÿc eŒseb® ka» d–kaion pro˘rhmËnoic t‰n b–on. E  gàr ti ka» ällo, t®c >Ajhna–wn pÏlewc ka» to‹t+‚n toÿc pr∏toic ‚st»n ‚gk∏mion, t‰ per» pant‰c pràgmatoc ka» ‚n pant» kairƒ toÿc jeoÿc Èpesjai ka» mhd‡n äneu mantik®c ka» qrhsm¿n ‚piteleÿn, emphases mine). 431 Cf. Pritchett (1975) xxvii: ‘the two strands of style and history are interwoven.’

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another principle of rhetoric to historiography, the prËpon. 432 In so doing, Dionysius is replying to Thucydides’ principle of method which he had stated in his proem (Th. 1.22.1), that he would report the words of the historical actors ‘adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what was actually said.’ Dionysius means his discussion of the Melian Dialogue to be a test-case of whether Thucydides’ account implements this principle (Thuc. 41.4): 433

Le–petai d‡ skopeÿn e  toÿc te pràgmasi pros†konta ka» toÿc sunelhlujÏsin e c t‰n s‘llogon pros∏poic ÅrmÏttonta pËplake diàlogon ‚qÏmenon ±c Íggista t®c sumpàshc gn∏mhc t¿n Çlhj¿c leqjËntwn, ±c aŒt‰c ‚n tƒ prooim–˙ proe–rhken. It now remains to consider whether he has composed the dialogue in such a way that it is consistent with the facts and fits the character of the delegates to the meeting, “adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what was actually said,” as he said he would do in his introduction.

It is of minor importance whether Thucydides implied by this statement that his speeches were as faithful reconstructions of the actual words of the historical actors as possible or whether he composed them himself in their entirety. 434 For Dionysius there is no doubt that all speeches were written by Thucydides, and, as mentioned above, he regards the entire Melian Dialogue as invented by the historian without any first-hand evidence. But whether 432 Dionysius defines t‰ prËpon as a style ‘adapted […] satisfactorily to the speaker, the audience and the subject, and it is in these, and in relation to these, that propriety is found’ (lËxic prÏc te t‰n lËgonta ka» pr‰c toÃc Çko‘ontac ka» pr‰c t‰ prêgma (‚n to‘toic gÄr dò ka» pr‰c ta‹ta t‰ prËpon) Çrko‘ntwc ôrmosmËnh, Lys. 9.1). Cf. Usher (1985) 374 n. 2, who points out that Dionysius’ discussion of the Melian Dialogue at Thuc. 37–40 is an example of the ‘application of the rhetorical concept of “propriety” to historical subject-matter’; Pritchett (1975) xxvi: ‘Dionysius […] romanticized t‰ prËpon in history as he romanticized t‰ prËpon in style. His sentimental view of Periclean Athens led him to misread history.’ 433 According to Greek rhetorical practice, the most probable reconstruction of an event was to be accepted as true if factual evidence was unavailable, as Dionysius says it was in the case of the Melian Dialogue (Thuc. 41.3); see Gagarin (1994), esp. 56–57. 434 The meaning of this phrase is still controversial and need not be discussed here, but see, e.g., Winton (1999); Plant (1999) 69; MacLeod (1974), esp. 384–385, provides a discussion of the relation between Thucydides’ statement of method and the Melian Dialogue; Rokeah (1982); Badian (1992) offers, in my opinion, the most convincing interpretation of the passage. On speeches in Thucydides in general see the contributions in Stadter (1973) and Scardino (2007), the most recent and as yet most comprehensive discussion; cf. Yunis (1991).

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or not the speeches are Thucydides’, they could still be ‘true’ – according to one possible reading of Thucydides’ methodological statement – if they reveal the actual attitude of the speakers: the Athenian spokesman might not actually have spoken like a Barbarian king at the historical encounter at Melos, but his attitude might have been that of a Barbarian king nevertheless; therefore his words in the Dialogue might still be an appropriate characterization of his, and the Athenians’, attitude. 435 The prËpon in this sense refers to Thucydides’ speeches as being ‘appropriate’ to historical reality. The problem is that this historical reality is the reality which Thucydides (re)constructed from reports, testimonies, and his own experiences and insights – the speeches in the History conform to Thucydides’ interpretation of the past, not to the past itself. Dionysius’ criticism draws attention to this point: historical writings are texts, and as texts they can never offer an immediate view of the world; texts are re-presentations of the image of the world in the mind of the author. The prËpon thus marks the intersection of rhetoric and history because it is concerned with the relationship between the text and the object the text claims to represent. This process is essential since the past is present only through the mediation of the texts, as a representation, and it remains meaningful only if the appropriateness of this re-presentation is constantly questioned and adapted to the circumstances. History is a dialectical process in which the observer constantly positions himself to different versions of the past and decides which one is ‘true.’ This process of questioning and adaption of a re-presentation of the past is acted out in Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides’ History. At this point, I should like to repeat my cautionary note from the introductory section of this chapter: Dionysius was far from being a ‘Hayden White of antiquity.’ He never reflects about the preconceptions of his own view of the past. Therefore he never goes the decisive step and acknowledges that if Thucydides’ image of the past is questionable because it relies on preconceptions, this holds also for his own image of the past. But applying the prËpon to historical texts is not to be easily dismissed as silly. Dionysius might not have realized this, but his procedure is due to a deep-level affinity of rhetoric and history: the questions (a) how the past is constituted through

435 Thus Badian (1992) 189 (explaining ô x‘mpasa gn∏mh) states: ‘Thucydides tells us that he is going to make up suitable words for the speakers’ occasions, but that he will keep as close as he can to the entire intention of a speech: he will not falsify that intention in any detail by the words he chooses to put in the speaker’s mouth.’

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the text, and (b) which text is accepted as a ‘true’ representation by the observer from within his culturally and socially determined standpoint. Dionysius is aware that Thucydides could have presented an entirely different image of the past and justly questions Thucydides’ version because his vision of the Classical past is based on a different paradigm, the representation of the past in Classical and, especially, Isocratean rhetoric. We do not have to accept Dionysius’ allegation that Thucydides’ History deliberately distorts the character of the Classical Athenians and their motivations and we do not have to adopt Dionysius’ idealized vision of the past as our own paradigm. But we should acknowledge that Dionysius’ procedure is not mistaken in principle: it rests (consciously or not) upon the assumption that historians prefigure their material according to patterns in their minds and thus impose meaning upon the facts, rather than discover it in them. Hayden White’s work has shown that this assumption is justified, and ever since Cornford’s ‘Thucydides Mythistoricus’ (London 1907) it has been realized that Thucydides’ work is no exception. Like all other historians, Thucydides selected events and included or emphasized some, while omitting or downplaying others; he judged every event ‘by his own standards’ and decided whether or not it was ‘relevant and meaningful. “Fact” though it was, [an event] might have gone unrecorded, had Thucydides not seen its significance and raised it to the level of history. Just as the latter is an act of mind, so its product, the historical fact, is informed by mind.’ 436 Dionysius’ discussion of the Dialogue shows that rhetorical and literary criticism is bound up with a distinct vision of the past. Dionysius uses criticism to censure works which do not conform to this vision and thus to implement it in the mind of the reader. Historiography is text, therefore it has to follow the rules of politiko» lÏgoi concerning subject matter, arrangement, and style. Historytelling is the domain of the critic, not of the historian, and Dionysius’ criticism of the Melian Dialogue is a programmatic demonstration of his arrogation of power in historiography and his influence on his readers’ perception of the past. Not only does Dionysius disavow Thucydides’ version of the past; his criticism as a whole reads like a counter-programme to Thucydides’ historical method. As mentioned above, at Thuc. 41.4 Dionysius defines his discussion of the Melian Dialogue as a test-case for whether Thucydides 436 Hunter (1973) 93 (italics in the original); cf. ibid. 104–105 (‘By seeking out in all honesty the typical and recurrent in history, he [Thucydides] imposed [italics mine] such patterns on events, 105), 151, 177, and passim.

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really ‘adher[ed] as closely as possible to the general sense of what was actually said’ (Th. 1.22.1). Also the main point of Dionysius’ conception of historiography, the central role of pleasure in reading history and the link between pleasure and the acceptance of an account as ‘true,’ is an attack against Thucydides’ famous statement at the end of his chapter on method (Th. 1.22.4):

Ka» ‚c m‡n ÇkrÏasin “swc t‰ mò muj¿dec aŒt¿n ÇterpËsteron faneÿtai; Ìsoi d‡ boul†sontai t¿n te genomËnwn t‰ saf‡c skopeÿn ka» t¿n mellÏntwn pot‡ afijic katÄ t‰ Çnjr∏pinon toio‘twn ka» paraplhs–wn Ísesjai, ≤fËlima kr–nein aŒtÄ Çrko‘ntwc Èxei. Kt®mà te e c Çe» mêllon £ Çg∏nisma ‚c t‰ paraqr®ma Çko‘ein x‘gkeitai. It may well be that the absence of the fabulous from my narrative will seem less pleasing to the ear; but whoever shall wish to have a clear view both of the events which happened and of those which will some day, in all human probability, happen again in the same or a similar way – for these to adjudge my history profitable will be enough for me. And, indeed, it has been composed, not as a prize-essay to be heard for the moment, but as a possession for all time.

There is no need to go into the various problems raised by this passage. 437 It is certain that Thucydides conceives of the lack of pleasure (ÇterpËsteron) of his account and its reliability (t‰ safËc) as interrelated; this, in turn, makes the History useful (≤fËlima) for future generations (probably because it enabled them to recognize similarities between their times and the past and to identify patterns in history, but this is a matter of dispute).438 Thucydides thought of the unpleasant reading experience of his work as an indicator of its truth: he did not play down the sufferings of the Greeks during the War nor let his affiliation with Athens and his fellow citizens influence his uncompromising account of Athenian realpolitik. Dionysius turns this relationship between displeasure and truth upside-down and defines pleasure as the historian’s first and most important task; pleasure, in turn, is an indicator of truth because it reflects that the historian and the reader share the same view on and attitude towards the past. Thucydides had attempted to make truth a value of its own which is independent of whether readers identify 437 Especially the meaning of t‰ [mò] muj¿dec is debated, cf., e.g., Flory (1990) (‘stories which exaggerate and celebrate the stories of war’ so as to give ‘pleasure to the listeners by encouraging them to feel flattered by praise of their own,’ 193); de Romilly (1966) (rhetorical techniques employed by orators and, above all, the sophists, 143); cf. Lateiner (1977). 438 Flory (1990) 197–198; de Romilly (1966) 142; cf. Rutherford (1994) 53.

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with his representation of the past and approve of it; Dionysius nullifies this attempt by re-interpreting the unpleasantness of Thucydides’ account as a proof of Thucydides’ bias and, therefore, of the lack of reliability of Thucydides’ image of the past. Some scholars have argued that Thucydides’ rejection of the muj¿dec was directed against the rhetorical practice to deceive the audience by pleasing it and that his historical programme was meant as an opposition to contemporary rhetorical practice. 439 Although Dionysius does not take the muj¿dec as referring to deception through rhetoric in particular, 440 it is a reasonable assumption that he realized that Thucydides’ historical method in general borrowed conceptions from Classical forensic rhetoric,441 but gave them a different, virtually anti-rhetorical meaning. One might speculate, then, as to whether he was trying to restore to rhetoric the influence on historiography which Thucydides had taken away from it. Dionysius’ rejection of the link between lack of pleasure and truth goes hand-in-hand with his rejection of Thucydides’ notion of the usefulness of history. As mentioned above, Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides’ choice of subject is implicitly directed against Thucydides’ assertion that his contemporaries might not enjoy the History, but that future generations will appreciate its benefits (Ìsoi d‡ boul†sontai t¿n te genomËnwn t‰ saf‡c

skopeÿn ka» t¿n mellÏntwn pot‡ afijic katÄ t‰ Çnjr∏pinon toio‘twn 439 Flory (1990); de Romilly (1966). Plant (1999) points out the similarities between the principles of Thucydides’ historical method and those of contemporary forensic rhetoric; Gagarin (1994) 64 describes Thucydides as a critic of rhetoric who ‘was fully aware of the potential danger of rhetorical manipulation’ and whose ‘work as a whole could be taken as a conservative warning against this danger.’ 440 At Thuc. 6.5 Dionysius interprets t‰ muj¿dec as elements of an account which aim to deceive the masses; Thucydides refused to write a work which contained such elements (‘[Thucydides differed from the earlier historians] by his exclusion of all legendary material and his refusal to make his history an instrument for deceiving and captivating the common people,’ [Joukud–dhc di†llaxe t¿n pr‰ aŒto‹ suggrafËwn] katÄ t‰ mhd‡n muj¿dec prosàyai, mhd+e c Çpàthn ka» go†teian t¿n poll¿n ‚ktrËyai tòn graf†n). But Dionysius was not thinking of rhetorical techniques, but of fantastic tales which were occasionally inserted into historical works, such as ‘female monsters at Lamia rising up out of the earth in the woods and glades, and amphibious Naiads issuing forth from Tartarus, half-human and half-animal […] and other stories which seem incredible and largely ridiculous to us in these days’ (Lam–ac tinÄc …storo‹ntec ‚n ’laic ka» nàpaic ‚k g®c ÇniemËnac, ka» NaÚdac Çmfib–ouc ‚k Tartàrwn ‚xio‘sac […] ka»

ällac tinÄc Çp–stouc tƒ kaj+ômêc b–˙ ka» polà t‰ ÇnÏhton Íqein doko‘sac …stor–ac). 441 Plant (1999).

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ka» paraplhs–wn Ísesjai, ≤fËlima kr–nein aŒtÄ Çrko‘ntwc Èxei, Th. 1.22.4). 442 Dionysius’ conception of Isocratean historiography, which he found realized in Theopompus’ work, reveals his conception of the benefits of historiography: the purpose of historytelling is not learning about the past for its own sake, as Thucydides had envisaged it, but the moral edification of the reader. Thus Dionysius corrects Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians by replacing it with an ‘Isocratean’ one with which his readers can identify and on which they can model themselves. With the Antiquitates, Dionysius demonstrates how history should be written that is both useful and pleasurable, and an important part of this project is the fact that the readers’ moral and political education through the examples of the Roman ancestors is one of the main goals of his historical work (1.6.4). The only way for Dionysius to deal with Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenians is to de-construct it and to replace it with a more pleasant, and more acceptable, image of the Classical ancestors. The passages of the History which Dionysius actually re-writes are thus symptomatic of the process which Dionysius expects his criticism to initiate in his readers’ minds: in the same way Dionysius wipes out the passages of Thucydides’ work which do not conform to his Classicist paradigm of the past by rewriting them, his readers are supposed to re-write in their minds Thucydides’ image of the past along the lines suggested by Dionysius. 443 At the same time, Dionysius presents himself as defending the reputation of the Classical Athenians against Thucydides’ attempts to make Athens the object of universal hate (Thuc. 41.8 above). Dionysius thus demonstrates his commitment to Classical Athens, and his criticism is an expression of the Greek and Athenian identity which Thucydides rejected, and even betrayed, through his work. Dionysius, the critic in the first century BCE, proves to be more filÏpolic (Isoc. 5.1), even more Classical, than Thucydides himself. So far this chapter has explored how Dionysius imagined the Classical Athenians, their role in the past, their actions, and their motivations for their actions. But the Classical Greek past is not the only past with which Dionysius’ Classicism is concerned. Chapter 2.3 has shown that Dionysius aims to integrate the Greek and the Roman past so as to make them the foundations for his interpretation of the present as the rebirth of the Classical times: in his preface to On the Ancient Orators, Dionysius defines his Roman contempo442 See above, p. 134. 443 Wilson (1966) compares Thucydides’ and Isocrates’ image of the Athenian empire and concludes that they are separated by an insurmountable gap.

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raries as the representatives of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. Although Dionysius’ interpretation of Augustan Rome and Roman power in Greek terms was in general favourable for his Greek readers, 444 such an interpretation was not uncontroversial. Apart from Dionysius’ Roman readers, who might not have liked the idea that their culture and their power were explained as merely the continuation of the Classical Greek past, many Greek intellectuals preferred to keep the Roman and the Greek spheres separate: they viewed the Romans as Barbarians who had usurped the superiority to which only the Greeks were entitled (1.4.1–2). 445 The view of the Romans which underlies Dionysius’ Classicism called for a more substantial justification, and the Antiquitates provided it.

3.3 A Greek Past for the Roman Present: The Project of Dionysius’ Antiquitates Gabba’s study Dionysius and The History of Archaic Rome in 1991 marks a turning point in scholarship on Dionysius’ Antiquitates Romanae. 446 Previously scholars had often found fault with Dionysius’ positive attitude towards Rome, which was interpreted as an attempt to flatter the ruling class of his day, and with his interest in early Roman history in general, which was regarded as unworthy of a genuinely Greek mind. 447 Since Gabba scholars have realized that Dionysius’ work did not try to be even remotely similar to the kind of ‘objective’ historiography which Schwartz and his colleagues expected from him in the wake of German positivism. The Antiquitates implements a political and cultural programme. The aim of Dionysius’ work is not to describe the history of early Rome, but to create it along the lines of Classical Greek past and culture: 448 ‘Dionysius

444 445 446 447

See ch. 2.3.3 above. For a detailed discussion of this passage see below, pp. 185–187. Cf. the brief assessment of the Antiquitates in Gabba (1982a). See Schwartz (1903) 934; his view is still adopted by Lendle (1992) 242, almost one hundred years later; cf. the overview of scholars’ opinions about the Antiquitates in Hidber (1996) 74 n. 313 and Delcourt (2005) 71–76. 448 Hartog (1991) 160: ‘Among others and after others had done the same, Dionysius intends to re-work the past, re-visit a culture, in short, re-invent a tradition’ (‘Denys, avec d’autres et après d’autres déjà, entend réélaborer un passé, revisiter une culture, brèf réinventer une tradition’).

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is recreating classical Greece in Italy before its time.’ 449 His work was to provide Rome with a Greek past so as to demonstrate that the Romans were Greeks, both ethnically and ethically: 450 originally, the Roman people were Arcadians who left their home forced by shortage of land and food and founded a Greek Çpoik–a in Italy under their leader Oenotrus, son of Lycaon (1.11.1–2). 451 Centuries later, when Rome had been founded and the Roman people had come into existence, the Romans imported customs and institutions from their Greek countrymen, most prominently from the Athenians, 452 and lived a genuine b–oc ìEllhn in Italy. Moreover, since the Romans avoided or even corrected mistakes made by their Greek models, they were more successful than the mainland Greeks. 453 Greek influence on Roman society and the early Romans’ self-definition is especially prominent in the first books, but there can be no doubt that Delcourt’s claim is justified that Dionysius’ Greek vision of Rome is the key to our interpretation of the work as a whole.454 The process by which Dionysius (re)constructs the Roman Regal Period in Greek terms has been explored in great detail in such excellent studies as Fox’s Roman Historical Myths. The Regal Period in Augustan Literature (Oxford 1996) and Delcourt’s Lecture des Antiquités romaines de Denys d’Halicarnasse. Un historien entre deux mondes (Brussels 2005) and need not be repeated here.455 It is not within the scope of this section to provide a comprehensive analysis of Dionysius’ historical work. Rather, the following discussion will focus on Dionysius’ historical programme and its relation to his Classicism, especially on the question of whether Dionysius’ Classicist ideology explains his choice to write specifically an early Roman history, from the beginnings. Therefore I will concentrate on the preface of Dionysius’ work (1.1–8), in which he describes his methodological principles and defines the scope of his work, and on the first books of Dionysius’ 449 Fox (1993) 36. 450 Hidber (1996) 77; the development of the literary topos that Rome is a Greek city is traced by Delcourt (2005) 81–127. 451 See Hartog (1991) 162; Delcourt (2005) 105–114, 129–156. 452 As Delcourt (2005) 129–195 has shown, Dionysius reduces Greece in the Antiquitates to Arcadia, Athens, and Sparta. 453 Hartog (1991) 165–167 (with examples); Delcourt (2005) 190, 290–291. 454 Delcourt (2005) 79; Martin (2000) has shown that references to Dionysius’ main topic, the ‘hellénisme de Rome’ (151), are found also in the fragments of the now-lost books of the Antiquitates. 455 For a detailed discussion of Delcourt’s book see my review in BMCR, Wiater (2005a).

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account, which deal with the very beginnings, the Çrq†, of Roman history; since Dionysius, as will become apparent, conceives of Roman history as a whole as determined by its beginnings, I will refer to the later books whenever this is suitable. Due to the fragmentary state of the Antiquitates, it is impossible to find out whether or not Dionysius implemented his historical programme throughout his narrative. But the present discussion is not concerned with the internal consistency of Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman history. Dionysius’ preface and the preserved parts of Dionysius’ work will provide sufficient evidence to advance a hypothesis of why the beginnings of Roman history were important to Dionysius and how his historical project relates to his Classicist ideology. Scholars have pointed out mimesis as the main link between Dionysius’ Classicism and his historiography. In the preface to the Antiquitates (1.1–8) Dionysius sets out three main goals of his work: 456 first, the eternal glorification of the great achievements of Rome’s virtuous men (ändrec Çgajo–, 1.6.3); second, rewarding Rome for the education and other benefits (paide–a ka» tÄ älla Çgajà) which she bestowed upon Dionysius, the Antiquitates being an expression of his gratitude (qarist†rioi Çmoiba–, 1.6.5); finally, providing models of behaviour to his Roman readers (1.6.4). 457 As suggested in the preceding section, especially the last point fits Dionysius’ conception of an ethico-moral historiography in the tradition of the Isocratean ‘rhetoric of identity.’ The Antiquitates describes the exemplary behaviour of the Roman ancestors so that Roman readers can model their lives on them.458 Dionysius expects his Roman contemporaries to continue ancestral ethics and to carry them on into the future: ‘in the idealized vision of Roman society proposed by Dionysius there is an intimate and privileged 456 For an analysis of the proem see Verdin (1974); Martin (1969). 457 Dionysius states that he has chosen early Roman history specifically so that ‘both the present and future descendants of those godlike men will choose, not the pleasantest and easiest of lives, but rather the noblest and most ambitious, when they consider that all who are sprung from an illustrious origin ought to set a high value on themselves and indulge in no pursuit unworthy of their ancestors’ (toÿc d+Çp+‚ke–nwn t¿n  sojËwn Çndr¿n

n‹n te ofisi ka» ’steron ‚somËnoic mò t‰n °distÏn te ka» ˚îston a…reÿsjai t¿n b–wn, ÇllÄ t‰n eŒgenËstaton ka» filotimÏtaton, ‚njumoumËnouc Ìti toÃc e lhfÏtac kalÄc tÄc pr∏tac ‚k to‹ gËnouc ÇformÄc mËga ‚f+·autoÿc pros†kei froneÿn ka» mhd‡n Çnàxion ‚pithde‘ein t¿n progÏnwn); cf. Martin (1969); Verdin (1974). 458 Dionysius’ interest in the Roman ancestors had a match in contemporary Roman society; cf. Hölkeskamp (1996); Maslakov (1984). Fornara (1983) argued that this Roman exempla tradition might be the reason for Polybius’ emphasis on ‘the study of history as a sound inferential basis for present and future political activity’ (112–115, the quotation p. 113).

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relationship between the individual and his or her past, because imitation enables emulation.’459 Similarly, Hidber states: ‘Apart from a wealth of generally useful information, [the Antiquitates Romanae] provides specimens of exemplary conduct and political activity.’ 460 Thus in principle, the aim of the Antiquitates is the same as that of Dionysius’ criticism: both parts of Dionysius’ œuvre aim to implement an ancestral way of life in the present, the main difference being that Dionysius’ Greek readers acquire and enact Classical lifestyle mainly through language, whereas the Antiquitates expects the Roman readers directly to imitate the behaviour of their ancestors. Along these lines the present section will explore the role of mimesis in the Antiquitates. Two different kinds of mimesis need to be distinguished: intratextual mimesis and extratextual mimesis. Intratextual mimesis describes the process of Hellenization of early Roman life and society and will be discussed in section 3.3.1. The section will start with an assessment of the role of Greek ideas and values in Roman society in the Antiquitates. Dionysius’ Romans adopt Greek manners, customs, and institutions and make them the constituents of their cultural, social, and political life. This process begins at the very origins of Roman history, with Romulus’ constitution. More than just a set of political rules, the Constitutio Romuli is a systematic attempt of the first king to define Roman identity, and the basis of this definition are Greek political and moral values. Romulus’ laws implement these values in Roman society, establish them as the guidelines of Roman public and private behaviour and make them the standard of Roman behaviour for all centuries to come. The discussion will therefore be centred on Romulus’ constitution and on how Dionysius defines its place in the whole of Roman history. Intratextual mimesis has a double role to play in this process: on the one hand, Romulus adopts Greek models for his constitutional project; thus intratextual mimesis connects the Romans with the Greeks. On the other hand, Romulus and the early Romans, whose lives enacted these Greek models, become themselves, as maiores, models of behaviour for later generations; following the model of the maiores, the Romans preserve

459 Delcourt (2005) 46–47 (‘dans la vision idéalisée de la société romaine proposée par Denys, il s’instaure entre l’individu et son passé une relation intime et privilégiée, car l’imitation permet l’émulation’). 460 Hidber (1996) 74 (‘[Die Antiquitates bieten] nebst einer Fülle allgemein nützlicher Informationen Beispiele nachahmenswerter Lebensführung und staatsmännischen Handelns’); cf. Delcourt (2005) 39–40.

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Greek virtues as the foundations of their society and continue the political and moral tradition which was established by Romulus. Against this background we will then consider the significance of Dionysius’ emphasis on the fact that Roman life was constituted from the very beginnings (eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c) by Greek values and institutions for his interpretation of the Roman past and the role of the Romans in history in general. Dionysius, it will turn out, employs the Romans’ Greekness to explain Roman power. The Antiquitates is directed against the opinion of ‘certain’ Greeks who refused to accept the Romans’ right to rule. According to them, the Romans’ power had not been achieved in a long, continuous process and was not justified by any particular achievements of the Romans, but had been bestowed on them only recently by fortune. The Antiquitates, by contrast, explains Roman power as the result of the Greek moral and political virtues on which Roman society had been based from its very beginnings, i. e., ever since Romulus’ constitution (eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c). 461 Dionysius’ Classicist ideology, I will argue, provides an answer to why it was so important to Dionysius that Roman power was based on a long tradition of Greek values. In Classical rhetoric the Athenians’ claim to hegemony and power was legitimized by their tradition of autochthonous, ancestral virtues, which had been preserved and handed down by the prÏgonoi from the origins of Athenian history. The Antiquitates creates such a tradition of virtues for the Romans and thus provides Roman power with a justification that meets the standards of Classical rhetoric. This justification, in turn, is essential for Dionysius’ claim that Augustan Rome is the heir to the Classical Greek past and that the Roman present is the time of the rebirth of politiko» lÏgoi. Therefore Dionysius’ historical project, to write Roman history eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c, is comprehensible only within his Classicist world view. Since Dionysius’ Antiquitates is often read alongside Polybius’ Histories, 462 this section will also provide a brief assessment of the relationship between their respective approaches to Roman power. 461 This point is often stressed by Dionysius, see, e.g., 1.3.4 (eŒjÃc […] ‚x Çrq®c metÄ t‰n o kismÏn), 1.5.2 (metÄ t‰n o kism‰n eŒjËwc), 1.5.3. 462 The works of both Polybius and Dionysius aim to explain the phenomenon of the spread and duration of Roman power, which had no precedent in history; cf. Plb. 1.1.5 with Ant. 1.1.2 and 1.2.1: at 1.1.2 Dionysius declares that only ‘noble and lofty’ (kala» ka» megaloprepeÿc) subjects are suitable for historical treatment; later on, at 1.2.1, he points out that it is the unique extent of Roman power which defines early Roman history as such a subject (ÕpÏjesin) that is ‘noble, lofty and useful to many’ (kalòn ka» megaloprep® ka» pollòn ≤fËleian toÿc ÇnagnwsomËnoic fËrousan).

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Chapter 3.3.2 will then turn to extratextual mimesis. This term describes how Dionysius expects his readers to interact with the text. As mentioned above, the Antiquitates is supposed to exert an immediate ethical influence on its Roman readers by providing models of behaviour. This process is extratextual mimesis. Extratextual mimesis is the means by which continuity with the past is achieved and, since the behaviour of the ancestors is thoroughly Greek, by which Greek values are made the standard of the way of life also of Dionysius’ Roman contemporaries. The key message of the Antiquitates is that such ethical continuity of the ancestral tradition in the present is essential to the Romans because Roman superiority is based on the virtues and morals of the ancestors. If the Romans neglect their moral and political tradition, they will lose their Greekness and, with it, their superiority. Dionysius claims a crucial role in this process for his historical work because it is the only work available, or so Dionysius alleges, which provides a detailed account of the achievements and the way of life of the ancestors. Therefore the Romans have to rely on Dionysius’, a Greek’s, work in order to maintain their present state of power. Intra- and extratextual mimesis are interrelated: the early Romans set the standard to which Dionysius’ contemporaries aspire (extratextual mimesis) because of their moral and political excellence, and they owed this excellence to the virtues they adopted from the Greeks (intratextual mimesis). The educational purpose which is implied in extratextual mimesis defines the Antiquitates as an example of ‘Isocratean historiography.’ The strong emphasis on the behaviour of the Roman ancestors as the standard for Romans in the first century BCE raises the question of whether, and how, the Antiquitates is related to Augustus’ restorative programme. This question will be addressed in the concluding part of section 3.3.2. Scholars have pointed out that while certain aspects of Dionysius’ work are reminiscent of Augustus’ political programme, his general thesis, the Romans’ Greekness, is at odds with the Virgilian version of the origins of the Roman people endorsed by the princeps. These ambiguities have so far been explained in terms of a pro- or anti-Augustan slant to the Antiquitates; I will argue that this explanation is unconvincing. On closer inspection, Dionysius’ model of Roman identity is at variance not with Augustan authors specifically, but with alternative conceptions of Roman identity that claimed politics and morals as genuinely Roman domains which were, and had always been, free from Greek influence. Therefore, Dionysius’ work should not be approached in terms of pro- or anti-Augustan; rather, the relationship between Greeks and Romans in general, which underlies the

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Antiquitates, needs to be reconsidered. There is a tendency in contemporary scholarship to see Dionysius as the first theoretician of an ‘ecumenical’ Graeco-Roman world in which differences between Greeks and Romans are overcome by their shared Hellenic education and culture. The discussion will show that this is too idealistic a view of Dionysius’ work: Dionysius defines the Romans’ political and cultural achievements from the beginnings of their history as dependent on Greek culture. Thus far from offering a Graeco-Roman vision of the world, with the Romans being on a par with the Greeks, the Antiquitates re-asserts the distinction between the culturally superior Greeks and the Romans. 3.3.1 EŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c: The Archaeology of Roman Power It is a recurring theme throughout the Antiquitates that Romans consciously adopt Greek models: ‘Romans,’ as Hill put it, ‘display an extensive knowledge of Greek political theories, institutions and history.’463 Seeking to invest his words with more authority, Numa Pompilius, for example, followed the ‘Greek examples’ (<EllhnikÄ parade–gmata) of Minos and Lycurgus and invented the alliance with the nymph Egeria (2.61.2); when Sextus Tarquinius, son of the Roman king, had taken the town Gabii by fraud, he asked his father for advice on how to set his power on stable foundations. His father answered by mimicking the Milesian tyrant Thrasybulus, who had replied to the same question of Periander, tyrant of Corinth, by chopping off the heads of the tallest halms, thus suggesting that Periander should kill the most influential people in Corinth (4.56.3). The Greeks remain the models of Roman behaviour also after the Regal Period. Roman dictatorship, for example, is modelled on the Greek institution of the ‘Aisymnetes’ (5.73.3), and the ovatio is adapted from the Greek eŒast†c (5.47.2–3). Furthermore, the decemviri legibus scribundis, who were responsible for reforming the Roman laws, sent messengers to Magna Graecia and Athens to bring back the ‘best laws and such as are most suited to our ways of life’ (kràtistoi nÏmoi ka» màlista toÿc ômetËroic ÅrmÏttontec b–oic, 10.51.5). In this period of their history the Romans deal with the Greek models in a more self-confident way than at the beginning: the Greek laws are selected according to the requirements of Roman life (kràtistoi;

463 Hill (1961) 89; Martin (2000); cf. Gärtner (1989).

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ÅrmÏttontec). Nevertheless, long after the end of the Regal Period the Greek world is still the point of reference for the Romans. Although the Romans have had their own legal system for centuries when the decemviri are charged with the reform, Roman tradition alone is insufficient and needs to be complemented with the Greek. Thus the decemviri are assigned the task to ‘select both from the Roman usages and from the Greek laws brought back by the ambassadors the best institutions and such as were suitable to the Roman commonwealth, and form them into a body of laws’ (Ík te t¿n patr–wn ‚j¿n ka» ‚k t¿n <Ellhnik¿n nÏmwn, oœc ‚kÏmisan o… prËsbeic, ‚klexamËnouc tÄ kràtista ka» t¨
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populus novus, a people without a tradition of their own, and they have to rely on their leader to define what ‘being Roman’ means. 468 This definition of Roman identity is provided by Romulus’ constitution. Dionysius emphasizes the importance of the constitution as a crucial event for the development of the Roman people by setting it on a par with the act of foundation itself. The constitution is Romulus’ first project as Roman king and it immediately follows the instalment of the most basic structures that define Romulus’ foundation as a town: a rampart (Íruma) and a ditch (tàfroc), which mark Rome’s boundaries, and some houses, o k†seic, which permit people to live permanently within the boundaries of this territory (2.3.1). 469 Romulus’ constitution is thus characterized as the complement to the physical act of foundation: having a constitution of its own is as essential to a people’s being recognizable as such and a people’s claim to a distinct identity as having a well-defined place of their own to live. The range and comprehensive scope of Romulus’ constitution confirm this expectation. Far from being merely a set of laws and regulations, the Constitutio Romuli constitutes Roman public and private life. Romulus introduces the institutions which will remain the foundation of Roman society up until Dionysius’ day and beyond, such as the senate, the subdivision of the people in tribus and curiae, and the two classes of Roman citizens, patricians and plebeians, and provides detailed rules for the interaction of Peucetians are named after Peucetius (1.11.4), and the Pelasgians, originally a Greek tribe from Argos in Achaia, are named after their king Pelasgos (1.17.2). 468 Cic. rep. 2.21: ‘Do you see that the judgment of one man not only created a new people but brought it to full growth, almost to maturity, not leaving it like some infant bawling in a cradle?’ (videtisne igitur unius viri consilio non solum ortum novum populum, neque ut in cunabilis vagientem relictum, sed adultum iam et paene puberem? ); ibid. 24: ‘the new nation’ (ille novus populus) (transl. Zetzel [1999]). 469 In Dionysius’ account the express aim of Romulus’ election is the creation of a constitution; at the end of his speech at 2.3, Romulus leaves it to the people to decide whom they wish to complete this task and to rule them (o÷te ärqein Çpaxi¿ o÷te ärqesjai Çna–nomai, 2.3.8). This is in stark contrast to Livy’s account of the same event. In Livy, Romulus is not elected, but becomes king after Remus’ death (ita solus potitus imperio Romulus, 1.7.3); then he gives laws to the Romans in order that the sheer masses (multitudo) be turned into a people in the proper sense (populi unius corpus, 1.8.1). Whereas in Livy Romulus the king turns the Romans into one people, in Dionysius the Roman people make Romulus their king and legislator; in Dionysius, Romulus’ being legislator is the reason for his being king, in Livy, by contrast, Romulus’ being king is the reason for his being legislator. These differences lay considerably more weight on the constitution and thus point to the importance of the constitution for Dionysius’ conception of Roman identity and his interpretation of Roman power.

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the citizens (2.6–17); but he also regulates the citizens’ private life, especially their rights and duties in marriage (2.18–27). 470 The aim of Romulus’ constitution is not simply to organize civic life but to shape the citizens’ character by institutionalizing a set of political and moral virtues as the foundations of Roman behaviour (ô parÄ t¿n je¿n e÷noia, swfros‘nh, dikaios‘nh, ÂmÏnoia, ô ‚n toÿc polËmoic gennaiÏthc, 2.18.1). 471 Hence a Roman’s public and private conduct are mutually dependent: a good Roman citizen can never have a dishonourable private life and nobody with a dishonourable private life can ever be a good Roman citizen. Thus strictly regulating all spheres of Roman life, 472 Romulus’ constitution is a systematic attempt to define Roman identity at the very origins of the Roman people. Romulus’ conception of Roman identity is thoroughly Greek. Not only does Dionysius’ Romulus adopt and adapt Greek models for virtually every law, custom, and institution. 473 The aforementioned virtues which 470 Cf. Ducos (1989) 183; Delcourt (2005) 296. 471 Private and public are linked by Roman religion and the veneration of the gods on which both nÏmoi and Çreta– are based (2.18.2): ‘[Romulus] recognized that good laws and the emulation of worthy pursuits render a State pious, temperate, devoted to justice, and brave in war. He took great care, therefore, to encourage these, beginning with the worship of the gods and genii’ ([
kal¿n z®loc ‚pithdeumàtwn eŒseb® ka» s∏frona ka» tÄ d–kaia Çsko‹san ka» tÄ polËmia Çgajòn ‚xergàzontai pÏlin; ¡n pollòn Ísqe prÏnoian tòn Çrqòn poihsàmenoc Çp‰ t¿n per» tÄ jeÿa ka» daimÏnia sebasm¿n). 472 Severe punishments are laid down to deter the citizens from breaking Romulus’ rules, and Romulus deliberately uses fear to maintain order, cf. 2.29. 473 This characteristic of Romulus’ constitution has been analyzed in great detail by Delcourt and need not be discussed at length here. To list only a few examples, the division of Roman citizens into plebeians (pl†beioi) and patricians (patËrec) is adopted from the Athenian constitution, which subdivided the Athenians into eŒpatr–dec and ägroikoi (‚k t®c >Ajhna–wn polite–ac, ±c än tic e kàseie, t®c kat+‚keÿnon t‰n qrÏnon Íti diameno‘shc t‰ paràdeigma lab∏n, 2.8.1). Then Romulus assigns to each class certain, well-defined tasks: the patricians take care of ruling the city (…erêsja– te ka» ärqein ka» dikàzein ka» […] tÄ koinÄ pràttein, 2.9.1), whereas practical work is assigned to the plebeians (gewrgeÿn […] ka» kthnotrofeÿn ka» tÄc qrhmatopoioÃc ‚rgàzesjai tËqnac, ibid.). Again, this assignment of different kinds of activities to different classes of citizens is an Íjoc <Ellhnik‰n ka» Çrqaÿon which is found in both Thessaly and Athens. Romulus not only took over this institution from them, but even improved it (‚p» t‰ kre–ttw lab∏n, 2.9.2); thus he turned it into the most effective means to avoid civic unrest, stasis, and to preserve unity, ÂmÏnoia, among the different strata of society, which is the basis for a colony’s rise to prosperity (2.9.1; 2.3.4–6). Another important improvement of Romulus’ was the new name for the relationship between plebeians and patricians. Calling it patrwne–a, he took into account that the plebeians were free-born

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are institutionalized through his constitution (ô parÄ t¿n je¿n e÷noia, swfros‘nh, dikaios‘nh, ÂmÏnoia) also recall the set of Classical virtues which Dionysius regards as constitutive of Classical Athenian identity. 474 Therefore Romulus’ constitution is the primary evidence for the Romans’ Greekness (b–oc ìEllhn) and for Dionysius’ assertion that this Greekness had been the defining characteristic of Roman life from the very beginning until Dionysius’ own times (1.90.1). Romulus’ (intratextual) mimesis thus provides the link between the Greek and the Roman world. At 2.3.6, Romulus cites prËsbuteroi, ‘men who were older and had wide acquaintance with history’ (parÄ t¿n presbutËrwn ka» diÄ poll®c …stor–ac ‚lhlujÏtwn, 2.3.6), from whom he had obtained his knowledge about constitutions. On the one hand, this refers to Dionysius’ introduction of Romulus’ speech at 2.3.1, where Dionysius says that Romulus had been told by his grandfather Numitor what to say in the assembly (ÕpojemËnou to‹ mhtropàtoroc ka» didàxantoc É qrò lËgein). On the other hand, given the Greek character of Romulus’ constitution, the reference to the presb‘teroi might also be taken in a general sense as referring to the moral and political wisdom which is obtained from Greek education: Dionysius’ reader knows that Faustulus sent Romulus and Remus to Gabii in their early childhood to receive a Greek education there. 475 Romulus’ constitution thus appears as the fruit of Romulus’ Greek paide–a. Furthermore, Romulus’ following the advice of the ancestors, the presb‘teroi, in devising his constitution, also recalls a Greek paradigm: the role of the prÏgonoi as authorities on politics and morals in Classical Greek rhetoric. Learning from his ancestors, Romulus is adopting a Greek pattern

(‚le‘jeroi), too, and forestalled the prejudice that the plebeians were the patricians’ slaves; by contrast, both the Athenians and Thessalians had deliberately insulted the members of the lower strata by calling them j®tai and penËstai (2.9.2–3). Romulus is thus shown to be conscious of the importance of freedom as the basis for Roman society, and he makes freedom an integral part of being a Roman citizen; this respect for ‚leujer–a, in turn, will become one of the foundations of Roman superiority (2.16.1); cf. further 2.12.4; 13.4; 14.2; 16.1. 474 See ch.s 2.2.1 above and 3.3.2 below. 475 1.84.5: It is reported that Romulus and Remus ‘were sent by those who were rearing them to Gabii, a town not far from the Palatine hill, to be instructed in Greek learning; and there they were brought up […], being taught letters, music, and the use of Greek arms until they grew to manhood’ (doj®nai pr‰c t¿n trefÏntwn e c Gab–ouc pÏlin […] ±c <Ellàda paide–an ‚kmàjoien kÇkeÿ […] traf®nai gràmmata ka» mousikòn ka» qr®sin Ìplwn <Ellhnik¿n ‚kdidaskomËnouc mËqric °bhc).

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of behaviour: not only is his conception of Roman identity genuinely Greek, but also the way in which he obtains it. Moreover, Romulus’ behaviour becomes itself a paradigm for all future generations of Romans: his learning from the elders, from Greek tradition and history in general, and from his grandfather Numitor in particular, provides the aition for the Romans’ veneration of the maiores as examples of behaviour. For later generations of Romans, including Dionysius’ contemporaries, Romulus and the early Romans are maiores themselves and provide the standard of conduct to which they will aspire. The Romans’ learning from their ancestors continues Romulus’ learning from Numitor and history. But the political and moral virtues which Dionysius’ Roman readers learn from Romulus and the early Romans are thoroughly Greek: the more the Romans strive to become like Dionysius’ Romulus and his early Romans, the more they are adopting Greek, even Classical Greek, virtues. 476 Dionysius has Romulus himself explain the influence of his constitution on the future development of the whole of Roman history in a programmatic speech in which Romulus explains the crucial importance of a constitution (kÏsmou polite–ac, 2.3.1) for a colony’s rise to power (2.3.2–8). At the beginning of his speech Romulus defines the constitution (taÿc te dhmos–aic ka» taÿc  d–aic kataskeuaÿc, 2.3.1) as the necessary complement to the material foundations of a colony. His words ‘deep ditches and high ramparts’ (tÄc baje–ac tàfrouc ka» 〈tÄ〉 ÕyhlÄ ‚r‘mata, 2.3.2) recall the opening sentence of Dionysius’ account of the constitution at 2.3.1, that after the construction of the walls, a ditch, and houses, discussion of a constitution was called for. The correspondence between Dionysius’ and Romulus’ words alert the reader that Romulus takes over from Dionysius and that he is explaining on Dionysius’ behalf why a colony needs a constitution as soon as the basic elements of the settlement have been established.477 Romulus’ words are thus invested with a general meaning which transcends the concrete historical circumstances of the speech and the limited outlook of the speaker. Deep trenches and high walls, Romulus explains, are insufficient protection for citizens either against external (Êjne–oic polËmoic) or internal conflicts (‚mf‘lioi taraqa–, 2.3.2) (2.3.3–4):

476 See the discussion of extratextual mimesis in ch. 3.3.2 below. 477 Dionysius smoothes the transition from his auctorial voice to Romulus’ speech by presenting Romulus’ words in reported speech.

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Çll+Ètera e⁄nai tÄ s∏zonta ka» poio‹nta megàlac ‚k mikr¿n tÄc pÏleic; ‚n m‡n toÿc Êjne–oic polËmoic t‰ diÄ t¿n Ìplwn kràtoc, to‹to d‡ tÏlm˘ parag–nesjai ka» melËt˘, ‚n d‡ taÿc ‚mful–oic polËmoic tòn t¿n politeuomËnwn Âmofros‘nhn, ta‘thn d‡ t‰n s∏frona ka» d–kaion ·kàstou b–on ÇpËfhnen …kan∏taton Ónta tƒ koinƒ parasqeÿn. But it is other things that preserve cities and make them great from small beginnings: in foreign wars, strength in arms, which is acquired by courage and exercise; and in civil commotions, unanimity among the citizens, and this, he showed, could be most effectually achieved for the commonwealth by the prudent and just life of each citizen.

The fate of a city depends on the character of its citizens, their Çret†, which, in turn, is formed by its constitution: ‘men of bravery, justice and the other virtues are the result of the form of government’ (maqhtÄc dË

ge ka» Çndre–ouc ändrac ka» tÄc ällac ÇretÄc ‚pithde‘ontac t‰ t®c polite–ac sq®ma poieÿn, 2.3.5); a bad constitution, by contrast, makes citizens ‘cowardly, rapacious and the slaves of base passions’ (maljako‘c te afi ka» pelonËktac ka» do‘louc a sqr¿n ‚pijumi¿n, ibid.). Therefore, Romulus continues, the prosperity or ruin of a colony is not determined by external circumstances: many colonies were big at the beginning and were founded in a propitious place (2.3.6), thus enjoying the best conditions which could be imagined. Nevertheless, some of them were destroyed immediately by internal strife (stàseic), others were subjugated by their neighbours after a while, ‘becoming slaves instead of free men’ (do‹lai ‚x ‚leujËrwn genÏmenai, 2.3.6). To these Romulus opposes a third, much smaller, category of colonies that were founded with relatively small populations and in a less advantageous environment, but managed to turn their freedom (‚le‘jerai) into the basis for ruling others (·tËrwn ärqousai dietËlesan, ibid.). Only the constitution (t‰ t®c polite–ac sq®ma) is responsible for the failure of the majority of the colonies (taÿc dustuq–aic t¿n poll¿n) or for the success of a few (taÿc eŒprag–aic t¿n Êl–gwn) (2.3.6). As a historical actor, speaking to the Romans, Romulus gives a general assessment of the benefits of a constitution for a newly-founded colony. But Dionysius’ recipients in the first century BCE will compare Romulus’ general considerations about the influence of a constitution on the growth of a colony and its increase in power with the actual development of Roman power in the years lying ahead of Romulus; they will realize that Rome’s development corresponds to Romulus’ description of the development of

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the few colonies the good constitutions of which enable them to retain their freedom and to spread their power despite the unfavourable circumstances of their foundation. Dionysius uses Romulus as a mouthpiece to provide his reader with the key to his portrayal of the Romans and his interpretation of Roman power: throughout history the behaviour of the Romans is based on the Greek values and institutions which Romulus had introduced as the constituents of Roman identity at the origins of Roman history. Romulus’ knowledge of the past enables him correctly to assess the role of a proper constitution for a colony’s prosperity. He is consciously planning, rather than simply anticipating, 478 Rome’s rise to power in subsequent centuries by providing her with an appropriate politeia. Dionysius’ contemporaries knew that Rome’s development will follow the course of the few successful colonies sketched by Romulus, and the subsequent books of the Antiquitates will describe this course and thus prove Romulus right. This invites Dionysius’ readers to think of Rome’s future course as they know it as determined by Romulus’ constitution and to view Rome’s present state of power as based on the foundations which were laid by the first king. Dionysius supports this view by emphasizing the continuous influence of Romulus’ laws and customs on Roman life throughout his account. As Ducos observed, not only does Dionysius’ Romulus introduce all essential Roman institutions, laws and customs in one systematic attempt, but after their introduction they hardly undergo any changes at all:479 at the beginning of Roman history, the founder of Rome defines once and for all the constituents of Roman life, and this definition always remains firmly in place. Romulus’ laws might fall out of use and have to be renewed (ÇnaneÏomai) or some of them might be modified or additions might be made to them, but the substance of Romulus’ constitution is never altered. 480 After Romulus’ death, for example, Numa Pompilius takes over all of Romulus’ laws, ‘looking upon them all as established in the best possible manner’ (Çp‰ to‹ krat–stou tetàqjai pànta ôghsàmenoc, 2.63.2) and confines his own legislation to adding ‘whatever he thought had been overlooked by his predecessor’ (Ìsa d+Õp+‚ke–nou paraleleÿfjai ‚dÏkei, ta‹ta proset–jei, ibid.). Some time later, Ancus Marcius seeks to stabilize his reign by renewing all customs and laws which had been introduced by Numa (3.36.2); 478 Thus Delcourt (2005) 279. 479 Ducos (1989) 181–183. 480 Ibid. 182 (citing the passages referred to in the main text).

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similarly, Servius Tullius ‘drew up laws, in some cases renewing old laws that had been introduced by Romulus and Numa Pompilius and had fallen into abeyance, and establishing others himself’ (nÏmouc te sunËgrayen 〈oœc m‡n〉 ‚k t¿n Çrqa–wn ka» parhmelhmËnwn Çnaneo‘menoc, oœc
bola–wn toÃc Õp‰ Tull–ou grafËntac filanjr∏pouc ka» dhmotikoÃc e⁄nai doko‹ntac, oœc âpantac katËluse Tark‘nioc, Çnene∏santo ka» tÄc jus–ac tàc te katÄ pÏlin ka» tÄc ‚p» t¿n ägrwn […] pàlin prosËtaxan ‚piteleÿsjai, ±c ‚p» Tull–ou sunetelo‹nto, 5.2.2). Since Servius Tullius’ constitution, as seen above, was largely based on Romulus’, the foundation of the Republic in the Antiquitates is tantamount to a restoration of the original, Romulean constitution which the tyrannical last ruler had neglected. Regal period and Republic thus do not appear as two opposite political systems. On the contrary, the Republic continues the Regal Period. At several points of his narration Dionysius underscores the continuity of laws and customs since the Romulean constitution: at 2.6.1, for example, Dionysius describes the Roman custom of observing the flight of birds before important decisions, the o wnismÏc. Initiated by Romulus before being elected king, this custom ‘long continued to be observed by the Romans, not only while the city was ruled by kings, but also, after the overthrow of the monarchy, in the elections of their consuls, praetors and other legal magistrates’ (diËmeinË te mËqri pollo‹ fulattÏmenon Õp‰
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tablets, preserved laws and customs which had been introduced by the kings (2.27.3–4); in his own time, Dionysius points out, most if not all (e  mò ka» pêsai, 2.23.4) of the sacrificial rites (jus–ai) which Romulus had introduced and Numa Pompilius and Servius Tullius complemented were still observed by the Romans (2.23.4–6). 481 Thus three primary features can be identified as characteristic of Dionysius’ account of Romulus’ constitution: first, Romulus is a conscious planner who sets up all essential Roman institutions, laws, and customs in one systematic attempt; second, these institutions, laws, and customs are adopted from the Greeks; third, they retain their influence from the beginnings of Roman history down to Dionysius’ times. The contrast of Dionysius’ account with other versions of the origin and the development of the Roman legal system shows the importance of these features for Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman history. Dionysius’ portrayal of Romulus as a conscious planner stands in remarkable contrast to both historical evidence and contemporary accounts of the creation and evolution of the Roman laws. Rome’s constitution was never created in a systematic attempt but grew over the centuries, 482 and authors in the first century BCE were aware of this fact. Cicero, for example, has Laelius contradict Scipio’s account of Romulus and of his influence on the Roman constitution in On the Commonwealth: it was not reasoning (ratio), as Scipio had suggested, which lay behind Romulus’ constitutional project, but coincidence and external forces (casus aut necessitas, 2.22). In the same work, Cicero also explicitly rejects the idea that all Roman laws and customs were created at once by Romulus, a view he shares with Polybius. Both authors emphasize that it was a distinctive characteristic of the Roman legal system that it developed to perfection over the centuries. At the beginning of his account of the Roman constitution, Scipio Africanus quotes Cato the Elder’s programmatic explanation of the superiority of the Roman constitution over those of all other peoples (rep. 2.2):

481 Here, too, Dionysius is keen on emphasizing that the modifications made by Numa and Servius Tullius were always along the lines of Romulus’ intentions: ‘the seeds of them [the customs and institutions of the Romans] were sown and the foundations laid by Romulus, who established the principal rites of their religion’ (Â tÄ spËrmata ka»

tÄc ÇrqÄc aŒtoÿc parasq∞n ka» tÄ kuri∏tata katasthsàmenoc t¿n per» tÄ jeÿa nom–mwn
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Is [Cato] dicere solebat ob hanc causam praestare nostrae civitatis statum ceteris civitatibus, quod in illis singuli fuissent fere quorum suam quisque rem publicam constituissent legibus atque institutis suis, ut Cretum Minos, Lacedaemoniorum Lycurgus, Atheniensium, quae persaepe mutata esset, tum Theseus tum Draco tum Solo tum Clisthenes tum multi alii, postremo exsanguem iam et iacentem doctus vir Phalereus sustentasset Demetrius, nostra autem res publica non unius esset ingenio sed multorum, nec una hominis vita sed aliquot constituta saeculis et aetatibus. nam neque ullum ingenium tantum exstitisse dicebat, ut quem res nulla fugeret quisquam aliquando fuisset, neque cuncta ingenia conlata in unum tantum posse uno tempore providere, ut omnia complecterentur sine rerum usu et vetustate. Cato used to say that the organization of our state surpassed all others for this reason: in others there were generally single individuals who had set up the laws and institutions of their commonwealths – Minos in Crete, Lycurgus in Sparta, and in Athens, which frequently changed its government, first Theseus, then Draco, then Solon, then Clisthenes, then many others; finally, when Athens was drained of blood and prostrate, it was revived by the philosopher Demetrius of Phalerum. Our commonwealth, in contrast, was not shaped by one man’s talent but by that of many; and not in one person’s lifetime, but over many generations. He said that there never was a genius so great that he could miss nothing, nor could all the geniuses in the world brought together in one place at one time foresee all contingencies without the practical experience afforded by the passage of time. 483

This sets the tone for Scipio’s subsequent account which focuses on how the Roman constitution evolved step by step in the Regal period: Romulus laid the first two fundamenta rei publicae, auspicia and senatus; two more were added after his death by Numa Pompilius, religio and clementia, and so on and so forth. Cicero underscores the importance of the gradual development of the Roman constitution by having Laelius interrupt Scipio’s account at 2.37 and having him point out that ‘the establishment of our commonwealth was not the work of one time or man; it is very clear how much the stock of good and useful things increased with each king’ (nec temporis unius nec hominis esse constitutionem <nostrae> rei publicae; perspicuum est enim, quanta in singulos reges rerum bonarum et utilium fiat accessio). 484 Thus the individual elements of the constitution were perfectly adapted to specific problems which had to be addressed and were tested by usus and vetustas. 483 Transl. Zetzel (1999). 484 Transl. Zetzel (1999).

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This development distinguishes the Roman constitution from that of any other people and is responsible for the Romans’ superiority (ob hanc causam praestare nostrae civitatis statum ceteris civitatibus, rep. 2.2). A similar view is found in Polybius. 485 Comparing the Roman constitution with Lycurgus’ at 6.10.14, Polybius points out that the effect (tËloc) of either was the same, the utmost internal stability. But the main difference between the Greek and the Roman legal system was the fact that Lycurgus planned his constitution and its results (lÏg˙ tin» proidÏmenoc pÏjen Èkasta ka» p¿c pËfuke sumba–nein, 6.10.12). The Roman constitution, by contrast, was the result of a long process of growth and modifications through which the Romans gradually adapted their laws and rules to their needs and circumstances (6.10.13–14):


Dionysius’ assertion that the virtues which Romulus’ constitution makes the cornerstone of Roman identity were adopted from the Greeks was not a universally accepted view either. In the preface to the first book of the Tusculan Disputations (Tusc. 1.1–2), written in 45 BCE, Cicero says: meum semper iudicium fuit omnia nostros invenisse per se sapientius quam Graecos aut accepta ab illis fecisse meliora […]. Nam mores et instituta vitae resque domesticas ac familiaris nos profecto et melius tuemur et lautius, rem vero publicam nostri maiores certe melioribus temperaverunt et institutis et legibus. quid loquar de re militari? in qua cum virtute nostri multum valuerunt, tum plus etiam disciplina. iam illa quae natura, non litteris adsecuti sunt, neque cum Graecia neque ulla cum gente sunt conferenda. quae enim tanta gravitas, quae tanta constantia, magnitudo animi, probitas, fides, quae tam excellens in omni genere virtus in ullis fuit, ut sit cum maioribus nostris comparanda? 485 Cicero refers to Polybius as an authority in chronology at rep. 2.27.

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It has always been my conviction that our countrymen have shown more wisdom everywhere than the Greeks either in making discoveries for themselves, or else in improving upon what they had received from Greece […]. For morality, rules of life, family and household economy are surely maintained by us in a better and more qualified way; and beyond question our ancestors have adopted better regulations and laws than others in directing the policy of government. What shall I say of the art of war? In this sphere our countrymen have proved their superiority by valour as well as in an even greater degree by discipline. When we come to natural gifts apart from book-learning they are above comparison with the Greeks or any other people. Where has such earnestness, where such firmness, greatness of soul, honesty, loyalty, where has such surpassing merit in every field been found in any kind of mankind to justify comparison with our ancestors?

Cicero divides his list of Roman institutions, which is supposed to demonstrate that his countrymen ‘have shown more wisdom everywhere than the Greeks either in making discoveries for themselves, or else in improving upon what they had received from Greece,’ into two categories: the Roman way of life (mores et instituta vitae resque domesticae ac familaris), constitution (res publica […] instituta et leges), and warfare constitute the first category and are summarized under institutions acquired litteris, ‘by learning.’ These he opposes to the second category of ‘naturally’ (natura) Roman qualities, namely the ancestral virtues. Cicero’s phrasing is ambiguous: do the institutions acquired ‘by learning’ represent examples of the Romans’ greater wisdom ‘in making discoveries for themselves’ or ‘in improving upon what they had received from Greece?’ Melius et lautius as well as melioribus might support the latter assumption as they seem to resume fecisse meliora from the preceding paragraph, as does the fact that it is only for the ‘naturally Roman qualities’ that Cicero claims that they are sui generis and distinguish the Romans ‘from the Greeks or any other people.’ Yet, Cicero leaves it up to the readers whether they prefer to refer melius et lautius and melioribus back to sapientius instead and thus regard the institutions of the first category as Roman discoveries which are superior to their Greek equivalents. In fact, not many a Roman reader might have liked the idea that the Roman military in particular, the basis of Roman political domination, was not a genuinely Roman creation. It is possible that this ambiguity is deliberate and Cicero could not or did not want definitely to exclude Greek influence on those areas of Roman politics and society. What is more significant, however, is the fact that he does not concede his readers the same choice with the ancestral virtues: even if a case could be made for Greek influence on Roman political institutions

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or even the military, it is the ancestral virtues which define the Romans and distinguish them from all other peoples, including, as Cicero stresses explicitly, the Greeks. The fact that Dionysius’ Romulus adopts and, in many cases, improves Greek models is compatible with Cicero’s point of view: Cicero is happy to acknowledge the Romans’ debt to the Greeks. But Dionysius denies the Romans above all those elements which Cicero claimed were the foundations of their Romanness and distinguished them from the Greeks. Dionysius’ Romulus is the kind of legislator Polybius and Scipio/Cato had denied he was: like Polybius’ Lycurgus, he rationally (lÏg˙) designs the constitution and plans Rome’s entire future development with the help of his knowledge of history. Dionysius’ assertion of continuity contradicts Polybius’ (and Cicero’s) conviction that the Roman constitution was shaped by ‘the discipline of many struggles and troubles’ (diÄ […] poll¿n Çg∏nwn ka» pragmàtwn); on the contrary, Romulus’ constitution guaranteed harmony, ÂmÏnoia, among the Romans for 630 years (2.11.2–3):

O’tw d‡ ära bËbaioc ™n ô
In the Antiquitates, the constitution is not shaped by struggles and controversies (Çg¿nec ka» pràgmata in Polybius, Çmfisbht†mata in Dionysius), but the struggles and controversies provide the background against which the constitution can exert its influence and prove its superiority. Moreover, as seen above, the express aim of Romulus’ constitution is permanently to implement a set of virtues in Roman society which shaped the early

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Romans’ characters and their behaviour and thus were responsible for their political and moral achievements. These virtues, the Íjh of the maiores, are genuinely Greek. Whereas Cicero had claimed that the virtutes maiorum were ‘naturally’ Roman (natura) and therefore the distinctive feature of Roman identity, Dionysius does not allow for anything ‘naturally’ or ‘purely’ Roman. Nor does he accept the idea of an evolution peculiar to the Roman constitution as the reason for the superiority of the Roman legal system; on the contrary, this superiority is owed to one moment in Roman history, its very beginning, when one man’s careful adaptation of Greek models determined the development of Roman history for at least the subsequent 630 years eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c. We have seen so far that Dionysius regards the course of Roman history as determined by Greek values and institutions and that in its extremity this interpretation is a peculiarity of the Antiquitates which distinguishes Dionysius’ work from alternative assessments of the Roman constitution. We will consider now the significance of this peculiarity for Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans’ role in history. It will turn out that Dionysius accepts the fact that his account of the Roman constitution both contradicts contemporary views and is at odds with historical probability, because continuity of the Romans’ Greekness from the beginnings of Roman history is the cornerstone of his interpretation of Roman history. The Antiquitates, Dionysius explains in the preface, aims to correct the erroneous assumptions (dÏxai oŒk Çlhjeÿc, 1.4.2) of ‘certain’ (tinËc) Greeks, that the Romans do not deserve their power. Power, these Greeks hold, must be earned through a long tradition of great achievements. Such a tradition Rome did not have; on the contrary, her beginnings were humble and small, and she arrived at her present state of power only recently, after her successes in the Macedonian and Punic Wars. 486 Therefore Rome’s sudden change from a contemptible 486 1.4.1: ‘[I want to forestall the censure (…) that] this city, grown so famous in our days, had very humble and inglorious beginnings, unworthy of historical record, and that it was but a few generations ago, that is, since her overthrow of the Macedonian powers and her success in the Punic wars, that she arrived at distinction and glory’ ([m† tinec ‚pitim†sws– moi (…) Ìti] t®c Çoid–mou genomËnhc kaj+ômêc pÏlewc ÇdÏxouc ka» pànu tapeinÄc tÄc pr∏tac ÇformÄc labo‘shc ka» oŒk Çx–ac …storik®c Çnagraf®c, oŒ pollaÿc d‡ geneaÿc prÏteron e c ‚pifàneian ka» dÏxan ÇfigmËnhc, ‚x o› tàc te MakedonikÄc kajeÿle dunaste–ac ka» toÃc FoinikikoÃc kat∏rjwse polËmouc). Note the contrast between Ço–dimoc and ‚pifàneia ka» dÏxa, which are coupled with kaj+ômêc and oŒ pollaÿc geneaÿc prÏteron, and ädoxoi ka» tapeina–, which are coupled with the Çforma–.

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small town to the most powerful city of the oikumene was not due to the Romans’ merits but had to be attributed to ‘some chance and the injustice of Fortune’ (1.4.2): [dÏxai tin‡c oŒk Çlhjeÿc … toÃc polloÃc ‚xhpat†kasin] ±c Çne-

st–ouc mËn tinac ka» plànhtac ka» barbàrouc ka» oŒd‡ to‘touc ‚leujËrouc o kistÄc eŒqomËnhc [sc. t®c
The image of the Romans which Dionysius puts into the mouth of the ‘some’ explains why Dionysius is so concerned with continuity of Greek values in Roman history: if those ‘certain’ authors were right, Classical Greek culture and Roman present would be incompatible and the bedrock of Dionysius’ Classicist world view would crumble apart. 488 These ‘certain’ authors deny the Romans every single element which Dionysius regards as essential to Classical identity: according to them, the Romans did not have the moral and political virtues, ‚leujer–a, eŒsËbeia, and dikaios‘nh, on which Athenian superiority was based. Moreover, Classical rhetoric regarded these virtues as a specifically Athenian heritage: having originated with Athens and having been passed on from generation to generation by the prÏgonoi, they had been the foundations of Athenian identity ever since. The Athenians’ military successes were thought to be due to these virtues, 487 Cary’s transl. modified. Cary’s translation is based on Sauppe’s emendation eÕromËnhc, instead of the eŒqomËnhc transmitted by the manuscripts and accepted by both Jacoby and Fromentin, but this change seems unnecessary. 488 See ch. 2.3 above.

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from the fight against the Amazons to the Persian War and Alexander’s campaigns; 489 thus they were the decisive characteristic which distinguished the Athenians from the Barbarians and justified Athenian and, in general, Greek superiority over the Barbarian Other. 490 Power must be based on a superior moral and political tradition, and only Greeks can have such a tradition. Applying this standard to the Romans, the ‘certain’ authors refuse Rome’s hegemony as illegitimate. They perceive a strong discrepancy between Rome’s lack of tradition and her present state of power and Athens’ superior moral and political tradition and her present lack of power. Rome’s past even neatly contradicts the Classical paradigm: ‘vagabonds without house or home’ (Çnest–ouc ka» plànhtac) sets the Romans in stark contrast to Athenian autochthony and, going hand-in-hand with this, to the distinctly Athenian tradition of values (‚leujer–a, eŒsËbeia, dikaios‘nh, ô ällh Çret†). The Romans are anti-Greeks, the Other, a view explicitly expressed by the ‘more malicious’ among the ‘certain’ authors who blame Fortune for ‘freely bestowing on the basest of barbarians the blessings of the Greeks’ ([kathgoreÿn e ∏jasi t®c t‘qhc] barbàrwn toÿc ponhrotàtoic tÄ t¿n <Ell†nwn porizomËnhc Çgajà, 1.4.2, emphasis mine). Like Dionysius, the ‘certain’ authors think in terms of a dichotomy of Greeks and Barbarians and regard the present as a continuation of the conflict between both parties. But unlike Dionysius, they see the Romans as playing the same role as the Persians in Classical times: the Romans are the Barbarian Other which subjugated the culturally and morally superior Greeks with the help of Fortune; the Hellene-Persian antithesis is replaced with a Hellene-Roman antithesis. This view of the present contradicts Dionysius’ interpretation of Augustan Rome as the successor to the Classical past. Whereas the ‘certain’ authors employ the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis to highlight the differences between Greeks and Romans, Dionysius, as seen in chapter 2.3.1, employs it to integrate Greeks and Romans: the Romans have adopted the ‘Attic Muse’ 489 The Athenians claimed to have defeated the Persians alone in the Battle of Marathon, see Walters (1981). 490 For references see the precis of the ‘Rhetoric of Otherness’ (Hartog) and of Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic identity in ch. 2.2.1, esp. pp. 66–68; on the HelleneBarbarian antithesis and Greek moral and political values see ch. 2.3.1; on Dionysius’ image of the Classical Athenians see the discussion of Dionysius’ reading of Isocrates, ch. 2.2.1, esp. pp. 70–73, and cf. Dionysius’ deconstruction of Thucydides’ image of Athenian character in the Melian Dialogue, discussed in ch. 3.2.3.

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(>Attikò mo‹sa), and their Greek identity is proven by the wealth of works in all literary genres which are written by both Greeks and Romans according to the high standards of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†.491 The Romans are representatives of Classical education and culture, therefore their rulership is desirable and legitimate: just as Greek education and culture had entitled the Athenians to power in Classical times, now the Romans’ hegemony is their ‘property’ (tÄ ·aut®c Çgajà, Orat. Vett. 1.6); their ‘place of honour [is] rightful’ (ô dika–a tim†, ibid.. 2.2), because their rule is the rule of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. With Classical rhetoric the Romans have also adopted Classical tradition: the ‘Attic Muse’s’ being s∏frwn is inseparable from its being Çrqa–a and aŒtÏqjwn (ibid. 1.6; 2.1). The connection of education, tradition, and power, which Classical rhetoric represents, is underscored by the contrast with Asianist eloquence which ‘arrived only yesterday or the day before from some Asiatic death-hole’ (ô d‡ Ík tinwn baràjrwn t®c >As–ac ‚qj‡c ka» prºhn ÇfikomËnh, ibid. 1.7.). ‘New and brainless’ (nËa ka» ÇnÏhtoc, ibid. 2.2), Asianism ‘made itself the key to civic honours and high office, a power which ought to have been reserved for the philosophic art’ (tÄc timÄc ka» tÄc prostas–ac t¿n pÏlewn, Éc Ídei tòn filÏsofon Íqein, e c ·autòn Çnhrt†sato, ibid. 1.4), and it enjoyed ‘a fame which it does not deserve,’ living ‘in luxury on the fruits of another’s labours’ (dÏxan oŒ pros†kousan karpoumËn˘ ka» ‚n Çllotr–oic Çgajoÿc truf∏s˘, ibid. 2.2). An interpretation of the Romans’ role in history like the one put forth by the ‘certain’ authors contradicts the world view which underlies Dionysius’ Classicism and which is crucial to Dionysius’ legitimation as a teacher of Classical rhetoric in Augustan Rome: only if Augustan Rome is the time of the rebirth of Classical rhetoric does it make sense to learn Classical rhetoric. The fact that Dionysius sets out to refute the opposite view in his historical work shows how closely interrelated the Antiquitates and Dionysius’ Classicism are. Dionysius’ critical essays offer an interpretation of the 491 Orat. Vett. 3.2: ‘[The return to filÏsofoc ˚htorik†] has led to the composition of many worthwhile works of history by contemporary writers, and the publication of many elegant political tracts and many by no means negligible philosophical treatises; and a host of other fine works, the products of well-directed industry, have proceeded from the pens of both Greeks and Romans, and will probably continue to do so’ (polla» m‡n …stor–ai spoud®c äxiai gràfontai toÿc n‹n, pollo» d‡ lÏgoi politiko» qar–entec

‚kfËrontai filÏsofo– te suntàxeic oŒ mÄ D–a eŒkatafrÏnhtoi ällai te polla» ka» kala» pragmateÿai ka»
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present in Classical terms. They explain the notion of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†, the conception of ethos and proa–resic which it implies, and the relation of rhetoric and power; furthermore, they offer guidelines on how to be Classical through proper mimesis and on how to display and implement Classical ethos through language in the present. The Antiquitates closes the gap between Classical past and Classicist present. It provides the Romans with the ‘Greekness’ on which Dionysius’ interpretation of their role in history and of their relationship with the Classical past is based. Classicism relies on the conviction that the Roman present is the continuation of the Classical Greek past, and the Antiquitates substantiates this claim by proving the Romans’ Greekness. Refuting the point of view held by the ‘certain’ authors, and, probably, not only by them, 492 Dionysius substantiates his Classicist world view. Dionysius’ history of early Rome provides the Romans with the tradition of moral and political virtues they need in order to be accepted as the legitimate rulers of the world. Dionysius’ work presents Roman life as shaped from the origins of Roman history by the Greek virtues which the ‘certain’ authors had denied to the Romans. In the Antiquitates the development of Roman power implements Romulus’ plans for the future of his colony: Rome’s power and its expansion are due to the Greek way of life which Romulus’ constitution had determined for the Romans.493 Therefore, for Dionysius there is no such sudden turning-point in the development of Roman power, as the ‘certain’ authors claimed the Macedonian and Punic Wars were. On the contrary, the Antiquitates describes the spread of Roman power as one long, continuous process which started at the very beginnings of Roman history and eventually resulted in the oikumene-embracing hegemony of Rome in the present. Thus the ‘certain’ authors’ allegations, that there was a discrepancy between the large extension of Roman power and its short duration, is refuted: extension and duration of Rome’s power are correlated, and the victories over Macedonia and the Carthaginians are just two, albeit very important, steps in a long, congruous process (1.3.3–5):


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ällwn o÷te pÏlewn o÷te basilei¿n. EŒjÃc m‡n gÄr ‚x Çrq®c metÄ t‰n o kism‰n tÄ plhs–on Íjnh pollÄ ka» màqima Ónta pros†geto ka» pro÷bainen Çe» pên douloumËnh t‰ Çnt–palon. […] ‚x o› d‡ Ìlhc ‚kràthsen >Ital–ac ka» ‚p» tòn Åpàntwn ‚jàrrhsen Çrqòn proeljeÿn, ‚kbalo‹sa m‡n ‚k t®c jalàtthc Karqhdon–ouc […], Õpoqe–rion d‡ labo‹sa Makedon–an […] oŒd‡n Íti Çnt–palon o÷te bàrbaron o÷te <Ellhnik‰n geneÄn ·bdÏmhn ¢dh tòn ‚p+‚mo‹ diamËnei pant‰c ärqousa tÏpou. But Rome rules every country that is not inaccessible or uninhabited, and she is mistress of every sea […]. Nor has her supremacy been of short duration, but more lasting than that of any other commonwealth or kingdom. For from the very beginning, immediately after her founding, she began to draw to herself the neighbouring nations, which were both numerous and warlike, and continually advanced, subjugating every rival. […] From the time that she mastered the whole of Italy she was emboldened to aspire to govern all mankind, and after driving from off the sea the Carthaginians […] and subduing Macedonia […] she no longer had as rival any nation either barbarian or Greek; and it is now in my day already the seventh generation that she has continued to hold sway over every region of the world […].

The continuous development of Rome’s power, in turn, is set in direct relation with the constant presence of Greek virtues in Rome ever since her foundation: ‘from the very beginning, immediately after its founding, [Rome] produced infinite examples of virtue in men whose superiors, whether for piety or for justice or for life-long self-control or for warlike valour, no city, either Greek or barbarian, has ever produced’ (mur–ac ¢negken Çndr¿n ÇretÄc eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c metÄ t‰n o kismÏn,

¡n o÷t+eŒsebestËrouc o÷te dikaiotËrouc o÷te swfros‘n˘ ple–oni parÄ pànta t‰n b–on qrhsamËnouc oŒdË ge tÄ polËmia kre–ttouc ÇgwnistÄc oŒdem–a pÏlic ¢negken o÷te <EllÄc o÷te bàrbaroc […], 1.5.3); Dionysius places special emphasis on this point by repeating it at the end of book one, at 1.90.1, thus preparing his interpretation of Romulus’ constitution as the determining factor in Rome’s development. 494 Only by narrating 494 ‘[I]t is not merely recently, since they [the Romans] have enjoyed the full tide of good fortune to instruct them in the amenities of life, that they have begun to live humanely; nor is it merely since they first aimed at the conquest of countries lying beyond the sea, after overthrowing the Carthaginian and Macedonian empires, but rather from the time when they first joined in founding the city, that they have lived like Greeks; and they do not attempt anything more illustrious in the pursuit of virtue now than formerly’ (oŒ n‹n pr¿ton Çrxàmenoi pr‰c fil–an

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Roman history eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c, can Dionysius ‘prove’ that the Romans’ rise to power (thlika‘thn ôgemon–an, toso‹ton qrÏnon, next quotation) had always been based on great achievements (pràxewn, ‚pithdeumàtwn) ever since the founding of the city, and only thus can he make Roman history fit the Classical requirement that power be justified by tradition (1.5.2):

Per» d‡ t¿n pràxewn, Éc metÄ t‰n o kism‰n eŒjËwc Çpede–xanto, ka» per» t¿n ‚pithdeumàtwn, ‚x ¡n e c tosa‘thn ôgemon–an pro®ljon o… met+aŒtoÃc […] Çfhg†somai […] —na toÿc ge majo‹si tòn Çl†jeian É pros†kei per» t®c pÏlewc t®sde parast¨ froneÿn […] ka» m†te äqjesjai t¨ Õpotàxei katÄ t‰ e k‰c genomËn˘ (f‘sewc gÄr dò nÏmoc âpasi koinÏc, Án oŒde»c katal‘sei qrÏnoc, ärqein Çe» t¿n ôttÏnwn toÃc kre–ttonac) m†te kathgoreÿn t®c t‘qhc, ±c oŒk ‚pithde–˙ pÏlei thlika‘thn ôgemon–an ka» toso‹ton ¢dh qrÏnon proÿka dwrhsamËnhc […]. I shall tell of the deeds they performed immediately after their founding their city and of the customs and institutions by virtue of which their descendants advanced to so great dominion […] to the end that I may instil in the minds of those who shall then be informed of the truth the fitting conception of this city […] and also that they may feel neither indignation at their present subjection, which is grounded on reason (for by a universal law of Nature, which time cannot destroy, it is ordained that superiors shall ever govern their inferiors), nor rail at Fortune for having wantonly bestowed upon an undeserving city a supremacy so great and already of so long continuance […].

By the eternal ‘natural’ law, that the more powerful always rule the less powerful, Dionysius does not mean sheer physical strength. Dionysius’ Romans are kre–ttonec for the same reasons that the Classical Athenians had been, i. e., because of their long tradition of moral and political superiority. This recalls the Athenian’s statement in Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue, heavily criticized by Dionysius at Thuc. 39.1, that the weaker have to obey the will of the stronger (Th. 5.89). Dionysius’ portrayal of the Romans implies a demonstration of how Thucydides should have portrayed the Athenians if this ‘universal rule’ was to hold: Dionysius’ Romans are the represenz®n [sc. o…
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tatives of Classical Athenian values which Thucydides’ Athenians should have been. Thucydides too should have substantiated the Athenian’s claim to superiority in the Melian Dialogue by having him refer to the Athenian moral and political virtues. The very act of narrating early Roman history in a long and detailed historical account like the Antiquitates has an essential part to play in Dionysius’ project to justify Roman power through tradition. In the preface Dionysius states that accounts of early Roman history exist, but that they distort the subject because they are cursory and carelessly compiled ‚pitoma– (1.5.4, followed by a list of writers, both Greek and Roman, whose works Dionysius deems unsatisfying at 1.6.1–2). 495 As in his criticism of Thucydides, Dionysius equates history with memory: the existence of the past, and the image of this past, depends on the existence of an appropriate account of it. For the Roman past such an account does not yet exist (o÷pw kekÏsmhke lÏgoc oŒde»c Çx–wc, 1.2.1). The unheard-of greatness of Roman power, regarding both its temporal and its spatial extension (t‰ mËgejoc t®c Çrq®c […] ka» […] t‰ m®koc to‹ perieilhfÏtoc aŒtòn qrÏnou, 1.2.1),496 is strikingly at odds with the short and summary treatments (kefalai∏deic ‚pitoma» pànu braqeÿai, 1.5.4) which have dealt with it so far. This is the reason why erroneous assumptions about the early stages of Roman history, such as those of the ‘certain’ authors, still prevail in Dionysius’ times. It was impossible to assess correctly the nature and origins of Roman power because the greatness of a subject is perceivable only if it is dealt with in an account the elaborateness and length of which correspond to this greatness and transfer it into reading experience. As seen in chapter 3.2.1, Dionysius regards the arrangement and structure of the material, i. e., the form of an account, as decisive for the interpretation of the subject and for the reader’s perception of it. The more important an episode, the longer and more elaborate it should be in literature, whereas a short treatment marks events as being of minor importance. 497 Since early Roman history was available so far only in short and cursory ‚pitoma–, readers concluded the importance of their subject from the form of these works and regarded Rome’s origins as humble and as being of no historical interest. The sheer length and elaborateness of Dionysius’ Antiquitates redresses 495 Cf. Schultze (2000). 496 Cf. 1.3.3; 1.5.4. 497 Dionysius discusses this correlation between form and content under ‚xergas–a in Thuc. 13–15; for examples see pp. 141–142 above.

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the balance between the greatness of the subject and its representation in literature. Dionysius’ work asserts the significance of the early Roman past for Roman history and for the development of Roman power by presenting a detailed narration (‚xergas–a) of Rome’s beginnings: as a physical object, Dionysius’ text makes the greatness and importance of the early Roman past manifest, it re-presents it. Thus the process of reading itself assumes a crucial importance for the recipient’s perception of the past: the time it takes to read a scene, the extent to which the details of the account permit the reader to conceive a mental picture of a scene (‚nàrgeia), and how a particular event is placed within the overall framework of the narrative and in relation to other events, 498 all these factors characterize an event, or, in the case of early Roman history, a whole period, as more or less relevant by granting or denying them a full representation in literature. Through the reading process the importance of the early Romans’ achievements is made experienceable. The achievements of the Athenians had an adequate representation in literature, they even had a genuinely Athenian genre of speech which was dedicated only to relating and preserving Athenian collective identity, the Attic Funeral Oration; but also speeches like Isocrates’ Panathenaicus or Panegyricus, or Herodotus’ History, as Dionysius read it, enabled recipients to experience Athenian tradition by reading or listening to them. The Antiquitates performs a similar task for the tradition of Roman power: as an elaborate, written account of early Roman history, it is a monument to the greatness of Rome and testifies to the importance of Rome’s beginnings for the present.499 498 I am thinking in particular of Dionysius’ assertion at Thuc. 11.1, that the true reasons of events should always be narrated first, followed by those which are erroneously assumed to be true or those which are pretexts. 499 Cf. 1.6.3–4: ‘I have determined not to pass over a noble period of history which the older writers passed over in silence, a period, moreover, the accurate portrayal of which will lead to the following most excellent and just results: In the first place, the brave men who fulfilled their destiny will gain immortal glory and be extolled by posterity […]. And again, both the present and future descendants of those godlike men will choose, not the pleasantest and easiest of lives, but rather the noblest and most ambitious, when they consider that all who are sprung from an illustrious origin ought to set a high value on themselves and indulge in no pursuit unworthy of their ancestors’ (ÍdoxË moi mò pareljeÿn kalòn …stor–an ‚gkataleifjeÿsan Õp‰ t¿n presbutËrwn ÇmnhmÏneuton,

‚x ©c Çkrib¿c grafe–shc sumb†setai tÄ kràtista ka» dikaiÏtata t¿n Írgwn; toÿc m‡n ‚kpeplhrwkÏsi tòn ·aut¿n moÿran Çndràsin Çgajoÿc dÏxhc a wn–ou tuqeÿn ka» pr‰c t¿n ‚pigignomËnwn ‚paineÿsjai […]; toÿc d‡ Çp ‚ke–nwn t¿n  sojËwn

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In his 1903 PW-article, Schwartz declared that Dionysius wanted his Antiquitates to be a paradigm of Classicist rhetoric, by which Schwartz meant rhetorical distortion of the past; Dionysius chose early Roman history because this topic was disconnected from the present, and thus he did not risk offending anyone when abusing this period for his rhetorical exercises.500 The preceding discussion suggests the opposite: Dionysius was interested in early Roman history because this period did have an immediate bearing upon the present. Insofar as the idea of the Romans’ Greekness from the beginnings of Roman history is an integral part of Dionysius’ Classicist ideology, the Antiquitates is a paradigm of Classicism; from this point of view, Schwartz was right, although not in the sense he thought. The discussion of why the beginnings of Roman history were particularly important to Dionysius also prompts us to reconsider the relation of the Antiquitates to the work of another Hellenistic historian who was concerned with the reasons for Rome’s rise to power. Polybius’ History began with the year 264 BCE and Dionysius’ ended with it (1.8.2). Given the importance Dionysius ascribes to the choice of starting and ending point of historical works at Pomp. 3.8, this suggests, as Delcourt has argued convincingly, that Dionysius wanted his reader to see a connection between his work and Polybius’. 501 Delcourt believes that Dionysius meant the Antiquitates to complement Polybius’ History backwards; following the example of Greek historiographers – Xenophon and Theopompus each continued Thucydides’ History, and Posidonius and Strabo each wrote tÄ metÄ Pol‘bion – his work was supposed to create a historia perpetua with Polybius’ HistoÇndr¿n n‹n te ofisi ka» ’steron ‚somËnoic mò t‰n °distÏn te ka» ˚îston a…reÿsjai t¿n b–wn, ‚njumoumËnouc Ìti toÃc e lhfÏtac kalÄc tÄc pr∏tac ‚k to‹ gËnouc ÇformÄc mËga ‚f+·autoÿc pros†kei froneÿn ka» mhd‡n Çnàxion ‚pithde‘ein t¿n progÏnwn; […], emphases mine; Cary’s transl. modified). 500 Schwartz (1903) 934: ‘The very choice of a subject so far remote from the present shows that this work belongs to a special kind of rhetorical historiography, in which rhetorical technique is not simply one means of embellishment among others. On the contrary, the historical material is but the object that serves to demonstrate and exhibit this art […]. Basically, D[ionysius] wants his historical work to be a paradigm of classicism’ (‘Schon die Wahl des von der Gegenwart weit abliegenden Themas zeigt, dass das Werk der in speziellem Sinne rhetorischen Geschichtsschreibung angehört, derjenigen nämlich, welcher die Redekunst nicht blos als ein Kunstmittel neben anderen gilt, sondern umgekehrt der historische Stoff nichts weiter ist als ein Objekt, an welchem diese Kunst gezeigt und dokumentiert wird […]. D[ionysius] will im Grunde in seinem Geschichtswerke ein paràdeigma des Classicismus liefern’). 501 Delcourt (2005) 50–53; on Pomp. 3.8, see above ch. 3.2.1, pp. 136–137.

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ries. 502 It was common among ancient historians to continue the works of their predecessors, and it cannot be ruled out that Dionysius chose the year 264 BCE also for this reason. But the importance of the beginning of Roman history for Dionysius’ explanation of Roman power suggests a different explanation. 503 Both Polybius and Dionysius aim to explain the reasons for Roman power. This is revealed by a comparison of the aim of their works as each author explains it in the preface. The guiding question of Polybius’ account is, ‘by what means and under what system of polity the Romans in less than fifty-three years have succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole inhabited world to their sole government – a thing unique in history?’ (p¿c ka» t–ni

gËnei polite–ac ‚pikrathjËnta sqed‰n âpanta tÄ katÄ tòn o koumËnhn ‚n oŒq Ìloic pent†konta ka» tris»n Ítesin Õp‰ m–an Çrqòn Ípese tòn
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nation for Roman superiority, 505 and both see the superior Roman constitution as the main reason (Plb. 1.1.5). Furthermore, both hold that the course of history is determined by a starting point and that the identification of this starting point is the key to understanding history (Plb. 1.5.5):

T®c gÄr Çrq®c ÇgnooumËnhc £ ka» nò D–+ÇmfisbhtoumËnhc oŒd‡ t¿n ·x®c oŒd‡n oŸÏn te paradoq®c Çxiwj®nai ka» p–stewc; Ìtan d+ô per» ta‘thc ÂmologoumËnh paraskeuasj¨ dÏxa, tÏt+¢dh ka» pêc  suneqòc lÏgoc Çpodoq®c tugqànei parÄ toÿc Çko‘ousin. For if there is any ignorance or indeed any dispute as to what are the facts from which the work opens, it is impossible that what follows should meet with acceptance or credence; but once we produce in our readers a general agreement on this point they will give ear to all the subsequent narrative.

For Polybius and for Dionysius any attempt to explain the growth of Roman power is linked to the question of its Çrq†, the moment when it began. And it is on this central issue that both come up with an entirely different answer, which is due to their different conceptions of the Roman constitution. Polybius regards the spread of Roman power as motivated by one precise event: the Second Punic War. 506 It was only after having defeated Hannibal that the Romans realized that ‘the chief and most essential step in their scheme of universal aggression had now been taken [and that they] were first emboldened to reach out their hands to grasp the rest and to 505 Plb. 1.63.9 (a passage which is strikingly similar to the point of view of the ‘certain’ authors who are cited by Dionysius): ‘This confirms the assertion I ventured to make at the outset that the progress of the Romans was not due to chance and was not involuntary, as some among the Greeks choose to think, but that by schooling themselves in such vast and perilous enterprises it was perfectly natural that they not only gained the courage to aim at universal dominion, but executed their purpose’ (‚x ¡n d®lon t‰ protej‡n ômÿn ‚x Çrq®c ±c oŒ t‘q˘
toic pràgmasin ‚nask†santec oŒ mÏnon ‚pebàlonto t¨ t¿n Ìlwn ôgemon–¯ ka» dunaste–¯ tolmhr¿c, ÇllÄ ka» kaj–konto t®c projËsewc, emphases mine). 506 At 1.3.1 and 1.3.5 Polybius says that the proper beginning of his account is the Hannibalic War, which he does not discuss until book three; the preceding books one and two he defines as ‘before the historical account’ (pr‰ t®c …stor–ac, 1.3.9): their only scope is to supply information which is essential for a proper understanding of the true beginning, the Çrq†, of both his narrative and the spread of Roman power (1.3.8–9). This artificial discrepancy between the beginning of Polybius’ work and the beginning of his narrative highlights the programmatic importance of the starting point for historical understanding: the Çrq† of Roman power is so complex that the readers need to be prepared for it in two books.

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cross with an army to Greece and the continent of Asia’ ([nom–santec]

t‰ kuri∏taton ka» mËgiston mËroc aÕtoÿc ôn‘sjai pr‰c tòn t¿n Ìlwn ‚pibol†n, o’twc ka» tÏte pr¿ton ‚jàrrhsan ‚p» tÄ loipÄ tÄc qeÿrac ‚kte–nein ka» peraio‹sjai metÄ dunàmewc e“c te tòn <Ellàda ka» toÃc katÄ tòn >As–an tÏpouc, Plb. 1.3.6). For Polybius the spread of Roman power was motivated by external circumstances. 507 Polybius’ definition of a clearly defined turning-point in Roman history from which Roman power started to spread calls to mind the similar assumption of the ‘certain’ authors. They regarded the wars against Macedonia and Carthage as the sudden beginning of Rome’s rise to power (1.4.1) and found fault with the alleged discrepancy between the extension of Roman power and its short duration. 508 Polybius does not share their explanation for the success of the Romans’ attempt to extend their power after that turning point: Roman success did not rely on chance and fortune, but on the Romans’ polite–a. But for Polybius the Roman constitution became relevant only after the turning point under the new circumstances caused by the Romans’ conflict with the Carthaginians. This fits Polybius’ assumption that the Roman constitution developed over centuries:509 constantly tested and improved in numerous Çg¿nec ka» pràgmata, it had been brought to perfection when it was required by the changed circumstances. For Dionysius, in stark contrast, Polybius’ idea of a turning-point in the development 507 The influence of external events on the development of Roman power in Polybius’ Histories is particularly evident in his discussion of the Romans’ expedition to Sicily: the Romans were forced to leave Italy for the first time by the circumstances (1.5.2–3); leading, as it did, to the First Punic War, which, in turn, resulted in the Hannibalic War, this event caused a chain reaction and is therefore defined by Polybius as the ‘ultimate reason’ (o keiotàthn […] Çrq†n, 1.12.5–6) for the whole future development: ‘To follow out this previous history – how and when the Romans after the disaster to Rome itself began their progress to better fortunes, and again how and when after conquering Italy they entered on the path of foreign enterprise – seemed to me necessary for anyone who hopes to gain a proper general survey of their present supremacy’ (tƒ gÄr p¿c

ka» pÏte pta–santec aŒt¨ t¨ patr–di o… Ital–an toÿc ‚kt‰c ‚piqeireÿn ‚pebàlonto pràgmasin, Çnagkaÿon Õpelàbomen e⁄nai parakolouj®sai toÿc mËllousi ka» t‰ kefàlaion aŒt¿n t®c n‹n Õperoq®c deÏntwc sunÏyesjai, 1.12.7). On Polybius’ conception of causes see the detailed discussion in Pédech (1964) 54–98, on the causes of the Punic Wars ibid. 177–203, esp. 180: ‘It is Polybius’ concern to demonstrate how the [individual Punic] wars resulted from one another’ (‘Polybe a le souci de montrer comment les guerres naissent les unes des autres’). 508 See above, pp. 187, 189–191. 509 See above, p. 182.

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of Roman power, which reduces the period of the Romans’ rise to superiority to only fifty-three years (Plb. 1.1.5), is inacceptable for the reasons explained above. Dionysius’ decision to ‘complement backwards’ his predecessor’s work is therefore more than just an attempt to create a historia perpetua. Rather, it is a programmatic statement, because the idea of a continuous development of Roman power from the beginnings of Roman history is alien to Polybius’ interpretation of Roman rule. Polybius’ choice of the beginning point of his work reflects this: his account began with the Second Punic War, because this event marked for him the beginning of the spread of Roman power; everything before that date he regarded as pre-history. 510 Programmatically, Dionysius begins with the beginnings of Roman history, the foundation of Rome and Romulus’ constitution: for him the origins of Roman history and the origins of Roman power are the same. Like Polybius’ narrative, Dionysius’ is also preceded by an account of pre-history in a separate book. But for Dionysius, pre-history can be only the period before the Roman people came into existence, i. e., the period before the foundation of Rome which is covered by the first book of the Antiquitates. Writing Roman history eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c reveals a fundamental difference between Dionysius’ view on Roman history and the view, held by Polybius and the ‘certain’ authors, that Rome’s power has only a short tradition and started at the turning point 264 BCE. Choosing 264 BCE as the end of his account, Dionysius contradicts Polybius’ assertion that this year is crucial to a proper understanding of Roman hegemony.

3.3.2 Identity and Difference: Be Roman, Go Greek? Intratextual mimesis establishes continuity between the Romans and the Greeks on the one hand, and between the beginnings of Roman history and subsequent centuries on the other. Extratextual mimesis, too, which will be discussed in this section, establishes continuity; but unlike intratextual mimesis, its purpose is to establish continuity between Dionysius’ times and the early Roman past, as it is represented in Dionysius’ Antiquitates. Throughout his narrative Dionysius refers to what he calls ‘traces’ (“qnh) or ‘tokens’ (tekm†ria) of the past,511 and his readers frequently encounter 510 See above, n. 506. 511 For tekm†ria see, e.g., 1.33.3; 53.1; for “qnh: 1.51.3; 71.3.

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expressions such as ‚n toÿc kaj+ômêc qrÏnoic, mËqri to‹ parÏntoc, mËqric ‚mo‹, or similar which point out a connection between Dionysius’ and his readers’ time and early Roman history. 512 Such ‘traces’ can be customs which were ‘invented’ by the early Romans and preserved throughout history, such as the communion of water and fire (koinwn–a pur‰c ka» ’datoc), which defines a couple as married. Introduced by Romulus when marrying the Sabine women to the Romans, it is still performed in the same manner ‘in our times’ (mËqri t¿n kaj+ômêc […] qrÏnwn, 2.30.6). The lustrum, a rite of purification (kajarmÏc) carried out by the king Servius Tullius after reorganizing the census system, is preserved by the Romans ‘to this day’ (Èwc t¿n kat+‚m‡ qrÏnwn, 4.22.2); in the same manner, the Antiquitates provides aitia for various Roman feasts, such as the Consualia, initiated by Romulus to celebrate the conjunction of Romans and Sabines (2.31.2), or the sacrifices for Pan, a heritage from Euander and his Arcadians, which the Romans still celebrate in February ‘without altering anything in the rites then performed’ (oŒd‡n t¿n tÏte genomËnwn metakino‹ntec, 1.32.5). 513 The same holds for most of the political institutions introduced by Romulus, such as the division of the Roman citizens into patricians and plebeians and the senate. The past is also present physically in the numerous buildings and monuments (or their remains), which Dionysius describes with exceptional vividness. 514 Often, as Andrén has pointed out, Dionysius describes both the original and the current state of a monument. The original shape of the Lupercal (ô palaiÄ to‹ tÏpou f‘sic), for example, ‘has become difficult to make out by conjecture’ now, ‘since the district about the sacred precinct has been united with the city’ (n‹n m‡n ofin sumpepolismËnwn tƒ temËnei

512 See, e.g., 1.12.3; 5.36.4 (mËqric ‚mo‹); 2.23.2 (mËqric ôm¿n); 2.12.4 (‚n toÿc kaj+ômêc qrÏnoic); 2.14.3 (‚f+ôm¿n); 2.12.3 (mËqri to‹ parÏntoc); 6.89.4 (mËqri to‹ kaj+ômêc qrÏnou). As in Strabo, these expressions should not be taken to refer to Dionysius’ lifetime only, but have the more general sense of ‘in our/my times’ and designate ‘the period leading up to, and including the period of [Dionysius’] own activity and that of his approximate contemporaries’ (Pothecary [1997] 235–236, on Strabo); at 2.6.4, e.g., katÄ tòn ‚mòn ôlik–an refers to Crassus’ campaign against the Parthians in 53 BCE, and katÄ toÃc ômetËrouc qrÏnouc at 8.80.2 refers to the end of the bellum Marsicum and of the civil strife in the late nineties BCE; but contrast 5.77.3–4, where Dionysius describes the time of Sulla as ô katÄ toÃc patËrac ôm¿n ôlik–a. 513 Cf. 1.38.3; 7.70–72. 514 For a detailed treatment of Roman monuments in the Antiquitates and the question of Dionysius’ autopsy see Andrén (1960).

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t¿n pËrix qwr–wn duse–kastoc gËgonen, 1.32.4); 515 nevertheless, the place has not lost its original function, and the Romans still sacrifice to Pan in this place in the same manner as Euander and the Arcadians. Thus every time the rite is performed, the original religious context of the place is evoked and re-created in the present. At 3.68, Dionysius gives a long description of the Circus Maximus, built by king Tarquinius. 516 Dionysius’ proleptic remark that this monument ‘was destined to become in time one of the most beautiful and most admirable structures in Rome’ (Ímelle d‡ ära sÃn qrÏn˙ ka» to‹to t‰ Írgon ‚n toÿc pànu kaloÿc ka» jaumastoÿc kataskeuàsmasi t®c pÏlewc genËsjai, 3.68.2), combined with the use of the present and perfect tense in the actual description, 517 invites the readers to imagine the monument in its present state as they are reading how it came into being centuries ago; Dionysius’ detailed descriptions of rites, customs, and institutions, the graphic character of which is occasionally further supported by his assertion of autopsy, have the same effect of a re-presentation of the past. 518 The question whether or not the vividness of Dionysius’ descriptions proves that he actually visited the places he is describing is of minor importance for our investigation. What concerns us here is the function of these vivid descriptions. They actively engage the readers in the text by calling to mind a monument, rite, or institution in its contemporary state while they are reading Dionysius’ account of how it originated. The image of the reader’s Rome and its monuments and institutions is thus associated with the history behind them; the monument becomes a symbol for a certain period of the past and the events which happened in it. This connection works either way: not only does Dionysius’ text evoke the image of the present artifact; the artifact itself is now also charged with a specific history through Dionysius’ text and evokes the historical context in which the recipients find it when reading the Antiquitates. This results in an ‘iconic structuring’ 519 of Roman public space, but also of elementary aspects of 515 Cf. Andrén (1960) 92–93. 516 Ibid. 93–95. 517 3.68.2: ‚sti, Êr∏ruktai, ∂kodÏmhntai, Íqousin; 3.68.3: sunàgontai, sunàptousin, Íqei; 3.68.4: Ísti, e s–n. 518 See, e.g., 1.32.1 (‚g∞ […] ‚jeasàmhn, Ímajon, ‚jeasàmhn, o⁄da); 1.37.2 (‚g∞ […] ‚jeasàmhn); 1.68.1 (É d‡ aŒtÏc te  d∏n ‚p–stamai); 68.2 (‚jeasàmeja). 519 Alonso (1988) 41 applies this term to describe the effect of naming streets, institutions, and even communities after dead heroes or after slogans of past struggles in Mexico, such as ‘Sufragio Efectivo,’ ‘20 de Noviembre,’ ‘Emiliano Zapata,’ and the like. This

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everyday Roman life in general: 520 Roman buildings, customs, and institutions become ‘mnemonic signs’ of Dionysius’ version of early Roman history and of his portrayal of the way of life of the maiores/prÏgonoi and thus admonish the readers to show themselves worthy of their heritage by continuing the way of life of the ancestors (cf. mhd‡n Çnàxion ‚pithde‘ein t¿n progÏnwn, 1.6.4, above). 521 Dionysius’ version of early Roman history is thus firmly anchored in the present, and the present supports the ethico-moral purpose of his work. Dionysius claims that a special effort to continue the tradition of values of the ancestors is necessary in his own times because the Romans risk losing their heritage and thus jeopardizing the foundations of their power. Dionysius mentions several cases of Romans who did not observe the practice of the ancestors and caused major catastrophes to the Roman state. Since Romulus, for example, the Romans used to seek the gods’ consent by observing the birds’ flight before appointing magistrates or before embarking on major undertakings. This custom was preserved until well after the end of the Regal Period (2.6.1), but had recently, ‘in our own times’ (‚n toÿc kaj+ômêc qrÏnoic, 2.6.4), been abolished. Among the numerous disastrous consequences which this entailed, Licinius Crassus’ recent (katÄ tòn ‚mòn ôlik–an) catastrophic defeat against the Parthians (53 BCE) was the most shocking (2.6.4). It could easily have been prevented if Crassus had not

‘unitary set of names,’ employed everywhere in Mexico alike, ‘links the most rural villages to the greatest of metropoli,’ transforming ‘what was once the terrain of local and regional autonomies into a homogenized and nationalized domain’ (ibid.). The more general expression ‘iconic structuring’ seems preferable to the more familiar ‘landscape of memory,’ because ‘landscape’ suggests a restriction to actual space, whereas the Antiquitates charges also immaterial objects, such as customs and rites, with a specific memory. 520 I hope to return to this question in a separate article. The general importance of monuments as carriers of meaning and constituents of collective memory was first pointed out by the French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs; see also the more recent work on collective memory, based on Halbwachs, by Jan Assmann (1992) and Pierre Nora’s large-scale project on lieux de mémoire and cf. nn. 266 and 268 above on ‘emplotment’ of space and imaginary geography. 521 Alonso (1988) 50: ‘meaningfulness is neither fully linked to the present agent nor totally contained in the present time but inextricably interwoven with social memory […]. The relation between meaning and memory is an internal one. As signs become imbued with the memories of social groups’ lived experiences, they become revalued. Such mnemonic signs are constantly deployed in day to day life and one’s ability to use and interpret them is indexical of one’s membership in a social group.’

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neglected the ancient custom of obeying the signs of bird flight before political or military actions (ibid.). Another example of an ancient custom abolished ‘in our own times’ (‚n toÿc kaj+ômêc qrÏnoic, 4.24.4) is the practice of releasing slaves as a reward for outstanding achievements only (kalokÇgaj–an, 4.24.4). This guaranteed that the status of Roman citizen was conferred only upon those proven worthy (Çx–ouc t®c pÏlewc Óntac, 4.24.8). But now, Dionysius complains, slaves can buy their freedom either with money or with favours to their owners; the link between excellence and citizenship, kalokÇgaj–a and ‚leujer–a, is thus destroyed and a situation is created which is ‘inappropriate to a dominant city which aspires to rule the whole world’ (oŒ prËpon ôgemonik¨ pÏlei ka» pant‰c ärqein Çxio‘s˘ tÏpou, 4.24.6).522 The full significance of the notion of being ‘worthy’ of Roman citizenship is comprehensible only against the background of the above discussion of Dionysius’ Constitutio Romuli. Superior political and moral virtues are the foundations of Rome’s military and political superiority; hence the more that citizens are ‘unworthy’ of Rome and unable to live up to the high moral standards set by the maiores/prÏgonoi, the more Rome’s power and superiority are in danger of being undermined. 523 Another negative example is Cornelius Sulla. He was the first to abuse dictatorship – with the well-known catastrophic results for Rome and her citizens. Until him there is no historical record of anyone ‘who did not use it [dictatorship] with moderation and as became a citizen’ (Ác oŒ metr–wc aŒt¨ ka» politik¿c ‚qr†sato, 5.77.2). This was due to the fact that so far all dictators had followed the example of the first (tƒ pr∏t˙ labÏnti tòn Çrqòn Âmo–ouc ·autoÃc parËsqon, 5.77.3), Titus Larcius, whom Dionysius presents as the paradigm of ideal dictatorship and statesmanship (5.75.1). ‘A full four hundred years after the dictatorship of Titus Larcius’ (Âmo‹ ti tetrakos–wn diagenomËnwn ‚t¿n Çp‰ t®c T–tou Lark–ou diktator–ac, 5.77.4), this long line of tradition was broken by Sulla, ‘the first and only dictator who exercised his power with harshness and cruelty; so that the Romans then perceived for the first time what they had all along been ignorant of, that the dictatorship is a tyranny’ (pr∏tou ka» mÏnou pikr¿c 522 Cary’s transl. modified. 523 Cf. 2.11.1–3: Gaius Gracchus was the first to undermine the Romulean hierarchy of plebeians and patricians and destroyed the principle which had guaranteed unity (ÂmÏnoia) and internal stability (tòn to‹ polite‘matoc Årmon–an) among the Romans for 630 years; cf. pp. 184–185 above.

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aŒt¨ ka» ≤m¿c qrhsamËnou; πste tÏte pr¿ton a sjËsjai
This passage and the several instances of Romans who acted against the standard of tradition should not lead us to believe that Dionysius viewed his own times in general as a period of decline. Such an assumption ignores the numerous examples cited above which highlight the continuity between past and present, and it is against this background that the negative instances have to be discussed. The behaviour of a Sulla or a Crassus serve rather to underscore further the crucial importance of continuity in history: events which were notorious for their traumatic effect on Roman collective memory, such as the defeat against the Parthians or Sulla’s proscriptions and the Civil War, made particularly effective examples to demonstrate how important it was that Dionysius’ Roman contemporaries followed closely the model of behaviour of the maiores. 524 Crassus, Sulla, and Romans who sell freedom and citizenship to their slaves, are anti-models from whom Dionysius’ readers are supposed to 524 Cf. Bowersock (1965) 131: ‘the theme [the decline of Roman mores in Dionysius’ times] is expounded precisely to show the need for a resurgent rule of the old aristocracy’; Luraghi (2003) 281.

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distance themselves. But they also demonstrate the inescapable influence of the maiores on contemporary Roman life: Dionysius narrates Crassus’ neglect of bird flight and the ensuing catastrophe within his account of Romulus’ kingship and his constitution. This sets Crassus’ recent failure in direct contrast to the period of prosperity which followed after Romulus had observed bird flight for the first time before being elected Roman king. The example of Sulla is even more compelling: Sulla cannot escape comparison with the first and most exemplary dictator , Titus Larcius, because the office of dictator itself is inseparable from the memory of the man who was the first to hold it, and even the time of Sulla’s failure as a Roman dictator is measured in years ‘since Larcius’ (Çp‰ t®c T–tou Lark–ou diktator–ac, 5.77.4, above). Being a Roman, and especially a Roman in a high social position, no matter what one does, one can never escape comparison with the ancestors because one will automatically re-enact what they did before. Therefore Romans must strive to live up to the standard of the ancestors, because Roman history demonstrates that only the way they acted leads to success. Any break with the ancestral tradition will endanger the whole Roman state, as is illustrated by Crassus’ military defeat or by the Civil War under Sulla. The emphasis on continuity and the blame for deviations from the ancestral tradition in the Antiquitates thus lead up to one central message: the only way of preserving, or expanding, Rome’s superiority – an activity which Dionysius envisages for a substantial part of his readership525 – is to 525 Dionysius imagines future Roman statesmen as representing a considerable part of his audience; at 1.8.3, e.g., when defining his envisaged addressees, Dionysius refers to ‘those who occupy themselves with politiko» lÏgoi’ (toÿc per» toÃc politikoÃc diatr–bousi lÏgouc) alongside ‘those who are devoted to philosophical speculations’ (toÿc per» tòn filÏsofon ‚spoudakÏsi jewr–an) and ‘any who may desire mere undisturbed entertainment in their reading of history’ (e“ tisin Çoql†tou de†sei diagwg®c ‚n …storikoÿc Çnagn∏smasin); on this passage see Fromentin (1993). The first expression shows that Dionysius envisages the same audience for his historical and critical works, the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ whose competence in Classical rhetoric, as shown in ch. 2.3 above, is inextricably bound up with the claim to political leadership; cf. ch. 4.3.3 below. Subsequently, philosophy, in the sense of learning from history, and political activity usually occur combined, for example in Dionysius’ programmatic statement at 5.75.1: ‘For it is no mean and humble state of which I am going to relate the institutions and manners, nor were the men nameless outcasts whose counsels and actions I shall record, so that my zeal for small and trivial details might to some appear tedious and trifling; but I am writing the history of the state which prescribes rules of right and justice for all mankind, and of the leaders who raised her to that dignity, matters concerning which

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become ‘worthy’ of Rome, prËpontec [sc. t¨ pÏlei] or äxioi t®c pÏlewc (cf. on 4.24.6–8 above); the only way of being ‘worthy’ of Rome is to adopt the way of life of the maiores or, if this has previously been neglected, to re-adopt it. In this process of (re)adoption of the ancestral way of life the Antiquitates claims a central role. Expressions like äxion or prËponta [e⁄nai] t¨ pÏlei recall Dionysius’ definition of one of the main goals of his work at 1.6.4, to imbue his Roman contemporaries and future generations of Romans with the conviction (‚njumeÿsjai) ‘that all who are sprung from an illustrious origin ought to set a high value on themselves and indulge in no pursuit unworthy of their ancestors’ (Ìti toÃc e lhfÏtac kalÄc tÄc

pr∏tac ‚k to‹ gËnouc ÇformÄc mËga ‚f+·autoÿc pros†kei froneÿn ka» mhd‡n Çnàxion ‚pithde‘ein t¿n progÏnwn, emphases mine). Dionysius’ detailed description of the Constitutio Romuli, the virtues of Titus Larcius, and his praise of Cincinnatus’ virtues demonstrate to his Roman readers what ‘being worthy of Rome’ means: it means adopting Greek moral and political virtues as Romulus and the early Romans did, because being Greek, and continuously striving to remain Greek, is the distinctive characteristic of Roman identity. 526 Dionysius’ work enables his Roman readers to follow the example of Romulus and to learn from history: being the only available detailed account of the exemplary way of life of the ancestors, 527 it offers them the moral and political education which they need in order to preserve Roman identity and to maintain Rome’s leading position in the world. 528 any philosopher or statesman would earnestly strive not to be ignorant’ (oŒ gÄr Çz†lou ka» tapein®c pÏlewc polite‘mata ka» b–ouc oŒd‡ Çnwn‘mwn ka» ÇperrimËnwn Çnjr∏pwn boule‘mata ka» pràxeic mËllw dihgeÿsjai πste Óqlon än tini ka» fluar–an fan®nai tòn per» tÄ mikrÄ ka» fa‹la ôm¿n spoud†n; Çll+Õp‡r t®c âpasi tÄ kalÄ ka» d–kaia Ârizo‘shc pÏlewc ka» per» t¿n e c to‹to katasthsamËnwn aŒtòn t‰ Çx–wma ôgemÏnwn, â tic ãn spoudàseie mò Çgnoeÿn filÏsofoc ka» politik‰c Çn†r, suggràfw); cf. 11.1.1 (Ìsoi per» tòn filÏsofon jewr–an ka» per» tÄc politikÄc diatr–bousi pràxeic). See Bowersock (1965) 131 (‘upper-class Roman readers’); Luraghi (2003) 281, 283. There is no doubt, however, that Dionysius also envisages Greeks as readers of his work (Bowersock [1965] 131; Schultze [1986] 138– 139; Delcourt [2005] 65–69); the question of whether the Antiquitates aims to blur the boundaries between Greeks and Romans (cf. Delcourt [2005] 65–69) will be discussed below. 526 Cf. ch. 3.3.1 above. 527 See above, pp. 192–193. 528 Compared with the account of early Roman history in Livy’s History, the Antiquitates is distinguished by a strong emphasis on the moral and political virtues of the early Romans. This seems to confirm Dionysius’ assertion that his work is the only available detailed account of the early Roman past which presents the readers with exempla for their own

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This restorative tendency of the Antiquitates has raised the question of whether (and how) Dionysius’ historical work is related to the restorative programme of the Augustan principate. As scholars attempted to identify similarities between the Antiquitates and Augustan policy, Dionysius’ work revealed a striking ambiguity because the text seemed to provide evidence for a pro- and an anti-Augustan reading alike. Part of the reason for this result is the fact that Dionysius avoids express comments on, or references to, Augustus. Augustus is mentioned only once at the beginning of the work as the Sebast‰c Kaÿsar who ended the civil war (1.7.2). 529 Later on, at 1.70.4, Dionysius mentions the Julii and describes them as a gens worthy of their great ancestor, Julus. 530 A pro- or anti-Augustan reading of the Antiquitates therefore has to rely on passages or statements in the

behaviour. Dionysius devotes seven chapters (5.71–77, eleven and a half Teubner pages) to Titus Larcius and his dictatorship, including a discussion in the Senate before the appointment of Larcius, in which the qualities of the dictator-to-be are defined, and a comparison of the strengths and weaknesses of the different candidates (5.71); in 5.73–74, then, Dionysius discusses the possible origin of the office and finds that it was adopted from the Greeks; in 5.75–77, finally, he gives a detailed account of Larcius’ achievements to substantiate his claim, made at 5.75.1, that Larcius’ behaviour sets an example for all politicians of later generations. Livy, by contrast, deals with Larcius in one chapter (2.18, one and a half Oxford pages) and does not discuss any qualities of Larcius at all. Similarly, Dionysius praises Cincinnatus not only for preferring the modest life of a farmer over political power and a life in affluence (10.17.5–6), but also for his swfros‘nh (ibid.) and his dikaios‘nh,  sÏthc, filanjrwp–a, and praÏthc, when carrying out his office (10.19.1); due to these moral qualities Cincinnatus not only restores the order of Roman society and ends the civic unrest but also becomes a paradigm of the ideal statesman (Çnòr ÇgajÏc) whose leadership alone the people willingly accepts (10.19.3). His behaviour offers Dionysius’ readers a guideline of how to become successful statesmen themselves. Contemporary Latin sources, by contrast, focus only on Cincinnatus’ choice of a simple way of life over money, e.g., Livy 3.26.7–12 (esp. 3.26.7: ‘What followed merits the attention of those who despise all human qualities in comparison with riches, and think there is no room for great honours or for worth but amidst a profusion of wealth,’ operae pretium est audire qui omnia prae divitiis humana spernunt neque honori magno locum neque virtuti putant esse, nisi ubi effusae affluant opes, emphases mine); Cic. fin. 2.12; Pers. 1.73–75; Colum. 1 praef . 13; none of these contains express praise of Cincinnatus’ qualities of character. 529 ‘I arrived in Italy at the very time that Augustus Caesar put an end to the civil war […]’ (‚g∞ kataple‘sac e c >Ital–an âma tƒ kataluj®nai t‰n ‚mf‘lion pÏlemon Õp‰ to‹ Sebasto‹ Ka–saroc […]); cf. Martin (1971) 163. 530 ‘Upon Iulus was conferred instead of the sovereignty, a certain sacred authority and honour preferable to the royal divinity both for the security and ease of life, and this

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Antiquitates which seem to be in agreement with or contradict elements of the Augustan programme. Scholars who argue for a pro-Augustan reading have pointed out that Dionysius’ positive assessment of the laws in the Constitutio Romuli which regulate marriage and family life might reflect the princeps’ concern with these matters.531 It has also been suggested that Dionysius’ emphasis on virtues such as eŒsËbeia, dikaios‘nh, swfros‘nh, and bravery in war (gennaiÏthc ‚n toÿc polËmoic) alludes to the return to the ancestral virtues, which was a key topic of Augustus’ political programme.532 There is no need to assume that these virtues were meant to allude specifically to the virtues inscribed on the clupeus virtutis (pietas, iustitia, clementia, virtus), as some scholars have;533 but readers might have noted similarities between Romulus’ constitution and the princeps’ political programme, both of which aim to implement these virtues in Roman society – especially because a comparison between Augustus and Romulus was not uncommon among Dionysius’ contemporaries and was encouraged by the princeps himself. 534 Furthermore, it has been suggested that Dionysius’ characterisation of Her-

prerogative was enjoyed even to my day by his posterity, who were called Julii after him. This house became the greatest and at the same time the most illustrious of any we know of, and produced the most distinguished commanders, whose virtues were so many proofs of their nobility’ (>Io‘l˙ d‡ Çnt» t®c basile–ac …erà tic ‚xous–a

prosetËjh ka» timò tƒ te Çkind‘n˙ pro÷qousa t®c monarq–ac ka» t¨ ˚ast∏n˘ to‹ b–ou, õn Íti ka» e c ‚m‡ t‰ ‚x aŒto‹ gËnoc ‚karpo‹to, >Io‘lioi klhjËntec Çp+‚ke–nou. ‚gËneto d‡ mËgistoc âma ka» lamprÏtatoc o“kwn o›toc, ¡n ômeÿc “smen, ändrac te diaforwtàtouc ôgemÏnwn ¢negken, oŸc t‰ eŒgen‡c a… Çreta» mò Çpisteÿsjai parËsqon […]); Martin (1971) 163. 531 Thus, carefully, Delcourt (2005) 297. 532 Delcourt (2005) 367–368; cf. Crouzet (2000) 170. 533 Thus, e.g., Crouzet (2000) 168; for further references and discussion see Delcourt (2005) 297, who in my view rightly rejects the parallel between the catalogue of virtues in the Antiquitates and those on the clupeus virtutis. 534 Pace Delcourt, ibid. On Romulus and Augustus see, for example, Suet. Aug. 7.2, who reports that ‘some’ held (quibusdam censentibus) that Octavianus should name himself ‘Romulus’ instead of ‘Augustus,’ because ‘he was virtually a founder of the city himself’ (quasi et ipsum conditorem urbis, transl. mine); ibid. 95 Suetonius says that twelve vultures appeared to Octavianus ‘as to Romulus’ (ut Romulo), when he was taking up his first consulship (cf. Kienast [1999] 216–217); in general, scholars agree that Romulus played a key role in Augustan ideology, although it is probably exaggerated to speak of a ‘Romulus period’ in Augustus’ life, see Kienast (1999) 93 with n. 45 (with further references); Nesselrath (1990) 160–161; cf. Delcourt (2005) 253–255.

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acles as the prototype of the imperator triumphans alludes to Augustus, 535 and Dionysius’ account of the fetiales (1.21.1; cf. 2.72) was thought to be motivated by Augustus’ reinstalment of the fetiales in 32 BCE as the first step of his restorative programme. 536 The force of this evidence might be debatable, but it cannot be denied that Dionysius’ work contains at least ‘Augustan resonances’ (‘résonance augustéenne’): ‘the shadow of the principate is hovering over the Antiquitates Romanae.’ 537 Hill argues for the opposite position. By stressing the Greek origins of the Romans, he claims, Dionysius contradicted the ‘official’ version of Rome’s origins in Virgil’s Aeneid which was favoured by Augustus. Virgil, Hill states, draws a negative picture of the Greeks (mali … Grai, 3.398): they are associated with treachery (insidiae … Danaum, 1.754) and throughout the epic they are the enemies of the Trojans and, it is implied, of their Roman descendants.538 Virgil’s hostility to the Greeks culminates in the famous passage 6.847–853, where Anchises contrasts the distinctly Roman ‘art’ (hae tibi erunt artes, 852) of exerting power with the artes that are typically associated with the Greeks such as craftmanship, rhetoric, and astronomy. 539 In these verses, the Greeks are the ‘Other’ from which the Romans seek to distinguish themselves: ‘It is clear, then, that the picture of the Greeks which Virgil has given in the Aeneid is an unfavourable one and that it was dictated by the nature of his theme, which in turn was

535 Martin (1971) 170–174, esp. 172; Gabba (1982a) 801 accepts that Dionysius’ portrayal of Heracles ‘might evoke Augustan motives’ (‘può risentire di motivi augustei’), but refuses to recognize this as a hint to Augustan propaganda (‘tracce della propaganda imperiale’). 536 Martin (1971) 165; Crouzet (2000) 161–162. 537 Delcourt (2005) 369 (‘l’ombre du principat plane sur les Antiquités Romaines’). 538 Hill (1961) 90–91 (with further references); cf. Gabba (1982a) 801: ‘Our historian’s [Dionysius’] vision of Rome and the Roman empire is not exactly that of Augustus which was founded on the predominance of the Italic element’ (‘la visione che il nostro storico [Dionysius] ha di Roma e dell’Impero non è propriamente quella di Augusto, che si fondava sul predominio dell’elemento italico’); id. (1959) 368. 539 ‘Others, I doubt not, shall beat out the breathing bronze with softer lines; shall from marble draw forth the features of life; shall plead their causes better; with the rod shall trace the paths of heaven and tell the rising of the stars: remember thou, O Roman, to rule the nations with thy sway – these shall be thine arts – to crown Peace with Law, to spare the humbled, and to tame in war the proud!’ (excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), vivos ducent de marmore vultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos); Hill (1961) 90.

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imposed by the official propaganda of Augustus.’ 540 Hill further points out that Dionysius’ assertion that Rome was Greek from the beginning is at odds with the version of Rome’s origins in the works of other ‘Augustan’ authors, such as Livy or Horace. 541 The apparent ambiguities in the Antiquitates require a solution. Some scholars have argued that Dionysius did not intend to write either a proor an anti-Augustan work but was independent of Augustus’ programme. Passages evocative of Augustus’ programme have then been explained as an indicator of a certain sympathy with Augustan policy. Others have remarked that the allusions to Augustus’ official policy, which the representatives of the pro-Augustan reading pointed out, were too inconspicuous to be recognizable by Greek readers. Roman readers might have recognized certain similarities, but this was not Dionysius’ main interest: aiming at the moral education of his Roman readers, he was concerned only with explaining the ancient origins of customs and cults (re)introduced by Augustus. Possible connections between the Antiquitates and Augustus are thus explained as accidental and a mere influence of the zeitgeist on Dionysius and his work: like the œuvre of Livy or Varro, the Antiquitates is regarded as yet another product in the wake of antiquarianism and, as such, as apolitical.542 Both explanations are problematic. Regarding the first, allowing for Dionysius’ sympathy with Augustan policy in order to explain resonances with Augustan ideas invalidates the whole argument of Dionysius’ independence: it does not matter whether an alleged pro-Augustan slant to the Antiquitates is due to Dionysius’ full adherence to the Augustan programme or only to personal inclination – the pro-Augustan slant remains. The second explanation, on the other hand, raises the question of why Greek intellectuals living in Augustan Rome would not have been able to recognize similarities between Dionysius’ account of the Roman past and salient characteristics of the political climate of their own times. Moreover, the second explanation foists a modern conception of antiquarianism on the ancient works. Augustus’ principate was based largely on an idealized image of the early Roman past which he sought to recover, and his political programme aimed to implement a conception of the ‘classical’ which combined aesthetic with moral and political elements. Antiquarianism in 540 Hill (1961) 92. 541 Ibid. (the term ‘Augustans’ ibid.); cf. my discussion of our conception of ‘Augustan’ culture in ch. 1.1.2 above. 542 Crouzet (2000), esp. 170.

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Augustan Rome was concerned with the foundations of Augustus’ principate and thus of both Roman public and private life, and it touched upon crucial elements of Augustus’ self-image. This made antiquarianism an activity with strong political implications. 543 Especially Livy’s work reflects this: significantly, his History too has been subjected to an either pro- or antiAugustan reading, which points to the fact that his work contains the same ambiguity as Dionysius’.544 The main problem with both explanations above is that even by arguing against a pro- and anti-Augustan reading of Dionysius’ work, they still retain the idea that the terms pro- and anti-Augustan provide an adequate conceptual framework for dealing with the Antiquitates. The whole debate presupposes the existence of an official Augustan ‘propaganda’ and a concomitant dichotomy of pro- and anti-Augustan, to which authors were expected to subscribe. 545 The discussion of ‘Augustan’ culture in chapter 1.1.2 above has shown how problematic such a view is: no-one would deny that Augustus had a systematic programme which he sought to implement by means of non-verbal media, such as statues, monuments, and paintings, and verbal media, such as his Res Gestae, oratory, inscriptions, and laws. But Augustus’ influence on the literary production of his time is much more difficult to assess. The Antiquitates was probably written and, at least partly, published,546 in the so-called middle period of Augustus’ reign, the time between Actium and the disgrace of his daughter Julia, 547 and this

543 Cf. Momigliano (1950) 289. 544 Livy’s work presents the same problems as the Antiquitates, see Kennedy (1992) 43–45, with a list and discussion of passages in Livy’s work which might, but need not, be read as supportive of Augustan policy. 545 See the discussion of the heuristic value of these terms in Kennedy (1992). 546 At 1.3.4 Dionysius mentions Claudius Nero and Calpurnius Piso, who were consuls in 7 BCE; hence this year is the terminus post quem for the publication of at least the first book; but given the first book’s relatively independent character, Dionysius might have published it separately. This assumption is further supported by the fact that a) the second book starts with a summary of the contents of the first and that b) at 7.70.2 Dionysius seems to refer to the first book as already published ([ô pr∏th graf†], õn per» to‹ gËnouc aŒt¿n suntaxàmenoc ‚xËdwka […]). When exactly Dionysius worked on the Antiquitates and by which date it was available in its entirety will remain an open question. It seems a reasonable assumption, though, that most parts of the work were planned and written between Dionysius’ arrival in Rome in 30 BCE and 7 BCE, even if the books were published successively one by one or, as Fromentin [1998] xxvi–xxvii argued, in pentads. 547 The term ‘middle period’ in Feeney (1992) 7.

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period was characterized by the princeps’ tolerance and comitas in literary matters.548 That does not mean that Augustus did not attempt to influence the works of authors like Horace and Virgil, who were close acquaintances of his for more than twenty years; 549 the material advantage or the rise in prestige which the emperor offered to poets and intellectuals who supported his programme was probably a major influence on many an author’s literary production. 550 We cannot rule out either that Maecenas or Messalla provided ‘ideological leadership’ to favour the princeps’ policy within their circles, 551 although we should bear in mind that the available evidence does not allow us to confirm this view.552 But there is a decisive difference between attempting to influence literary production and enforcing a well-defined programme upon literature by controlling and censoring its content: Horace and Virgil and, to a lesser degree, Propertius were close to the princeps, but they were not ‘court poets’ who had no choice but to sing their patron’s praise. 553 After all, the strong presence of ‘civic and patriotic themes’ in the works of all five ‘Augustans’ can also be interpreted ‘as collective responses to the new milieu’ 554 and as a voluntary expression of approval of Augustus’ cultural and political programme. 555 Moreover, there is positive evidence that Augustus was tolerant of authors who overtly opposed him. The historian Timagenes of Alexandria, for example, was a close acquaintance of the princeps and wrote an account of Augustus’ deeds. But then he insulted Augustus and his family

548 See the discussion of freedom of speech under Augustus in Feeney (1992) 7–9. In the later phase of Augustus’ reign the situation changed and freedom of speech was limited by the extension of the laws of maiestas. This period saw the burning of the histories of T. Labienus and the exile of Cassius Severus and Ovid (Feeney [1992] 7), the latter going hand-in-hand with the total suppression of his Ars Amatoria – a measure, as White points out, which comes close to ‘censorship’ in our sense of the word (White [2005] 336). 549 White (2005) 332, 335. 550 Both Varius and Horace gained immensely from Augustus’ support, see Griffin (2005) 314–315; White (2005) 334. 551 Thus Griffin (2005) 315, but see the balanced discussion in White (2005) 330–331. 552 Ibid. 553 Ibid. 335. 554 Ibid. 333. 555 This is essentially the view held by Zanker (2003).

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so much that the princeps excluded him from his company, 556 and Timagenes replied by publicly burning his account of Augustus’ achievements. 557 This, however, did not have serious consequences; 558 on the contrary, Timagenes was now supported by Asinius Pollio and became a local celebrity in Rome. 559 Furthermore, as seen above, in the preface to the Antiquitates Dionysius mentions anti-Roman works by Greek historians which his work sets out to refute. The existence of such works shows that authors did not have to fear reprisals if they published works that did not conform to, or even opposed, major tenets of Augustus’ programme. 560 The idea of a ‘static’ Augustan propaganda, in the sense of a one-way imposition of directives, 561 should therefore be replaced with a concep-

556 Sen. de ira 3.23.4–5 (FGrH 88T3): ‘Timagenes, the historical writer, had made some comments about Augustus himself, others about his wife and his whole family […]. The emperor often admonished him to use his tongue more moderately, but when he [Timagenes] continued he threw him out of his house’ (Timagenes historiarum scriptor quaedam in ipsum, quaedam in uxorem eius et in totam domum dixerat […]. Saepe illum Caesar monuit ut moderatius lingua uteretur, perseveranti domo sua interdixit, transl. mine); on Timagenes see above, p. 102 with n. 283. 557 Sen. contr. 10.5.22. 558 Sen. de ira 3.23.7. 559 Ibid. 3.23.5; but see Feeney (1992) 7–8, who reads Seneca’s passage as evidence that ‘in the end, as with everything else in the principate, it was up to the princeps, in each particular case, to draw the line in the sand.’ This is, no doubt, true, but the decisive point is hardly that Augustus could enforce measures against authors of whom he disapproved, but that he did not. 560 The exact events which led to Cornelius Gallus’ suicide or the reasons for the tragedian Sempronius Gracchus’ exile are not entirely clear. But if their works played a role in these incidents at all, they were probably not the main reason: Gallus had given offence in an office to which the princeps had appointed him, and Gracchus had been involved in a love-affair with Augustus’ daughter. On Gallus see Suet. Aug. 66.2, but contrast Ov. trist. 2.445–446: ‘it was not for praising Lycoris that Gallus was reprimanded, but for not having controlled his tongue under the influence of pure wine’ (non fuit opprobrio celebrasse Lycorida Gallo, sed linguam nimio non tenuisse mero, transl. mine); Cassius Dio (53.23.5–7) mentions both ‘idle talk’ against Augustus and offensive acts (pollÄ m‡n gÄr ka» màtaia ‚c t‰n A÷gouston Çpel†rei, pollÄ d‡ ka» ‚pa–tia parËpratte, 53.23.5); Feeney’s (1992) 7 assertion that Gallus’ fate was an example of the suppression of free speech by Augustus also in the ‘middle period’ seems therefore too one-sided. On Gracchus see Ov. pont. 4.16.31, Tac. ann. 1.53 (the references in this and the preceding note are cited in White [2005] 334). 561 Hill (1961) is a good example of this view, but cf. Griffin (2005) 314 (on the role of Maecenas): ‘The authors of the Eclogues, the Epodes, and the Monobiblos, unpromising as they might well have seemed for the purpose, were to be rewarded, coaxed, flattered,

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tion of Augustan policy as a dynamic process: ‘ “Augustanism” was not a dogma conceived by a small band and handed down to a receptive, passive audience. Augustus and his apparatus […] were themselves conditioned by responses, even initiatives, from “below.” ’562 Authors under Augustus did not have to face the decision whether to conform to or to oppose any official directives for literary production, and therefore it does not make sense to read Dionysius’ Antiquitates as an either pro- or anti-Augustan work. This is not to deny that passages in Dionysius’ work were reminiscent of actual developments in politics, culture, and religion, and they might even be due to a certain sympathy for Augustus’ programme on Dionysius’ part – the discussion in the last section has shown that it is an integral part of Dionysius’ historical project to stress and establish continuity between early Roman history and the present. Depending on personal preferences, some of Dionysius’ readers might have interpreted some of these passages as statements for or against Augustan politics – but none of these points permits us to define the Antiquitates as pro- or anti-Augustan and to expect Dionysius’ interpretation of the past, or its individual elements, to conform to the Augustan programme or to oppose it. We can now take a fresh look at Hill’s observation, which is still valid, that Dionysius’ version of the Roman origins is incompatible with the version offered by Virgil. This discrepancy is not an indicator of an opposition to Augustus’ political programme, but points to a more general pattern: key ideas of Dionysius’ definition of Roman identity are at variance with conceptions of Roman identity of Roman authors in general, but not with those of ‘Augustan’ authors in particular. Dionysius’ allegation that the Romans stem from Greek origins is at odds with the general tendency of the Romans not to regard only one people as their ancestor: as Woolf pointed out, the Romans’ ‘traditions of origin stressed the progressive incorporation of outsiders.’ 563 Virgil’s Aeneid adopted this idea and integrated it into the framework of Augustan policy.564 The divergent explanation of the Romans’ origins in the

pressured, and guided into serving the regime […],’ and ibid. 317 (Augustus, ‘the great master of propaganda’). 562 Feeney (1992) 3; cf. Kennedy (1992) 41: Augustan ideology was ‘shaped and generated by the forces it sought to dominate.’ 563 Woolf (1994) 120; cf. also Galinsky (2005b) 346. 564 Jones (1995), too, compares Virgil and Dionysius and remarks that Dionysius has a ‘very different point of view from Virgil’ without further discussion.

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Antiquitates contradicts the general idea behind the Aeneid, but not the fact that this idea was part of Augustus’ programme.565 The main difference between Virgil and Dionysius’ account is the influence on the Romans which each of them attributes to the Greeks. Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman history is based on the predominance of the Greek element, both ethnically and ethically. He stresses the Greek influence in both spheres by separating the ethnic origins of the Romans from the beginnings of Roman history. The discussion in the preceding section has shown that in the Antiquitates the ‘Romans’ as a people did not exist before the foundation of Rome. Roman history begins with Romulus’ definition of Roman identity in his constitution, narrated in the second book, and this constitution bases Roman public and private life on Greek customs, laws, and institutions. Thus the Romans were ethically Greek ever since they had come into existence. The first book of the Antiquitates describes the ethnic origins of the Romans, which are not the beginnings of the Roman people: it is a relatively independent study on Roman pre-history. 566 The Romans sprang from the Latini, and the Latini themselves originated from a mixture of different tribes and peoples among which the Greeks played a prominent role. The first book of the Antiquitates deals with this mixture from which the Latini sprang and which, therefore, was also the ethnic origin of the Roman people. In stark contrast, Virgil defines the merging of the Trojan and the indigenous Italian element (with a significant preponderance of the latter over the former) as the beginnings of the gens Romana and hence of Roman history. 567 In the Aeneid the origins of the Romans are free from Greek 565 Aen. 1.5–7 ‘[…] till he should build a city and bring his gods to Latium; whence came the Latin race, the lords of Alba, and the walls of lofty Rome’ ([…] dum conderet urbem inferretque deos Latio; genus unde Latinum Albanique patres atque altae moenia Romae); ibid. 33 ‘So vast was the struggle to found the race of Rome’ (tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem); Jones (1995) 236. 566 See 7.70.2, discussed above n. 546, and cf. the discussion of the differences between Dionysius’ and Polybius’ respective definitions of the Çrq† of Roman power and history in ch. 3.3.1, pp. 194–198 above. 567 Aen. 12.820–828 (Juno): ‘This boon […] for Latium’s sake, for thine own kin’s greatness, I entreat from thee: when anon with happy bridal rites – so be it! – they plight peace, when anon they join in laws and treaties, command not the native Latins to change their ancient name, nor to become Trojans and be called Teucrians, nor to change their tongue and alter their attire: let Latium be, let Alban kings endure through ages, let be a Roman stock, strong in Italian valour: fallen is Troy, and fallen let her be, together with her name!’ (pro Latio obtestor, pro maiestate tuorum: cum iam conubiis pacem

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influence;568 Virgil even eliminates a possible Greek influence on Roman ancestry in Roman pre-history by providing Italian origins for Dardanus, the common ancestor of Trojans and Latini (Aen. 3.165–171; 7.205–211). This goes hand-in-hand with an at least ambivalent image of the Greeks in Virgil’s epic. At its most extreme, Hill’s position cannot stand, although views similar to his can still be found in recent publications. 569 It cannot be denied that a gradual rapprochement takes place between Greeks and Trojans as the epic proceeds: in the second book, the Iliupersis, the picture of the Greeks is largely negative, but it is mitigated soon through more favourable characters such as Diomedes and Achaemenides and transformed into a positive one which culminates in Aeneas’ most ardent ally in Italy, the Arcadian Evander and his son Pallas. 570 Nevertheless, the Greeks have a merely supporting role in Jupiter’s project of ‘founding’ (condere) the gens Romana; they are allowed to contribute, and Evander even sacrifices his son for the Roman cause, but they will not be allowed to be a genuine element of the Roman people. Furthermore, in order to assess the relationship between Greeks and Romans properly, it is important to distinguish passages in the epic that deal with the relationship between Greeks and Trojans from those which deal with the relationship between Greeks and Romans. Anchises’ excudent alii … (6.847– 853, above) is an example of the latter. Anchises envisages the Greeks’ role in the future development of the Roman people along the lines of their subordinate role in the epic: the strong antitheses of alii (6. 847) and tu … Romane (6.851) on the one hand, and the programmatic definition of power felicibus (esto) component, cum iam leges et foedera iungent, ne uetus indigenas nomen mutare Latinos neu Troias fieri iubeas Teucrosque uocari aut uocem mutare uiros aut uertere uestem. sit Latium, sint Albani per saecula reges, sit Romana potens Itala uirtute propago: occidit, occiderit sinas cum nomine Troia, emphases mine); ibid. 834– 840 (Jupiter); see Jones (1995), esp. 236. 568 A parallel to Virgil’s version is found in Horace, ep. 2.1.156 (Graecia capta …). Like Virgil, Horace denies Greek influence on the origins of the Roman people and the beginnings of Roman culture: Roman life has been affected by the Greeks only since the Romans’ campaigns against Greece in the third and second centuries BCE (ibid. 161–163: ‘For not till late did the Roman turn his wit to Greek writings, and in the peaceful days after the Punic wars he began to ask what service Sophocles could render, and Thespis and Aeschylus’ (serus enim admovit acumina chartis et post Punica bella quietus quaerere coepit quid Sophocles et Thespis et Aeschylus utile ferrent, emphases mine). 569 E.g., Perotti (2002). 570 Thus, e.g., Jones (1995); Rengakos (1993); Galinsky (2005b); a more extensive discussion of this much-debated topic is beyond the scope of this study.

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and superiority as the genuinely Roman artes (hae tibi erunt artes) in opposition to typically Greek artes on the other, implies Roman primacy over the Greeks – Greeks are welcome to enrich Roman culture with their artes, and these might even be highly appreciated. But Greeks do not play a relevant part when it comes to defining what is Roman and what is genuinely Roman character.571 The differences between Dionysius’ and Virgil’s versions of Roman origins should be read alongside Dionysius’ portrayal of Romulus as a conscious planner, which, as seen in section 3.3.1, is at odds with Cicero’s (and Polybius’) assertion that the Roman constitution is distinguished by its development over the centuries. Through this gradual development, these authors claimed, the Roman constitution had been brought to perfection; this made it superior to that of any other people, and this superiority was responsible for Rome’s leading position in the world. In the Antiquitates, too, Roman power is based on the superior Roman constitution, but the Roman constitution is superior because it makes Greek political and moral values the foundations of Roman identity. Rome owed her greatness to the virtutes of the ancestors, and these virtutes were adopted from the Greeks. This neatly contradicts Cicero’s proud affirmation in the preface to Tusculan Disputations 1, that not only the political institutions and laws (institutis et legibus, 1.2) of the maiores were superior to those of the Greeks – what really distinguished the Romans from the Greeks, and any other people in general (neque cum Graecis neque ulla cum gente sunt conferenda, ibid.), were the ancestral virtutes (gravitas, constantia, magnitudo animi, probitas, fides). These, Cicero stressed, were not adopted from the Greeks, but a product of Roman nature (illa, quae natura, non litteris adsecuti sunt, ibid.).572 These examples show that Dionysius’ image of the early Romans is not at odds with Augustan ideology in particular, but with contemporary Roman conceptions of Roman identity and attempts of upper-class Romans to distinguish themselves from the Greeks. This suggests that we should approach Dionysius’ image of the Romans in terms of how he defines the 571 The above remarks are not an attempt to provide a comprehensive discussion of this controversial passage; I have limited myself to stating my position in the controversy; for an interpretation similar to mine cf. Jones (1995) 234 (‘we should not look for a political message about the kinship of Romans and Greeks, or about a reconciliation of Greek and Roman culture, but instead see these themes as subordinate to an affirmation of Roman values and Roman piety’). For a different reading of the Anchises passage see Galinsky (2005b) 347; Rengakos (1993) 120 (Romans and Greeks complement each other). 572 See the discussion of this passage above, pp. 182–183.

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relationship between Greeks and Romans in general and that between Greek culture and Roman power in particular. Dionysius’ portrayal of the Romans is generally seen as favourable to the Romans, although this in itself has elicited a mixed response. In his PW-article Schwartz condemned Dionysius’ attempt to justify Roman power by proving the Romans’ Greekness as an expression of Dionysius’ lack of Greek national identity: ‘the tragic sufferings to which the recognition of Roman domination subjected those genuine Greeks [Polybius and Posidonius] are alien to this little soul.’ 573 More recently, the tables have turned and scholars such as Delcourt are on the verge of idealizing Dionysius as the ‘first theoretician of a GraecoRoman world.’ 574 The Antiquitates represents a ‘democratic’ history which aims to ‘pull down the wall that separates Greeks and Romans’ 575: Greek education and culture, ‘Hellenism,’ is the bond which unites Greeks and Romans and provides the basis for a universal outlook of Dionysius’ history ‘the acuteness of which does not cease to astonish us.’ 576 These two judgments have in common that they silently adopt a Greek point of view from which they look at the Antiquitates. Many Greek readers would probably have welcomed Dionysius’ portrayal of Roman society as deeply influenced by Greek customs, morals, and institutions, and would have subscribed to Dionysius’ claim that these Greek values and ideas should remain the standard of behaviour for Romans also in the first century BCE. But the passages from Virgil and Cicero suggest that many Roman readers 573 Schwartz (1903) 934 (‘die tragischen Schmerzen, die jenen echten Hellenen das Begreifen des römischen Primats gekostet hatte, sind dieser kleinen Seele fremd’). 574 Delcourt (2005) 38 (‘premier théoricien d’un monde gréco-romain’). 575 Ibid. 12: ‘Dionysius dedicates himself to pulling down the wall that separates Greece and Rome. Enthralled by a global outlook, he is convinced that the values of Hellenism can unite all people independent of their ethnic origins, their language, and their religion’ (‘Denys se consacre à mettre à bas le mur séparant la Grèce de Rome. Épris d’une universalité, il est convaincu de ce que dans les valeurs de l’hellenisme peuvent communier tous les hommes, au mépris de leur race, de leur langue, de leur réligion’); cf. ibid. 38: ‘Dionysius stresses the profound ethnic, cultural, and political unity of the two peoples’ (‘Denys souligne […] la profonde unité ethnique, culturelle et politique des deux peuples’), and 67–68: ‘hence potentially, the Antiquitates addresses the man of learning, no matter what their nationality or social status – we are dealing with what one might call a “democratic” History’ (‘potentiellement, les Antiquités s’adressent donc à l’homme cultivé, quelle que soit sa nationalité ou son statut social – il s’agit, pourrait-on dire, d’une Histoire ‘démocratique’). 576 Delcourt (2005) 38: ‘[Les identités multiples de Denys] lui permettent de poser sur l’Empire universel qui se met en place avec Auguste un regard dont l’acuité ne cesse de nous étonner.’

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would not have been equally favourable to such an interpretation of their past. The Antiquitates reduces the Romans’ political system, their moral standards, and their ethnic origins to a consequence of Greek influence upon Roman society. Thus Dionysius’ work claims as Greek those spheres of Roman life and history which the Romans had attempted to define as genuinely Roman so as to preserve central elements of their self-definition free of Greek influence. From a Roman perspective, the Antiquitates stresses Rome’s ongoing debt to Greece in all spheres of Roman life eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c – right from the beginnings of Roman history. The attitude which Dionysius encourages his Greek readers to adopt towards the subject of his work, by contrast, affirms the Antiquitates’ claim to Greek superiority. From the detached position of an observer, the Greek reader watches the Romans consciously shape every aspect of their lives after Greek models. The Romans are transformed into ‘Graeco-Romans,’ whereas the Greeks and their culture remain unaffected by this process. ‘Graeco-Roman’ works in one – the Romans’ – direction only. The Greek point of view is already determined by the aim of Dionysius’ work: Roman power was a Greek problem, and the Greeks were interested in finding an explanation for it which could be reconciled with their cultural and political tradition, whereas many Romans struggled to define their power as a genuinely Roman domain, as their ars. A project like Dionysius’, which provides a strategy to make Roman power acceptable to the Greeks, is intrinsically ambiguous: while acknowledging the impact of Roman power, it implies that any form of dominance other than Greek needs justification in Greek terms in order to be acceptable. This re-asserts the claim of the Greeks to set the standard against which all other peoples are measured and to which they should aspire. Throughout his text Dionysius maintains a distance between ‘Us,’ himself and the Greek readers, who are united by their shared cultural and political heritage, and ‘Them,’ the Romans, who depend on adopting this Greek heritage. This distance is manifest in passages in which Dionysius describes a Roman custom and provides his readers with the Greek analogue or the Greek term for it so that they can make sense of it. At 2.70.3–4, for example, Dionysius explains to his reader the ‘Thracian shield’:

ô d+‚st» ˚omboeideÿ jureƒ stenwtËrac Íqonti tÄc lagÏnac ‚mfer†c, o—ac lËgontai fËrein o… tÄ Kour†twn par+ìEllhsin ‚pitelo‹ntec …erà. ka– e sin o… sàlioi katÄ go‹n tòn ‚mòn gn∏mhn <Ellhnikƒ mejermhneujËntec ÊnÏmati Kour®tec, Õf+ôm¿n m‡n ‚p» t®c ôlik–ac

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o’twc ≤nomasmËnoi parÄ toÃc ko‘rouc, Õp‰ d‡
The Greek and the Roman are two separate spheres (par+ìEllhsi […] <Ellhnikƒ […] ÊnÏmati […] Õp‰ d‡
tÄc <EllhnikÄc kl†seic paronomàsantec; Á gÄr ômeÿc ˚®ma prostaktik¿c sqhmat–santec ‚kfËromen, kàlei, to‹t+‚keÿnoi lËgousi kàla ka» 577 Cf. 2.71.3; 73.1; 3.50.3; 4.15.2; 15.5; 58.4; 61.2; 6.45.2. 578 Cf. 2.31.2 (e c tòn ômetËran gl¿ttan); 2.72.1 (katÄ tòn <Ellhnikòn diàlekton); 4.41.4 (katÄ tòn ômetËran gl¿ttan); 2.25.2 (
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tÄc klàsseic 〈t‰〉 Çrqaÿon ‚kàloun kalËseic, 4.18.2, emphases mine). These comparisons do not necessarily imply a positive or negative judgment on the Romans and on their need to adopt Greek models. On the contrary, Dionysius shows a positive attitude towards the Romans throughout, and we have seen that he praises them for improving on the Greek models. Nevertheless, these comparisons constantly remind the readers that Greek and Roman remain two separate spheres and that it is not they who have to make an effort to overcome this separation, but the Romans alone.579 Against this background the frequent expression ‘neither Greeks nor Barbarians’ (o÷te <EllÄc o÷te bàrbaroc, 1.5.3) or, affirmative, ‘both Greeks and Barbarians’ (e.g., par+ìEllhs– te ka» barbàroic, 2.3.7) needs to be reconsidered. 580 It has been suggested that these and similar expressions mean hardly more than ‘everywhere’ or ‘everyone.’ 581 Given the Antiquitates’ concern with defining Roman identity and with the relationship between Romans and Greeks, this explanation seems too simplistic. The Greek-Barbarian dichotomy keeps present an exclusively Greek point of view: people are either Greek or Barbarian – tertium non datur . This dichotomy lies behind the whole project of the Antiquitates, which aims to refute the opinion of the ‘certain’ authors who hold that the Romans are Barbarians and therefore do not deserve their power (1.4.2). 582 But instead of overcoming the dichotomy, the Antiquitates fits the Romans into this dichotomous world view by showing that the Romans always tried hard to become Greek and that their power is only acceptable because of this. Thus Dionysius’ work re-asserts the Greek perspective on the world and history: despite the unprecedented temporal and spatial extension of Roman power, ‘the Roman’ is not a category of its own; the only alternative is being Greek or being nothing. By no means does the Antiquitates break down any barrier between Romans and Greeks nor does it proclaim an ‘ecumenic’ vision of the world. Quite to the contrary, by demonstrating that Roman power is acceptable only if it is as Greek as possible – otherwise it would be Barbar579 Cf. Goldhill’s (2010) 56 remarks on Dionysius’ use of ‚piq∏rioc, ‘local,’ ‘as a cultural marker largely for indigenous Roman activity.’ 580 Further examples include 4.31.1; 4.79.2 (in this and the following passages the expression occurs in speeches of historical characters); 6.84.3; 8.10.2; 8.27.4 (these references are cited in Hill [1961] 89). 581 Hartog (1991) 160–161. 582 See my discussion of this passage above, ch. 2.3.2, pp. 101–102, and pp. 185–187 in this chapter.

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ian – the Antiquitates maintains the antithesis between Greek and Barbarian and confirms the Greeks’ claim to set the standard for the civilized world. Moreover, Dionysius leaves no doubt that the Romans’ ‘Hellenism’ always had to be acquired and preserved by conscious effort and that it can also be lost if this effort is no longer maintained. Roman language already shows signs of ‘Barbarization,’ and Dionysius’ assertion, added immediately afterwards, that apart from their language the Romans succeeded better at preserving the Greek roots of their culture than any other Greek ‘colony,’ implies that this preservation is not self-evident (1.90.1). 583 The Romans are Greeks, but they are Greeks living far away from the source of Greek culture (Çpoikhsàntwn, ibid.) and they cannot take it for granted that they will preserve their Greek character automatically. In keeping with the famous passage from Isocrates’ Panegyricus (4.50), 584 Dionysius affirms that the Romans’ Greek blood qualifies them for being Greek, but he also stresses that Greek ancestry alone is not sufficient. 583 ‘The language spoken by the Romans is neither utterly barbarous nor absolutely Greek, but a mixture […]; and the only disadvantage which they have experienced from their intermingling with these various nations is that they do not pronounce all their sounds properly. But all other indications of a Greek origin they preserved beyond any other colonists’ (
dokeÿn tekm†rion e⁄nai ka» mêllon ìEllhnac kaleÿsjai toÃc t®c paide‘sewc t®c ômetËrac £ toÃc t®c koin®c f‘sewc metËqontac); on this passage see Most (2006), esp. 387: ‘in order to be a true Greek it was not enough to be born Greek and have Greek blood in one’s veins, but rather […] only those Greeks were true Greeks who shared the Athenian education Isocrates was willing to sell them.’

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Greek identity must by acquired through education and acculturation. In the same vein, Dionysius’ repeated allusions to the ‘divergence’ of Roman morals and values from the standard of the ancestors in the present keep the reader aware that from the beginnings of Roman history, the Romans’ Greekness was a process of constant and deliberate acculturation. Now more than ever, facing the signs of decline, they need help from a Greek to maintain the moral standard to which they owe their greatness. Such a Greek is Dionysius, whose Antiquitates provides his Roman readers with the account of the deeds and character of their hellenized ancestors whose examples they have to follow to stop the decline.585 The Greek-Barbarian formulas remind both Greek and Roman readers of the Greek-Barbarian dichotomy and thus highlight the still-persisting superiority of Greek morals and culture as the only way to avoid barbarization. But the effect of this reminder on each group of readers is different. Dionysius’ Greek readers realize the superiority of their position: they have what the Romans need, and the Antiquitates itself bears witness to the role of the Greeks as those who possess, and who can impart, moral and political values, if they choose to. Roman readers, on the contrary, are reminded of their dependence on Greek culture: they have to make a conscious effort to meet Greek standards; they owe their political supremacy to this constant and centuries-long effort of being Greek and they might lose their supremacy if they ignore this.586 The Antiquitates creates a distance between Greek and Roman readers. From the secure position of cultural superiority, Greek readers watch the Romans adopting Greek customs and habits and modelling themselves after the standard their people provides. This casts doubts on the interpretation of Dionysius as a pioneer of an ecumenical vision of the world, in which the barriers between Greeks and Romans are broken down. Dionysius is not hostile to the Romans in the same way as the ‘certain’ authors, who refuse to acknowledge the Romans’ right to rule because they are not Greek; nevertheless, Dionysius’ approach to Roman history is at least as conservative as theirs because it never questions the Greek-Barbarian dichotomy and the leading role

585 See above, pp. 201–205. 586 It is significant that so many instances of the Greek-Barbarian formulas are found in speeches delivered by Romans (see above n. 580). Dionysius thus portrays the early Romans as accepting the alternative ‘Greek or Barbarian’ as the basis for their selfdefinition and, going hand-in-hand with this, the need to fashion themselves on Greek models.

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of the Greeks in it. From a Roman angle, this is an ambiguous, if not utterly controversial statement. The ambiguity of Dionysius’ historical work recalls the similar ambiguity of the interpretation of the relationship between Greeks and Romans and of the role of Classical Greek language for Roman power on which Dionysius’ Classicism is based. Classicism is a strategy of re-appropriation: it underscores the strong presence of the Greek in, and its importance for, contemporary Roman culture and politics. The Antiquitates does the same for the whole of Roman history. Both parts of Dionysius’ œuvre are connected on a deep level by the attempt to re-establish a world view which, in the last instance, is based on the idea of Greek political and cultural superiority as it is propagated in Classical Greek literature.

3.4 Summary When Schwartz stated that Dionysius’ Antiquitates was intended to be a primary example of Classicism, he had an empty, artificial style in mind which copied that of the classical authors but could never equal it. The preceding discussion has shown that ‘Classicist’ no doubt also refers to qualities of style, but that it is first and foremost a quality of content. Dionysius’ image of the past is shaped by Classical rhetoric, especially by the positive image of Athenian character in Isocratean rhetoric and the Attic Funeral Oration. The vision of Athens created in these texts is the paradigm against which Dionysius measures accounts of the Classical past, such as Thucydides’ History. An account of the Classical past has to conform to the idealized, Isocratean image of the past in order to enable the Classicist reader, the ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi,’ to identify with the historical actors, the Classical Athenians. If it does, the reader will feel pleasure in reading the account and will be engaged emotionally with the past through the reading experience. Herodotus presents a positive image of the Greeks as those who prove their moral and political superiority over the Barbarians. The ‘disposition’ (diàjesic) of his account is favourable to the Classical Greeks and their achievements and thus enables the reader to empathize with the Greeks’ success over the Barbarian Other. Thucydides’ negative vision of Athens’ role in the Peloponnesian War, by contrast, provokes an alienation from the past. Dionysius explains this alienating effect as a consequence of Thucydides’ own alienation from Classical Athens: Thucydides deliberately refused to identify with the moral and political principles of the Classical

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Athenians because he was holding a grudge against his fellow citizens for his exile. He used his work to act out his grudge and created an un-Classical, even Barbarian, image of the Athenians, making it impossible for Classicist readers to identify with their Classical forebears (chapter 3.2.1). Dionysius’ criticism aims to correct this distorted image. Dionysius’ ideal of historical writing is an ‘Isocratean’ historiography as it is represented by the work of Isocrates’ pupil Theopompus. Theopompus revealed the inner motivations of the historical actors (pàjh t®c yuq®c) and the virtues and vices which motivated their acts and decisions. Thus he presented his readers with moral examples (or counter-examples) so that his works had the same moral and educating effect upon the recipients as Isocrates’ speeches (chapter 3.2.2). Along these lines, Dionysius ‘re-writes’ Thucydides’ account of the Melian Dialogue, which he regards as a cornerstone of the historian’s attempt to take revenge on Athens. Dionysius confronts Thucydides’ version with an image of the Athenians as representatives of Classical, Isocratean virtues. The boundaries between criticism and historiography are thus blurred: Dionysius uses criticism to ‘deconstruct’ Thucydides’ ‘biased’ version of the events and to substitute it with the only appropriate, the Isocratean, portrayal of the Classical Athenians (chapter 3.2.3). Dionysius’ own historical work meets the requirements of Isocratean historiography: he portrays the early Romans as representatives of Classical Athenian virtues so that they can serve as examples for Dionysius’ Roman readers. This moral element of Dionysius’ work is not an end in itself. On the contrary, it is the cornerstone of his interpretation of Roman power. Classical rhetoric justified Athenian superiority by referring to Athens’ long tradition of moral and political virtues which had been handed down by the prÏgonoi from the origins of Athenian history. The Romans, some Greeks claimed, were Barbarians and lacked such a tradition; therefore they did not deserve their present state of power. The Antiquitates not only demonstrates that the Romans have Greek origins, it also provides them with a tradition of virtues from the beginnings of their history (eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c). Romulus made Greek virtues, customs, and institutions the foundations of Roman public as well as private conduct in his constitution. These have remained the standard of Roman behaviour since then and are the basis of Roman power. Dionysius’ concern with providing the Romans with a tradition of Greek virtues as the basis of their power is comprehensible only from within the framework of his Classicist ideology: in Classical Athenian rhetoric the

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Athenians’ claim to hegemony over the Greeks and superiority over the Barbarians was justified by their autochthonous tradition of moral and political excellence. Only by writing Roman history eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c could Dionysius provide a justification for Roman rule in the present which met the standard of Classical rhetoric. This, in turn, was essential for legitimizing his own position as a teacher of Classical rhetoric in Augustan Rome: Dionysius’ Classicism was justified only if Augustan Rome could be shown to be the successor to the Classical past and Roman power the representative of politiko» lÏgoi. Dionysius’ historical work lays the foundations for the interpretation of the present on which his Classicist world view is based (chapter 3.3.1). The Romans of his day, Dionysius claims, are at risk of losing their superiority because they disregard the ancestral way of life. By presenting a detailed account of the lives of the early Romans, their moral and political virtues and their achievements, the Antiquitates provides the Roman readers with the examples they need in order to preserve their Greek origins and thus their superiority. Roman power can only persist if Dionysius’ Roman contemporaries strive to be as Greek as possible, just as their ancestors did. This does not mean that Dionysius was a theoretician of an ecumenical, ‘Graeco-Roman’ outlook on the world in which ‘Hellenism’ has broken down the barriers between Greeks and Romans: the Greek and the Roman always remain separate spheres in the Antiquitates, and it is the Romans who have to make an effort to become as Greek as possible in order to justify and preserve their status as the rulers of the world. Thus, in the last instance, the Antiquitates asserts the role of the Greeks as providing the standard against which all civilized people are measured (chapter 3.3.2).

4. Knowledge and Elitism: Being a Classicist Critic587 With the end of chapter 3 we have reached the conclusion of the first major part of this study. In chapter 1 I argued that the ‘literary circle’ in which Dionysius was active and to which he addressed his writings represents what Social Identity Theory refers to as a social sub-group, i. e., one of numerous ‘social worlds’ or communities in which our social life is organized. The social reality of such communities does not depend on any official programmes, formal membership, or a specific frequency of meetings of their members. Rather, they are constituted by a discursive practice which all members of a community share (or think they share) with each other and which provides each member with an ‘ideology,’ as Paul Ricœur defined it, an ‘all-encompassing comprehensive view not only of [themselves], but of history and, finally, of the whole world.’ 588 Dionysius’ Classicist criticism, the knowledge about Classical texts, how to read, analyze and discuss them, and, finally, how to produce Classical texts themselves, is the discursive practice which united him and his addressees in a distinct community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ who conceived of themselves as being on a par with or even superior to such prestigious communities of intellectuals as the Peripatetics. 589 It is through this discursive practice, and Dionysius’ works as its written manifestation, that we can gain access to the world view, the Weltanschauung, which is ingrained in Classicist literary criticism. Chapters 2 and 3 aimed to explore the world view of a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi.’ Classical language, it was shown, is more than a purely 587 The general methodological framework of the following discussion of Dionysius’ conception of Classical taste as a group-constituting factor and the role of taste and knowledge as criteria of distinction and elitism is influenced by Pierre Bourdieu’s work on the acquisition and demonstration of taste as a criterion of distinction among different social strata, see Bourdieu (1979). 588 Ricœur (1978) 46, quoted above, p. 21. 589 See ch. 1.2 above.

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aesthetic phenomenon to Dionysius. It is a carrier of a well-defined set of moral and political values which are adopted from Isocrates’ concept of Athenian civic identity and the role of language as both the carrier of this identity and the main instrument through which it is enacted. Learning Classical language means adopting and internalizing this Classical identity; speaking and writing Classical language means re-enacting this Classical identity with an almost physical immediacy in the present. The technical term for this process of self-fashioning, of being Classical through speaking and writing Classical language, is mimesis. Bound up with the attempt to implement Classical Greek identity in the present is a distinct image of the Classical past, the Augustan present, Roman history, and their interrelation. Dionysius blurs the distinction between historiography and criticism when re-writing Thucydides’ image of the Classical Athenians in the Melian Dialogue along the lines of the Isocratean conception of Greek civic identity. Going hand-in-hand with this construction of an image of the Classical past, Dionysius re-interprets Augustan Rome in terms of the Greek-Barbarian antithesis as the continuation of Classical Athens: to him, Classical Greek education and the spread of Roman power are two sides of the same coin. His historical work, the Antiquitates, substantiates the view that Roman superiority and prosperity depends on the Romans’ Hellenization, their willing and conscious adoption of Greek political and moral values, which he depicts as being responsible for the military and ethical superiority of the Romans’ venerated maiores as well as their successors in the first century BCE. The second major part of this enquiry, the subsequent chapters 4 and 5, will complement the results of the first part and pursue further many aspects of Dionysius’ criticism which have surfaced in the previous chapters but could not be discussed there in detail. Generally speaking, chapters 2 and 3 dealt with the outlook on the world that is transported by the discursive practice which constituted the ‘literary circle,’ i. e., literary and rhetorical criticism. The focus of chapters 4 and 5 will now be on this discursive practice itself: it is practising literary criticism which defines Dionysius and his addressees as Classicist intellectuals and through which they acquire the Weltanschauung discussed in chapters 2 and 3. More precisely, it is practising literary criticism in accordance with the rules and methods established by Dionysius which defines them as belonging to the same community of intellectuals in the first place: in order to define themselves as Classicist scholars under Roman rule, Dionysius and his addressees had to define themselves as literary critics first. The latter is inseparable from the former and vice

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versa, and an investigation of the cultural identity of these intellectuals has to take both these elements into account. The following discussion will focus on two aspects of this discursive practice in particular, which have already played an important role in the first part of this study but have not yet been explored systematically: the relationship of the Classicist critic to the Classical past and the distinction from other communities of intellectuals. As the discussion of the introduction to the First Letter to Ammaeus in chapter 1.2 has shown, both these elements are closely interrelated. We have seen there that Dionysius conceives of criticism as a controversy between different groups of scholars. The field of criticism is constituted by various communities of literati who compete with each other for authority. Not all of these communities are of equal prestige, and Dionysius distinguishes between ordinary critics and elite critics. Dionysius and his community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ are the representatives of the tradition of Classical oratory itself and therefore lay claim to a leading position in the study of rhetoric even against such renowned schools as the Peripatetics. The findings of Social Identity Theory, discussed in chapter 1.1.3, have underlined the importance of such strategies of distinction alongside the existence of ‘special norms of conduct, a set of values, a prestige ladder, and a common outlook toward life’ 590 (believed to be) shared by all members of a community for the existence of social groups: an ‘in-group’ can never form without the contrast to ‘the others,’ the ‘out-groups.’591 The controversy with the Peripatetic which underlies the First Letter to Ammaeus has demonstrated the importance of distinction to Dionysius’ conception of the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’; 592 we have also seen that the antithesis of Classical and Asianist rhetoric plays a crucial role for Dionysius’ interpretation of the Augustan present as the continuation of the Classical past. 593 However, as with the ‘inclusive’ elements of a group – the norms of conduct, a set of values, and a Weltanschauung – it is important to note that the distinction from other groups, indeed, the very existence of ‘outgroups’ are ‘not a matter of “objective” assessment’ but ‘a matter of feeling

590 591 592 593

Shibutani (1962) 137, quoted above, p. 20. See above, pp. 20–21. See ch. 1.2. above, esp. 1.2.1 and 1.2.2. See ch. 2.3.1 above.

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[…] which resides in the minds of the members themselves.’ 594 Just as it is more important for the existence of a community what people think they share with others, so the distinction from ‘out-groups’ is a functional part of the constitution and preservation of the community rather than the reflection of an objective reality: ‘boundaries,’ as Cohen sums it up, which are ‘perceived by some may be utterly imperceptible to others.’595 The close interrelation of self-image and distinction will be evident throughout the following discussion. It would be futile to attempt to address them separately. Moreover, the key element of the image of the Classicist critic in Dionysius’ writings is the idea of a privileged access to the Classical past: Dionysius legitimates his claim to the superiority of his critical method and of the community which adopts his methods over other communities by demonstrating the close relation of his critical methods and the Classical past. These two subjects, the interrelation of self-image and distinction and Dionysius’ attempt to associate his critical discourse with the Classical past, lie at the heart of chapter 4 and 5 alike. The strategies through which Dionysius seeks to achieve them, however, are different. Chapter 4 demonstrates how Dionysius seeks to define the very knowledge and the competence which his recipients can acquire from his writings, and his writings only, as itself Classical. Not only what his readers can learn from him but also the way in which they learn it, the act of learning itself, is a continuation of the Classical rhetorical tradition (4.2). And those who successfully complete the Classical course of education offered by his writings are entitled to regard themselves as belonging to an exclusive community of intellectuals which is comparable only to religious communities such as the Orphic mysteries or, more important, to the intellectual elite of the Classical times (4.3). Chapter 5 will then focus on how such a feeling of communion, of belonging to an exclusive circle, or of exclusion has shaped the structure of Dionysius’ discussions of Classical texts and the very design of his writings. Dionysius’ writings, I will argue, are characterized by their interactive design: they present criticism as a virtual dialogue between Dionysius, his reader, representatives of out-groups, and the Classical authors themselves, which is enacted through the reading process. Literary criticism thus cannot be abstracted any more from controversy. Throughout Dionysius’ works readers find themselves confronted with a choice: if they subscribe 594 Cohen (1985) 20–21, quoted above, p. 20. 595 Ibid. 2, quoted above, p. 21.

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to Dionysius’ opinion they become part of a community of literati which is distinguished by its privileged relationship with the Classical past; if they decide to agree with Dionysius’ opponents, on the contrary, they will disqualify themselves as literary critics: in-groups and out-groups of readers/ critics are created through the reading process itself. In Dionysius’ essays criticism is performed as a process of distinction.

4.1 >Anàgnwsic Trofò LËxewc:596 Reading and Distinction in Dionysius’ Classicism The factor which links criticism and elitism is reading. The discussion of the introductory chapters of the First Letter to Ammaeus has shown that the idea of a privileged access to the Classical tradition is an important element of the self-definition of Dionysius and his addressees as a community. 597 Reading is the only way of gaining access to this tradition and, therefore, is at the centre of Dionysius’ attempt to establish a monopoly of the Classical past for himself and the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ The experience of the Classical texts is essential to the Classicist’s desire to be Classical: 598 Classicists regarded Classical texts as ‘deposits of voice,’599 as ‘a mnemonic of the classical past. Recovering their sound was a way of living, literally of experiencing, the past the way it once was.’ 600 In this section I will therefore discuss briefly the general role of reading in Dionysius’ Classicism. This will lay the foundations for the discussion in the remaining sections of this chapter.

596 This expression, which is ascribed to Theon (p. 61Sp.), is quoted by v. WilamowitzMoellendorff (1900) 30. 597 See ch. 1.2.2 above. 598 Porter (2006b) 325. 599 Porter (2006b) 314–315, quoting Quint. inst. 1.7.31: ‘For the use of letters is to preserve the sound of words and to deliver them to readers as a sacred trust’ (hic enim est usus litterarum, ut custodiant voces et velut depositum reddant legentibus); Porter also refers to Plt. Phdr. 263e5 and 228e1 (ibid. 315 n. 30). 600 Porter (2006b) 320; cf. ibid. 314: ‘hearing has a special place in the realm of classicism because of the apparent immediacy it involves: the experience is that of a direct contact with the voice of the past, of an immediacy of address – specifically of an interpellation, whereby one feels oneself to be “hailed” by the past’; on reading habits in antiquity in general see Knox (1968) and (1985); Easterling (1985); on Çko‘ein meaning either ‘to read’ or ‘to hear’ see Schenkeveld (1992) and Hendrickson (1905).

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The role of Classical texts as the mediating instance between the Classicist and the past is illustrated by a passage in Dionysius’ essay On Demosthenes. At Dem 22.1–3 Dionysius describes his reaction to Isocrates’ and Demosthenes’ works;601 when reading one of Demosthenes’ speeches, Dionysius says, ‘I am transported: I am led hither and thither […]’ (‚njousi¿ ka» de‹ro kÇkeÿse ägomai […], Dem. 22.2). Reading Demosthenes takes on the dimension of an intimate, almost religious experience: the text seizes the readers (note ‚njousi¿) and allows them emotionally to merge with the past. But this emotional reaction has two sides: it bridges the gap between past and present, but occasionally (potË below) it also reminds the readers of the distance which separates them from the Classical past (Dem. 22.4–5): 602

Ka» d† pote ka» ‚nejum†jhn t– pote toÃc tÏte Çnjr∏pouc Çko‘ontac aŒto‹ lËgontoc ta‹ta pàsqein e k‰c ™n. ìOpou gÄr ômeÿc o… toso‹ton ÇphrthmËnoi toÿc qrÏnoic ka» oŒj‡n pr‰c tÄ pràgmata peponjÏtec, o’twc ÕpagÏmeja ka» krato‘meja ka» Ìpoi pot+ãn ômêc  lÏgoc äg˘ poreuÏmeja, p¿c tÏte >Ajhnaÿo– te ka» o… älloi ìEllhnec ¢gonto Õp‰ to‹ Çndr‰c ‚p» t¿n Çlhjin¿n te ka»  d–wn Çg∏nwn, aŒto‹ lËgontoc ‚ke–nou tÄ ·auto‹ metÄ t®c Çxi∏sewc ©c e⁄qe, tòn aŒtopàjeian ka» t‰ paràsthma t®c yuq®c ÇpodeiknumËnou, kosmo‹ntoc âpanta ka» qrwmat–zontoc t¨ prepo‘s˘ Õpokr–sei ©c deinÏtatoc Çskhtòc ‚gËneto […]. And I have often wondered what on earth those men who actually heard him make these speeches could have felt. For if we, who are so far removed in time and unaffected by the events, are so carried away and overpowered that we follow wherever the speech leads us, how must the Athenians and the rest of the Greeks have been excited at the time by the orator addressing them on live and personal issues, using all his prestige to display his own feelings and to bare his soul, and adding beauty and colour to every word with the appropriate delivery, of which art he was, as everyone agrees, the most brilliant exponent. 601 Cf. Gill (1984), esp. 158; Porter (2006a) 45; id. (2001a), esp. 64–66; Battisti (1997) 104–106. 602 Porter (2006b) 325 speaks of the ‘temporality’ of the Classical sound: ‘sounds from the past can never be heard quite in themselves but only as a diminished echo of their imagined former existence […]. What one hears in a classical or classicizing text is thus a relation rather than a sound or set of sounds by itself: what is heard, above all, is the sound of a cultural and historical difference’ (325–326); id. (2001) 341 speaks of the ‘eternal problem of Greek literary culture: how to breathe life into the inanimate material of the text?’ (‘éternel problème de la culture littéraire grecque: comment insuffler de la vie dans la matière sans vie du texte?’).

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Reading cannot be separated from the readers’ consciousness of their own position in history, and the way a Classicist experiences his position in time depends on the way he experiences the text: the different degree of emotional involvement with the text reflects the temporal distance between the Classical audience (o… tÏte änjrwpoi) and the reader in the present (ômeÿc o… toso‹ton ÇphrthmËnoi toÿc qrÏnoic). The more intense the readers’ experience of the text, that is, the closer it is to the experience of the original audience, the more they feel like being Classical themselves. The main problem is the loss of the live performance. By way of ÕpÏkrisic the speaker in the past conveyed his emotions regarding the subject (tÄ pràgmata) (ô aŒtopàjeia ka» t‰ paràsthma t®c yuq®c, Dem. 22.4) to the audience in a much more immediate and effective way (Çko‘ontac aŒto‹ lËgontoc; aŒto‹ lËgontoc ‚ke–nou, emphases mine). For a Classicist reader the triangular relationship of hearer, orator, and delivery is reduced to a dialogue between text and reader. The Classicist’s main concern is therefore to reduce the difference between Classicist reading and Classical hearing. They have to compensate the loss of the speaker’s physical presence and the lack of involvement in the subject matter (oŒj‡n pr‰c tÄ pràgmata peponjÏtec) through a reading technique which enables them to read the Classical texts as a Classical audience would have heard them. Only through such an ‘authentic reading’ will it be possible to ‘relive the authentic past.’ 603 Since there were no reports about the hearer’s emotional reactions to Demosthenes’ speeches, Dionysius had to approach this problem from a different angle: instead of reconstructing the actual effects of a text, he reconstructed what effects the author intended it to have upon his recipients. It was a commonplace in ancient rhetorical theory that every speaker had to feel himself the emotions which he wanted to induce in his audience. 604 The 603 Porter (2006b) 319; the expression ‘authentic reading’ is mine. 604 Cf. Dem. 54.4: ‘What, then, are the tones and accents of voice, the facial expressions and manual gestures that portray anger and grief? Those which men actually experiencing these emotions employ; for it would be silly to reject real life, and look for another school to teach us delivery’ (T–nec ofin e sin Êrg®c ka» Êlofurmo‹ tÏnoi ka» ‚gkl–seic ka» sqhmatismo» ka» fora» qeir¿n; – √Ac o… kat+Çl†jeian ta‹ta peponjÏtec ‚pitelo‹si; pànu gÄr e÷hjec ällo ti zhteÿn Õpokr–sewc didaskaleÿon, ÇfËntac tòn Çl†jeian). Cf. Meijering (1987) 15–16; Kemmann (1996), esp. 40; on the interrelation of fantas–a and ‚nàrgeia cf. Quint. inst. 6.2.29–32 with Lausberg (1990) § 811; Schrijvers (1982); Zanker (1981) 303–304; Meijering (1987) 14–26. Dionysius himself gives a definition of ‚nàrgeia at Lys. 7.1–2: ‘[Vividness] consists in a certain power […] of conveying the things [being described] to the senses of the audience, and it arises out of [the] grasp of

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speaker’s emotions influenced the verbal and stylistic design of his text, the lËxic. Therefore the delivery, and with it the emotional effect of a speech, can be reconstructed from the lËxic. At Dem. 53.3 Dionysius explains that Demosthenes paid careful attention to delivery (ple–sthn […] prÏnoian Ísqen): ‘he worked hard on […] the modulation of the voice and the movements of the body, and cultivated both to the best possible effect’ (ka» gÄr tÄ pàjh tÄ t®c fwn®c ka» tÄ sq†mata to‹ s∏matoc, ±c kràtista Èxein Ímellen, oŒ mikrƒ pÏn˙ kateirgàsato, ibid. 53.4). But, Dionysius has a fictus interlocutor ask, ‘what has this to do with his literary style?’ (t– dò ta‹ta pr‰c tòn lËxin aŒto‹ sunte–nei; ibid. 53.5): ‘to which I should reply, that his style is designed to accommodate it, being full of moral and emotional overtones, and thus dictating the form of the delivery’ (ô lËxic m‡n o›n, e“poim+ãn, o ke–wc kateske‘astai pr‰c ta‹ta, mestò poll¿n ofisa öj¿n ka» paj¿n ka» didàskousa o—ac Õpokr–sewc aŒt¨ deÿ, ibid.). Dionysius’ subsequent discussion of examples from Demosthenes’ Third Philippic shows that in the present context he is concerned mainly with the effect of tropes (sq†mata t®c diano–ac) on the recipients (ibid. 54). But this is only one element of style. Others are the choice of words (‚klog†) and their composition (s‘njesic) (Comp. 1.8). I will argue in chapter 4.2 that Dionysius’ conception of synthesis is the key to his solution to the Classicist’s problem of reconstructing the original effect of the Classical texts. Dionysius presents synthesis as a purely technical process: the composition of a Classical text followed clear-cut rules which the Classical authors themselves had to internalize in a long learning process. Individual letters, syllables, words, and rhythms all have a well-defined emotional effect which is determined by the physical procedures by which the sounds are produced. Their knowledge of these effects allowed the Classical speakers to govern the effect of the most minute details of their texts. Dionysius’ essays On Literary Composition 605 and, to a lesser degree, On Demosthenes 606 claim to reconstruct these rules which the Classical authors circumstantial detail’ (d‘nam–c tic Õp‰ tÄc a sj†seic ägousa tÄ legÏmena, g–gnetai d‡ ‚k t®c t¿n parakoloujo‘ntwn l†yewc) so that the recipient (in this case of Lysias’ speeches) ‘can see actions which are being described going on and […] is meeting faceto-face the characters in the orator’s story’ (Õpol†yetai ginÏmena tÄ dhlo‘mena Ârên ka» πsper paro‹sin oŸc ãn  ˚†twr e sàg˘ pros∏poic Âmileÿn); cf. Zanker (1981); Lausberg (1990) §§ 810–819; Walker (1993); Breitenbach (1911). 605 On Comp. in general see Donadi (2000); Pohl (1968); Vaahtera (1997); Gentili (1990). 606 Dionysius’ essay On Demosthenes is problematic insofar as its precise relation to his essays on Lysias, Isocrates, and Isaeus is not completely clear. At Pomp. 2.1 Dionysius

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themselves followed. Through Dionysius’ essays his readers can acquire the same knowledge of synthesis as the Classical authors: they represent a genuinely Classical course of education. Once this Classical knowledge is internalized, they will be able to reconstruct the intentions of the Classical authors which governed the composition of their texts and, thus, recover their original effects. Thus on the one hand, exploring Dionysius’ conception of reading will complement the discussion of On Imitation and On Dinarchus in chapter 2.2.2. This discussion has demonstrated that successful mimesis is impossible without a technique of reading the Classical authors ‘properly.’ But while chapter 2.2.2 was concerned only with the performative aspect of mimesis, i. e., with Dionysius’ conception of mimesis as a means to be Classical, the following discussion will be centred on how Dionysius imagines reading as a process that enables the readers to implement Classical identity through language by granting them authentic, and hence privileged, access to the Classical past: it will explore the reading process as a means to become Classical (4.2.4–4.2.5). On the other hand, understanding the role of reading is also essential to an investigation of the image of being (Classicist) literary critics in Dionysius’ writings. As mentioned above, the desired privileged access to the Classical past depends on the reading technique. Dionysius’ reading technique is therefore bound up with the idea of the elite status of Classicist critics and the distinction of the community of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ from other schools of thought: Dionysius’ conception of reading refers to the first part of Dem. as part of his comprehensive work On the Ancient Orators (cf. Aujac V, 82 n. 3). But whereas Dionysius’ discussion of Lysias, Isocrates, and Isaeus is based on the Çreta» t®c lËxewc (the virtues of style or Stilarten), in Dem. he applies the system of the qarakt®rec t®c lËxewc or Årmon–ai (the characters of style or Wortfügungsarten), cf. van Wyk Cronjé (1986) 55; the most comprehensive study of the Wortfügungsarten is Pohl (1968), see esp. pp. 22–69 on the differences between both rhetorical concepts, including a helpful scheme on p. 45. On the history and the different meanings of the term qarakt†r see Körte (1929) and (less convincing) Hendrickson (1905); on the history of the three characters of style see further O’Sullivan (1997) and Kennedy (1959), who argues convincingly against Hendrickson (1905). For the present purpose, the extensive and often meticulous discussion about the relation of Dem. to the rest of Dionysius’ œuvre is not a primary issue; for the main positions see Blass (1863) 10–15; Roessler (1873) 4–8; v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1899) 625–628; Kalinka (1924); id. (1925); Bonner (1939), esp. 60–71 and 77–80; the most recent discussion of the matter is van Wyk Cronjé (1986), who provides a useful summary and discussion of the main arguments on pp. 52–92 and proposes an (in my view unconvincing) solution.

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is itself inseparable from a debasement of the Stoics’ claim to a leading position in the tradition of rhetorical criticism. Through his conception of an ‘authentic reading’ Dionysius thus also creates a unique position for himself and his critical methods vis-à-vis scholarly tradition (4.2.1–4.2.3). In chapter 4.3 we will see how Dionysius creates an awareness in his readers that this exclusivity of the Classical education, which they have acquired from Dionysius’ writings, unites them in an exclusive circle of intellectuals comparable to the Orphic mysteries and the Classical elite itself.

4.2 ‘Authentic Reading’: Becoming a Classicist Critic Dionysius’ essay On Literary Composition deals with the most basic procedure of literary production: the combination of letters to syllables, syllables to words, words to phrases, phrases to sentences, and sentences to texts. The technical term for this procedure is synthesis and its result is the lËxic, the verbal design of a text. 607 In the first five chapters of his treatise Dionysius explains the importance of synthesis for Classical rhetoric and defines the place of his own essay in the history of scholarship. 608 It is impossible to understand Dionysius’ conception of synthesis and its role in his Classicism without discussing these chapters first.

4.2.1 The Failures of Scholarship Past: Redressing the Balance between Theory and Practice Synthesis is a key element of Dionysius’ definition of the Classical. The aesthetic effects of a text (kalà, kàlloc in the following quotation) rest entirely upon the author’s competence in the art of composition. 609 Thus synthesis is the criterion which distinguishes Classical from non-Classical writers, the originals (o… Çrqaÿoi) from the epigones (o… metagenËsteroi; qrÏn˙ d‡ ’steron) (Comp. 4.14–15): 607 Comp. 2.1: ‘Composition is, as the name itself indicates, a certain process of arranging the parts of speech, or the elements of diction, as some call them’ (ô s‘njes–c ‚stin, πsper aŒt‰ dhloÿ to÷noma, poià tic jËsic par+ällhla t¿n to‹ lÏgou mor–wn, É dò ka» stoiqeÿà tinec t®c lËxewc kalo‹sin). 608 Cf. de Jonge (2005). 609 Dionysius lists mËtra (the elements of ˚ujmo–) and mËlh as two of the four main elements of synthesis at Comp. 11.1; the other two are metabol† and t‰ prËpon.

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Toÿc m‡n ofin Çrqa–oic Êl–gou deÿn pêsi pollò ‚p–dosic ™n aŒto‹, par+Á ka» kalà ‚stin aŒt¿n tÄ mËtra ka» tÄ mËlh ka» o… lÏgoi. Toÿc d‡ metagenestËroic oŒk Ísti plòn Êl–gwn. QrÏn˙ d‡ ’steron pantàpasin ömel†jh ka» oŒde»c æeto deÿn Çnagkaÿon e⁄nai oŒd‡ sumbàllesja– ti tƒ kàllei t¿n lÏgwn. Toigàrtoi toia‘tac suntàxeic katËlipon o—ac oŒde»c ÕpomËnei mËqri korwn–doc dieljeÿn […]. 610 Almost all the ancient writers were very dedicated to it [synthesis], with the result that their metres, their lyrics and their prose are works of beauty. But among their successors, with few exceptions, this was no longer so. Then, in later times, it was totally neglected, and no one regarded it as essential, or even thought that it contributed anything to the beauty of discourse. Consequently they have left behind them compilations such as no one can bear to read to the final flourish of the pen […]. 611

Attention to, or neglect of, synthesis determined the evolution of style and was responsible for the demise of the supreme aesthetic quality which was characteristic of Classical texts. >Ep–dosic, ömel†jh, and oŒde»c æeto suggest that this development was not a necessity, but was brought about by a change in the authors’ attitude towards their texts, in their Èxic, as Dionysius calls it at Dem. 52.1:612 the quality of the Classical texts was a result of the Classical authors’ attention to, and care for, synthesis. Classical beauty was a product of the authors’ discipline, just as the unbearable texts of subsequent generations of writers were the result of their carelessness. Dionysius ascribes the neglect of synthesis in post-Classical times less to the authors themselves than to a discrepancy between rhetorical theory and practice. As seen in chapter 1.2.2, in the First Letter to Ammaeus Dionysius defines the interplay of theory and practice as the distinctive characteristic of the Classical rhetorical tradition: Isocrates and Isaeus were both active orators and authors of rhetorical handbooks, and Demosthenes’ style, the primary example of Classical rhetoric, was the product of this combina610 There follows a list of names predominantly of authors of historical works such as Phylarchus, Duris, Polybius, Psaon, Demetrius of Callatis, Hieronymus, Antigonus, Heracleides, and Hegesianax, on whom cf. Aujac III, 75 n. 1. 611 Usher adopts Sylburg’s conjecture ‚pit†deusic instead of the transmitted ‚p–dosic, but this change seems unnecessary. For ‚p–dosic ‘devotion, addiction,’ which fits very well Dionysius’ image of the Classical writers as committed to technical perfection (filoteqn–a, see below, pp. 251–254) see LSJ, p. 631, s.v. IV.1b. 612 See below, pp. 253–254.

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tion. 613 In post-Classical times the alliance between theory and practice was disjointed (Comp. 4.16–18): 614

Ka» t– deÿ to‘touc jaumàzein, Ìpou ge ka» o… filosof–an ‚paggellÏmenoi ka» tÄc dialektikÄc ‚kfËrontec tËqnac o’twc e s»n äjlioi per» tòn s‘njesin t¿n Ênomàtwn πste a deÿsjai ka» lËgein; >ApÏqrh d‡ tekmhr–˙ qr†sasjai tƒ lÏg˙ Qrus–ppou to‹ Stwiko‹ (peraitËrw gÄr oŒk ãn proba–hn); to‘tou gÄr o÷t+ämeinon oŒde»c tÄc dialektikÄc tËqnac ökr–bwsen o÷te qe–roni Årmon–¯ suntaqjËntac ‚x†negke lÏgouc t¿n go‹n ÊnÏmatoc ka» dÏxhc ÇxiwjËntwn. Ka–toi spoudàzein gË tinec prosepoi†jhsan aŒt¿n ka» per» to‹to t‰ mËroc ±c Çnagkaÿon Ôn tƒ lÏg˙ ka» tËqnac tinÄc Ígrayan Õp‡r t®c suntàxewc t¿n to‹ lÏgou mor–wn; ÇllÄ pol‘ ti pàntec Çp‰ t®c Çlhje–ac Çpeplan†jhsan ka» oŒd+Ónar e⁄don t– pot+‚st» t‰ poio‹n ôdeÿan ka» kalòn tòn s‘njesin. But why should we be surprised at these, when even those who claim to be philosophers and publish handbooks on logic are so inept in the arrangement of their words that I shrink even from mentioning their names? It is sufficient to point to Chrysippus the Stoic as proof of my statement, for beyond that I refuse to go. Of writers who have been judged worthy of renown or distinction, none has written treatises on logic with more precision, and none has published discourses which are worse specimens of composition. And yet some of those writers claimed to make a serious study of this department also, as being indispensable to good writing, and even wrote some handbooks on the classification of the parts of speech. But they all strayed away far from the truth, and never even dreamt what it is that makes composition attractive and beautiful. 615

This passage anticipates the main element of Dionysius’ conception of synthesis: Classical synthesis is a technical process the rules of which must be acquired through theoretical instruction. Being a Classical author is not a gift, but must be learned. The gist of the passage recalls Dionysius’ Classicist programme in the preface to On the Ancient Orators. In On Literary Composition the sharp opposition between Classical and Asianist rhetoric is replaced by a more reconciling distinction between Classical and post-Clas-

613 Amm.I , 2.3, see above, pp. 41–42. 614 See the discussion of Comp. 4–5, with particular emphasis on Dionysius’ relationship with Stoic ideas, in de Jonge (2008) 273–315. 615 Cf. the similar criticism of Stoic rhetoric at Cic. de orat. 3.65–66 (and elsewhere) and see in general Atherton’s (1988) comprehensive discussion of the ‘Failure of Stoic Rhetoric.’

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sical, that is, Hellenistic. 616 But the problem is the same: only writing like the Classical masters is good writing, and good writing needs to be based on theory. Aspiring writers in the present can rely on Dionysius’ essays to teach them what is Classical and what should be avoided (Orat. Vett. 4.1–3). They are in a luckier position than their predecessors. Theoreticians like Chrysippus could not preserve the knowledge of Classical synthesis. Chrysippus even led his readers astray: while the title of his treatise Per» t®c suntàxewc t¿n to‹ lÏgou mor–wn in two books (the title appears at Comp. 4.20) 617 suggests that he is concerned with synthesis, the content betrays this expectation. The decline of rhetoric and the decline of knowledge about rhetoric go hand-in-hand; therefore, the theoretical works of the post-Classical period must be condemned to oblivion (o’twc e s»n äjlioi per» tòn s‘njesin t¿n Ênomàtwn πste a deÿsjai ka» lËgein) no less than the literary production of this time. The quarrel with the tradition is not an end in itself, but is essential to the Classicist’s main concern: only if both unsuitable literary models of and mistaken theoretical approaches to Classical style are censored, will continuity with the Classical past be possible. In chapters 4 and 5 of On Literary Composition, to which I will turn now, Dionysius performs such a deconstruction of tradition and eliminates two potential competitors, the Stoics (Comp. 4.19–21) and the idea of a natural word order (Comp. 5). When dealing with the Stoics’ theories of s‘ntaxic, I will argue, Dionysius makes a point of distinguishing between s‘njesic and s‘ntaxic. 618 The Stoics, he claims, had a mistaken conception of composition: they wrote on s‘ntaxic, the classification of the parts of the speech. But they should have written on how the different parts of the 616 But see n. 335 above on the identification of all Hellenistic literature as ‘Asianist.’ 617 Chrysippus fr. 199 Dufour; cf. de Jonge (2008) 108–110 and ibid. 273–315 on the relation of Comp. 5 to Stoic ideas in general and to Chrysippus’ work in particular. Some scholars, such as Kroll (1907) 91 n. 2, assumed that Comp. 5 was copied from Chrysippus’ treatise; de Jonge convincingly refutes this view ([2008] 110) but points out that this does not exclude that Comp. 5 also draws on Stoic ideas; on Stoic grammar in general cf. Frede (1987) with a brief discussion of Dionysius’ reference to Chrysippus at 324–325; van Ophuijsen (2003), esp. 93 and n. 52 (on Dionysius and Chrysippus). 618 In general, ancient grammarians and rhetoricians did not sharply distinguish between the terms synthesis and syntaxis (de Jonge [2008] 252 n. 4; Aujac III, 9 n. 1). But the following discussion will argue that Dionysius is not using the terms synonymously at Comp. 4.16–18, pace de Jonge (2008) 274 n. 95; instead, Dionysius deliberately opposes the one to the other in order to arrogate a unique position for his work in the history of scholarship.

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speech have to be composed in order to make an attractive and beautiful text; this is s‘njesic, as Dionysius defines it programmatically at the beginning of his essay. 619 Dionysius then refutes the idea of a natural word order by way of a detailed analysis of Homeric verses. Thus Dionysius demonstrates the unique position of his essay in scholarship: he is the only competent mediator between Classical technique and present desire to write Classical texts. Classical synthesis can be learned only from him.

4.2.2 Misreading Tradition: Deconstructing Chrysippus Dionysius’ censorship of post-Classical scholarship begins with the reduction of scholarly tradition to the one author, Chrysippus, and the one title of his work (peraitËrw gÄr oŒk ãn proba–hn, Comp. 4.17). Although Dionysius acknowledges that other works exist, he refuses to mention their authors; these works are useless and can safely be forgotten together with the names of those who wrote them. Chrysippus remains as the only representative of post-Classical scholarship who has to be taken seriously. This invests Dionysius’ refutation of Chrysippus’ approach with a symbolic value in a twofold way: first, by refuting Chrysippus, Dionysius refutes post-Classical scholarship as a whole; second, Dionysius turns his criticism of scholarly tradition into a controversy of principle between competing schools of thought, the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ represented by himself, and the Stoics, represented by Chrysippus. Dionysius is here employing the same strategy of ‘identity through distinction’ as in his First Letter to Ammaeus:620 from the successful deconstruction of Stoic authority in synthesis the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ emerge as a community of literati which is entitled, and able, to compete with traditional schools of thought and will even replace them in contemporary discourse.

619 Cf. Comp. 2.1: ‘Composition is, as the name itself indicates, a certain process of arranging the parts of speech, or the elements of diction, as some call them’ (
ÊnÏmata o ke–wc jeÿnai par+ällhla ka» toÿc k∏loic Çpodo‹nai tòn pros†kousan Årmon–an ka» taÿc periÏdoic dialabeÿn efi t‰n Ìlon lÏgon). 620 See above, ch. 1.2.4, pp. 51–52.

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Chrysippus was the head of a respected philosophical tradition, and the study of language and grammar was an important part of Stoic philosophy, 621 a fact which Dionysius explicitly mentions at Comp. 4.19. 622 Therefore Stoic philosophy threatened to interfere with Dionysius’ own ‘philosophy,’ filÏsofoc ˚htorik†, and claimed competence in a domain which Dionysius regarded as his own. Dionysius’ argument with the Stoics evokes a Classical precedent, the quarrel between Plato and Isocrates over the competencies of philosophy and rhetoric and over the respective conceptions of ‘philosophy’ which this implied. 623 Dionysius seems to allude to this general controversy in the first sentence of Comp. 4.16:624 the representatives of post-Classical scholarship, and the Stoics in particular, who failed to give a proper treatment of synthesis, are here collectively referred to as o… filosof–an ‚paggellÏmenoi. The failure of the professed philosophers stands in stark contrast to the competence of Dionysius, the representative of Isocratean filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. The definition of synthesis offered Dionysius an opportunity to assert the difference between Isocratean and Stoic philosophy and to claim rhetoric and oratory as the domain of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’: to Chrysippus’ treatise on syntaxis (Per» t®c suntàxewc t¿n to‹ lÏgou mer¿n, Comp. 4.20)625 Dionysius opposes his essay on synthesis (Per» sun621 On the role of grammar in Stoic philosophy see Frede (1987). He points out that the study of grammar was an integral element of Stoic philosophy and belonged to Stoic ‘logic’ (in our sense) and dialectic; cf. Schenkeveld (1990). 622 ‘For my part, when I decided to write a treatise on this subject, I tried to discover whether my predecessors had said anything about it, especially the philosophers from the Stoa, since I knew that these men paid considerable attention to the subject of language: one must give them their due’ (>Eg∞ g+ofin Ìte diËgnwn suntàttesjai ta‘thn tòn ÕpÏjesin, ‚z†toun e“ ti toÿc prÏteron e“rhtai per» aŒt®c ka» màlista toÿc Çp‰ t®c Stoêc filosÏfoic, e d∞c toÃc ändrac oŒ mikrÄn front–da to‹ lektiko‹ tÏpou poihsamËnouc; deÿ gÄr aŒtoÿc tÇlhj® martureÿn, emphasis added); cf. my discussion of Comp. 5.11 below, pp. 244–245. 623 On the quarrel between philosophy and rhetoric see nn. 105, 106, 107, and 112 above and the titles cited there. 624 ‘But why should we be surprised at these, when even those who claim to be philosophers and publish handbooks on logic are so inept in the arrangement of their words that I shrink even from mentioning their names?’ (Ka» t– deÿ to‘touc [toÃc metagenestËrouc] jaumàzein, Ìpou ge ka» o… filosof–an ‚paggellÏmenoi ka» tÄc diale-

ktikÄc ‚kfËrontec tËqnac o’twc e s»n äjlioi per» tòn s‘njesin t¿n Ênomàtwn πste a deÿsjai ka» lËgein;). 625 Cf. Aujac III, 75 n. 5: ‘The treatises to which Dionysius is referring here probably were simply treatises on “syntax” from a grammatical point of view’ (‘Les traités visés par

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jËsewc Ênomàtwn). Dionysius explains the difference between synthesis and syntaxis in Comp. 4.20–21. Syntaxis is an element of Stoic dialectics and describes ‘the grouping of propositions, true or false, possible and impossible, admissible and variable, ambiguous, and so forth’ (Õp‡r Çxiwmàtwn Çlhj¿n te ka» yeud¿n ka» dunat¿n ka» Çdunàtwn ‚ndeqomËnwn te ka» metapiptÏntwn ka» ÇmfibÏlwn ka» ällwn tin¿n toioutotrÏpwn, Comp. 4.21). Synthesis, by contrast, belongs to the field of politiko» lÏgoi to which Stoic syntaxis ‘contribute[s] nothing helpful or useful’ (oŒdem–an o÷t+≤fËleian o÷te qre–an toÿc politikoÿc lÏgoic sumballomËnac, ibid.). Hence when blaming Chrysippus for his failure in synthesis, Dionysius does not mean, as de Jonge has it, that ‘even those people who studied the syntax (s‘ntaxic) of the parts of speech did not compose (suntijËnai) satisfactory texts themselves.’626 From Dionysius’ point of view, Chrysippus failed precisely because he wrote on syntaxis, Stoic logic, instead of synthesis, the art of composing an aesthetically satisfactory (ôdeÿa ka» kal†) text. For Dionysius it is not surprising that Chrysippus wrote bad texts, because his theoretical studies dealt with the wrong subject matter. Dionysius’ essay will correct the discrepancy between rhetorical theory and practice by teaching synthesis. Contrasting the topic of his essay with that of Chrysippus’, Dionysius introduces his Per» SunjËsewc as a paradigm shift in scholarly history on literary composition: for the first time since the end of the Classical period it will be possible to write Classical texts again. It has been pointed out that Dionysius’ criticism of the Stoics is unjustified. He finds fault with their works because he presupposes that the Stoics were interested in the same aspects of grammar and rhetoric as himself.627 This approach, the argument continues, was bound to be disappointed since Dionysius expected a kind of information from Chrysippus which he did not want to provide. So far this has been explained by defining Dionysius as a representative of an ‘internal’ approach to history. 628 A historian adopting the ‘internal’ approach does not take into account that works are written under specific social-historical circumstances which determine their scope. Historians adopting an ‘external’ approach, by contrast, try to understand phenomena within their original framework and do not expect Denys étaient peut-être tout simplement des traités de “syntaxe,” envisagés du point de vue grammatical […]’). Probably Dionysius gave an intentionally vague description of the contents of Chrysippus’ work; cf. Kennedy (1959). 626 de Jonge (2008) 274. 627 Ibid. 175–178. 628 Ibid. 6–7 and 175–178, following Sluiter (1998), esp. 24–25.

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to find solutions to their own problems in the works of previous scholars. Besides its doubtful heuristic value, 629 being purely descriptive, this scheme does not shed any light on the purpose of Dionysius’ ‘internal’ approach to scholarly tradition in the larger context of his argument. Instead of asking which approach Dionysius adopts towards history, it seems more fruitful to consider how this specific approach contributes to his definition of synthesis. As suggested above, Dionysius’ criticism of Chrysippus and the Stoics should be read against the background of his conception of literary criticism as a constant struggle among scholars. We know for a fact that Dionysius’ claim to independence from Stoic philosophy does not match reality. Dionysius did not simply copy passages from Chrysippus’ work into his own, 630 but there is no doubt that his discussion of synthesis is indebted to the Stoics to a considerable extent. 631 The Stoics’ authority in ancient grammatical and rhetorical theory is a problem for Dionysius because he wants to be an authority, an influence, in the field of literary criticism and rhetorical theory himself.632 Therefore Dionysius has to find a way to make himself unique vis-à-vis tradition by freeing his work from Stoic influence as much as possible. His ‘internal’ approach to scholarly tradition is this way; it permits Dionysius to distinguish himself from the Stoics regarding the central feature of Classical literature and thus to claim the monopoly on Classical synthesis. Without him, the true definition of synthesis would have remained unknown, and writers would have continued to rely on the Stoics’ mistaken conception and to write aesthetically flawed texts. Continuity with the Classical tradition would thus have been forever impossible.

629 I am sceptical that an ‘external’ approach to history is even possible, and the notion recalls nineteenth-century positivism. Contemporary discussions of the writing of history cast serious doubts on the idea of an ‘objective’ view ‘from the outside’ on any kind of history (pace de Jonge [2008]); history is always constructed by the spectator according to patterns which he imposes on the artifacts, see chapter 3.1 above. A detailed discussion of this question is beyond the scope of this study. 630 See above n. 617. 631 de Jonge (2008) passim. 632 I am freely adopting Harold Bloom’s model of how poets ‘mis-read’ the works of their predecessors in order to create a place in the tradition of poetry for their own works, see Bloom (1975), esp. 12–13: ‘Poets tend to think of themselves as stars because their deepest desire is to be an influence, rather than to be influenced, but even in the strongest, whose desire is accomplished, the anxiety of influence still persists’; cf. id. (1973).

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4.2.3 Refuting the Idea of a ‘Natural Word Order’ There is another potential objection to Dionysius’ central claim that synthesis must be learned, the idea of a natural word order (Comp. 4.21–22): 633

>EskÏpoun d+aŒt‰c ‚p+‚mauto‹ genÏmenoc, e“ tina duna–mhn eÕreÿn fusikòn Çform†n, ‚peidò pant‰c pràgmatoc ka» pàshc zht†sewc a’th dokeÿ krat–sth e⁄nai Çrq†.
The emphasis on nature as the ‘best basis (krat–sth Çrq†) of every operation (pên prêgma) and every enquiry (pàsh z†thsic)’ (emphases mine) forms a striking contrast to the disappointing result of Dionysius’ revision of Stoic tradition. At the end of the preceding paragraph Dionysius had stated that the reader was, literally, left alone by tradition in his attempt to learn Classical synthesis: ‘nowhere did I see any contribution, great or small, to the subject of my choice, by any author of repute (oŒdam¨ d+oŒd‡n

e rhmËnon Õp+oŒden‰c Âr¿n t¿n go‹n ÊnÏmatoc öxiwmËnwn o÷te meÿzon o÷t+Ílatton e c õn ‚g∞ pro§rhmai pragmate–an, Comp. 4.20). The frequency of negations and negative expressions convey a feeling of being abandoned by tradition (cf. aŒt‰c ‚p+‚mauto‹ genÏmenoc in the above quotation) and thus underscore the demand for a work which fills this lacuna. At first sight, nature seemed to compensate for the failure of Stoic tradition: nature always provides help on all matters, so it will surely also provide help on synthesis. But Dionysius had to realize that this rule only seems (dokeÿ) to be universal: nature is of no help regarding synthesis and 633 de Jonge (2008) 251–328 shows that while Dionysius’ discussion of natural word order is influenced by Stoic ideas, it does not rely on these alone and is not copied from Chrysippus’ treatise Per» t®c suntàxewc t¿n t®c lËxewc mer¿n: ‘the chapter on natural word order combines Stoic philosophical and technical grammatical ideas with a rhetorical approach to composition’ (ibid. 315). 634 Usher’s transl. modified.

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again Dionysius had to give up, ÇpËsthn. Dionysius has used ÇpËsthn also in the preceding paragraph to describe the result of his investigation of the Stoics. This repetition creates a feeling of resignation: instead of providing a solution, Dionysius’ examination of natural word order only intensified the dissatisfaction caused by the examination of the Stoic works. The lengthy discussion of the word order of various Homeric passages in Comp. 5 demonstrates that virtually every combination of words can make an excellent synthesis. Dionysius makes his readers go through the same tiresome process of ‘deviation’ 635 which he had to go through himself before accepting that no knowledge about synthesis can be obtained from nature. Thus he passes his own feeling of abandonment and disappointment on to his readers and lays the groundwork for his own endeavour. In the end, it is the knowledge about where not to look for synthesis which distinguishes Dionysius from all those who still assume that either scholarly tradition or nature enables them to be Classical (Comp. 5.11):

>Emn†sjhn d+aŒt¿n [his experiment to find a natural word order] ka» n‹n oŒq ±c spoud®c Çx–wn, ka» tÄc dialektikÄc parejËmhn tËqnac oŒq ±c Çnagka–ac, Çll+—na mhde»c dok¿n Íqein ti aŒtÄc qr†simon e c tòn paro‹san jewr–an per» pollo‹ poi®tai e dËnai, jhreuje»c taÿc ‚pigrafaÿc t¿n pragmatei¿n ÂmoiÏthtà tina ‚qo‘saic ka» t¨ dÏx˘ t¿n suntaxamËnwn aŒtàc. I have recalled these thoughts at the present time not because they deserve serious attention; and I have introduced these handbooks on logic not because they are essential reading, but in order to dissuade anyone from supposing that they contain anything useful for the present enquiry, and hence regarding it as important to know about them, because he has been captivated by the titles of their works, which have some affinity with the subject, and by the reputation of their authors.

The deconstruction of tradition is now complete: Dionysius’ introductory chapters leave no doubt that everything written before his On Literary Composition is worth mentioning only as an example of what not to do and, therefore, is not worthy of serious attention: the idea of a natural word order is oŒ spoud®c äxion, the knowledge provided by the Stoics oŒk Çnagkaÿon. Whoever continues consulting these false authorities (dÏxa above) after Dionysius has demasked them, embarrasses himself by still 635 Comp. 4.22, quoted above, p. 243: dÏxac Âdƒ moi t‰ prêgma qwreÿn; ·tËrwsË poi ta‘thn ägousan ‚m‡ tòn ÂdÏn (emphases mine).

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letting himself be tricked by the titles of the works and the reputation of their authors (jhreuje»c taÿc ‚pigrafaÿc t¿n pragmatei¿n ÂmoiÏthtà tina ‚qo‘saic ka» t¨ dÏx˘ t¿n suntaxamËnwn aŒtàc). The reader is thus left with a feeling of being caught in a dilemma: competence in synthesis is the prerequisite for being a Classical writer, but there is as yet no way of obtaining this competence. At this point Dionysius and his essay come into play and offer the reader a solution (Comp. 5.12–13):

>Epàneimi dò ‚p» tòn ‚x Çrq®c ÕpÏjesin Çf+©c e c ta‹t+‚xËbhn, Ìti pollò prÏnoia toÿc Çrqa–oic ™n ka» poihtaÿc ka» suggrafe‹si filosÏfoic te ka» ˚†torsi t®c  dËac ta‘thc, ka» o÷te tÄ ÊnÏmata toÿc ÊnÏmasin o÷te tÄ k¿la toÿc k∏loic o÷te tÄc periÏdouc Çll†laic e k¨ suntijËnai æonto deÿn, tËqnh dË tic ™n par+aŒtoÿc ka» jewr†mata oŸc qr∏menoi sunet–jesan efi. T–na d+™n tÄ jewr†mata ta‹ta, peiràsomai didàskein […]. I shall now return to my initial proposition, from which I digressed into these topics. It was that the ancient poets, historians, philosophers and orators gave much forethought to this branch of study. They considered that neither words, nor clauses, nor periods should be put together at random, but they had a definite system of rules which they practised, and so composed well. What these principles were I shall try to explain […].

Dionysius’ return to his initial proposition is a return to the Classical authors. Neither tradition nor nature are the appropriate place to learn Classical synthesis; only the Classical texts can provide the basis for such a study. >Epàneimi, ‘I shall return,’ marks the whole discussion of the traditional approaches to synthesis as a ‘digression’ within the text. This status of the Stoics and the conception of natural word order reflects their position in the history of synthesis: they were nothing but a deviation from the alliance of Classical theory and practice and caused the demise of Classical beauty in the writings of the metagenËsteroi, a ‘digression’ from the Classical ideal. The only way to correct this deviation is the return to the Classical standards in theory which will entail a return to the Classical standard in practice. >Arq† in ô ‚x Çrq®c ÕpÏjesic recalls the (erroneous) assumption that nature is the krat–sth Çrq† for all sorts of enquiries and corrects it: the only appropriate Çrq† for learning synthesis are the Classical texts from which the rules of composition must be reconstructed. This is the purpose of On Literary Composition. Dionysius’ essay ‘sets scholarship straight’ and reinstates the Classical texts as the guideline of rhetorical theory and practice. In keeping with his claim that proper mimesis requires suntrof–a and kat†qhsic (Din.

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7.5), Dionysius explains the principles of Classical composition directly on verbatim quotations from the Classical authors. On Literary Composition thus claims to be the as yet unwritten technique of Classical synthesis which finally makes continuity with the Classical past possible.

4.2.4 On Literary Composition: A Normative Aesthetics of Classical Style Dionysius’ readers are now prepared to learn Classical synthesis and to understand the importance of this knowledge for their attempt to be Classical. In the following parts of his essay Dionysius presents his reader with a complex system of aesthetic effects of individual letters, syllables, and the rhythms of the syllables on the one hand, and of rhythmic and melodic structures of whole phrases, sentences, and texts on the other. 636 Virtually every letter and combination of letters as well as every variation of speech melody (mËloc) and rhythm (˚ujmÏc), which is achieved by a different combination of long and short syllables, has a particular effect upon the recipients. A few examples will demonstrate this. At Comp. 14, Dionysius gives a minute description of the effects (dunàmeic, Comp. 15.1; cf. d‘natai, Comp. 14.19) of individual letters, including vowels (tÄ fwn†enta, 14.7–13), semivowels (tÄ ôm–fwna, 14.14–21), and consonants (tÄ äfwna, 14.22–27). To the eight semi-vowels (l, m, n, r, s, z, x, y) Dionysius ascribes the following effects (Comp. 14.19–20):

D‘natai d+oŒq Âmo–wc kineÿn tòn Çkoòn âpanta.
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jhri∏douc gÄr ka» ÇlÏgou mêllon £ logik®c ‚fàptesjai dokeÿ fwn®c  surigmÏc […]. They do not all have the same power to affect the ear. l gives it pleasure, and is the sweetest of the semi-vowels, while r has a roughening effect, and is the noblest of its class. m and n have a sort of intermediate effect, being produced through the nostrils, and producing sounds similar to those of a horn. s is neither charming nor pleasant and is very offensive when used to excess, for a hiss is felt to be a sound more closely associated with an irrational beast than with a rational being.

In the same way, Dionysius ascribes a characteristic effect to every one of the letters of the Greek alphabet. These, he stresses, are by no means random. On the contrary, they are due to the physiological processes by which the letters are produced, such as the position of the mouth and the windpipe, which control the breath and the way it is released through mouth and nose and thus constitute the kind of tone which is produced. The seven vowels, for example, are subdivided into three groups: short (e, o), long (h, w), and ‘common’ vowels, d–qrona, i.e., vowels that can be either short or long (a, u, i) (Comp. 14.7). Dionysius explains how these are produced physically (Comp. 14.8–9):

>Ekfwneÿtai d‡ ta‹ta pànta t®c Çrthr–ac suneqo‘shc t‰ pne‹ma ka» to‹ stÏmatoc Åpl¿c sqhmatisjËntoc t®c te gl∏tthc oŒd‡n pragmateuo‘shc Çll+öremo‘shc. Plòn tÄ m‡n makrÄ ka» t¿n diqrÏnwn Ìsa makr¿c lËgetai tetamËnon lambànei ka» dihnek® t‰n aŒl‰n to‹ pne‘matoc, tÄ d‡ braqËa £ braqËwc legÏmena ‚x Çpokop®c te ka» miî plhg¨ pne‘matoc ka» t®c Çrthr–ac ‚p» braqà kinhje–shc ‚kfËretai. To‘twn d‡ kràtista ka» fwnòn ôd–sthn Çpoteleÿ tà te makrÄ ka» t¿n diqrÏnwn Ìsa mhk‘netai katÄ tòn ‚kforàn, Ìti polÃn öqeÿtai qrÏnon ka» to‹ pne‘matoc oŒ katakÏptei t‰n tÏnon. Qe–rw d‡ tÄ braqËa £ braqËwc legÏmena, Ìti mikrÏfwnà te ‚st» ka» spadon–zei t‰n ™qon. All these sounds are produced from the windpipe, which resounds to the breath, while the mouth is formed in a simple shape, the tongue not being busy but remaining at rest. But the long vowels, and those common vowels that are pronounced long, take an extended and continuous column of breath, while the short vowels and those which are pronounced short are uttered abruptly, with one burst of breath and only a brief movement of the windpipe. Now the most powerful of these, and those which produce the most attractive sound, are the long vowels, and those common ones which are lengthened in utterance, and

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this is because they are sounded for a long time, and do not arrest the strong flow of breath. The short vowels, or those which are pronounced short, are inferior, because they lack volume and restrict the sound.

Since the aesthetic effects of (combinations of) letters (fwnò ôd–sth) are based on physical processes, 637 a certain letter will always produce the same sound and, consequently, have the same effect upon the recipients. This allows the critic to base his analysis of the aesthetics of a text and his judgment on its quality (kràtista, ôd–sth, qe–rwn) on solid ‘evidence’ and a rational foundation. After explaining the effect of individual letters, Dionysius gives a detailed list of the effects of syllables and of rhythms, which result from the combination of different syllables (Comp. 17–18). The qoreÿoc, for example, a rhythm consisting of three short syllables in a row, is ‘a mean foot, lacking both dignity and nobility, and nothing noble could be made out of it’ (tapeinÏc te ka» äsemnoc […] ka» Çgenn†c, ka» oŒd‡n ãn ‚x aŒto‹ gËnoito gennaÿon, Comp. 17.7); the Çmf–braquc is ‘enervated and has about it much that is effeminate and ignoble’ (diakËklasta– te ka» polà t‰ j®lu ka» Çgenn‡c Íqei, ibid. 17.9). The dactylus, on the contrary, ‘is very stately and remarkably effective at producing beauty of expression’ (pànu d+‚st» semn‰c ka» e c kàlloc Årmon–ac Çxiolog∏tatoc, ibid. 17.11), and the palimbaccheus is ‘a very virile one, and appropriate for solemn language’ (Çndr¿dec dò 637 Cf. Comp. 14.19–21: after describing the physical processes behind the ‘semivowels’ (ôm–fwna: l m n r s) in Comp. 14.16–18, Dionysius explains the different effects of each of them: ‘L gives it [the ear] pleasure, and is the sweetest of the semivowels, while r has a roughening effect, and is the noblest of its class. m and n have a sort of intermediate effect, being pronounced through the nostrils, and producing sounds similar to those of a horn. s is neither charming nor pleasant and is very offensive when used to excess, for a hiss is felt to be a sound more closely associated with an irrational beast than with a rational being […]. Of the three other letters, which are called double, z falls more pleasurable upon the ear than others; for x and y give the hiss with k and p respectively, both of which letters are smooth, whereas z is gently roughened by the breath and is the noblest of its class’ (ôd‘nei d‡ gÄr aŒtòn [tòn Çko†n] t‰ l ka» Ísti t¿n ômif∏nwn gluk‘taton, traq‘nei d‡ t‰ r ka» Ísti t¿n Âmogen¿n gennaiÏtaton;

mËswc dË pwc diat–jhsi tÄ diÄ t¿n ˚wj∏nwn sunhqo‘mena tÏ te m ka» t‰ n keratoeideÿc Çpotelo‹nta toÃc ¢qouc. óAqari d‡ ka» Çhd‡c t‰ s ka» pleonàsan sfÏdra lupeÿ; jhri∏douc gÄr ka» ÇlÏgou mêllon £ logik®c ‚fàptesjai dokeÿ fwn®c  surigmÏc […]. Tri¿n d‡ t¿n ällwn grammàtwn É dò diplê kaleÿtai t‰ z mêllon ôd‘nei tòn Çkoòn t¿n ·tËrwn; t‰ m‡n gÄr x diÄ to‹ k, t‰ d‡ y diÄ t‰ p t‰n surigm‰n Çpod–dwsi, yil¿n Óntwn ÇmfotËrwn, to‹to d‡ ôsuq¨ tƒ pne‘mati das‘netai ka» Ísti t¿n Âmogen¿n gennaiÏtaton, emphases mine); Aujac III, 106 n. 3.

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pànu […] ka» e c semnÏthta ‚pit†deion, ibid. 17.14). If the critics/readers know the different effects of the individual rhythms they are able to reconstruct the effect which a certain phrase or sentence in a Classical text was supposed to have. Dionysius gives a detailed demonstration of how such a reconstruction is to be carried out in chapter 18, which contains analyses of the rhythms and their effects of various passages from Classical texts. The knowledge of the effects of letters, syllables, and rhythms is indispensible to both author and reader, but it only provides the basics of synthesis. It is their proper combination which makes synthesis so complicated. Since it is virtually impossible to compose a text exclusively from letters and rhythms that have a positive effect upon the recipients, an author will always have to compensate for the negative effects of certain (combinations of) letters and rhythms by combining them with those evoking a positive reaction (Comp. 18.2). 638 Therefore the most important, and most demanding, element of synthesis is krêsic/paràjesic,639 i. e., the technique of combining letters and syllables so that the passage or the text as a whole has the desired effect (Comp. 15.13): 640

638 ‘Now if it proves possible for us to compose in a new style which consists entirely of the finest rhythms, our ideal may be realised; but if it should be necessary to mix the worse with the better, as happens in many cases (for names have been assigned to things in a haphazard way), we must manage our subject-matter artistically and disguise the constraint under which we are working by the elegance of our composition’ (E  m‡n ofin Ístai d‘namic ‚x Åpàntwn krat–stwn ˚ujm¿n sunjeÿnai tòn lËxin, Íqoi än ômÿn kat+eŒq†n. E  d‡ Çnagkaÿon e“h m–sgein toÿc kre–ttosi toÃc qe–ronac, ±c ‚p» poll¿n g–netai (tÄ gÄr ÊnÏmata keÿtai toÿc pràgmasi ±c Ítuqen), o konomeÿn aŒtÄ qrò filotËqnwc ka» diaklËptein t¨ qàriti t®c sunjËsewc tòn Çnàgkhn […]). 639 Comp. 15.11: ‘[…] it must inevitably follow that the syllables, which are formed from them [the letters] or woven together by means of them, preserve at the same time both the individual properties of each letter and the combined effect of all, which arises from their fusion and juxtaposition’ ([…] pêsa Çnàgkh tÄc ‚k to‘twn sunistamËnac

sullabÄc £ diÄ to‘twn plekomËnac âma t†n te  d–an ·kàstou sºzein d‘namin ka» tòn koinòn Åpàntwn, õ g–netai diÄ t®c kràse∏c te ka» parajËsewc aŒt¿n). 640 Cf. diàjesin fusik†n (‘physical condition’) at Comp. 15.12: ‘The sounds thus formed are soft or hard, smooth or rough, sweet to the ear or harsh to it; they make us contract our mouths or relax them, and bring about every other physical condition; and these are countless in number’ (‚x ¡n malaka– te fwna» g–nontai ka» sklhra» ka» leÿai ka» traqeÿai, gluka–nousa– te tòn Çkoòn ka» pikra–nousai, ka» st‘fousai ka» diaqËousai, ka» pêsan tòn ällhn kataskeuàzousai diàjesin fusik†n; a›tai d+e s» m‘riai t‰ pl®joc Ìsai); Comp. 16.6.

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Ta‹ta d‡ katamajÏntec o… qariËstatoi poiht¿n te ka» suggrafËwn tÄ m‡n aŒto– te kataskeuàzousin ÊnÏmata sumplËkontec ‚pithde–wc Çll†loic tÄ gràmmata ka» tÄc sullabÄc o ke–wc oŸc bo‘lwntai parast®sai pàjesin poik–lwc filoteqno‹sin […]. The most elegant writers of poetry or prose have understood these facts well, and both arrange their words by weaving them together with deliberate care, and with elaborate artistic skill adapt the syllables and letters to the emotions which they wish to prompt. 641

The result of Dionysius’ detailed descriptions of the effects of letters, syllables, and their combinations is an aesthetic code of synthesis. This aesthetic code is based on knowledge: only a writer who learns and internalizes the rules of synthesis (cf. katamajÏntec, Comp. 15.13 above) 642 composes texts which completely control the emotional response of their recipients. Once an author has achieved this knowledge, the effects he can evoke by means of a proper synthesis are of a very concrete nature. Dionysius even goes so far as to ascribe a particular moral and political effect to certain sounds. Sounds which are rough on the ear (pikra–nein), for example, make ‘[the] hearers strict in maintaining the law, severe in investigating crime and inexorable in punishing wrongdoers’ (Dem. 55.2).643 By producing a certain 641 Usher’s transl. modified. 642 Note also didaqje–c and katamajeÿn in Dem. 44.2, quoted in the following note. 643 ‘For to say that he makes his language bitter [pikra–nein], when the occasion demands bitterness (and such occasions often arise, especially in arguments charged with emotion), is to praise the orator, particularly if we regard it either as the exclusive or as the primary function of rhetoric to make its hearers strict in maintaining the law, severe [pikrÏn] in investigating crime and inexorable in punishing wrongdoers’ (T‰ m‡n pikra–nein tòn diàlekton Ìtan Çpait¿sin o… kairo» (pollàkic d‡ Çpaito‹si ka» màlista ‚n toÿc pajhtikoÿc t¿n ‚piqeirhmàtwn), ‚gk∏miÏn ‚sti to‹ ˚†toroc, e“ ge dò t‰ poieÿn t‰n

Çkroatòn aŒsthr‰n t¿n nÏmwn f‘laka ka» pikr‰n ‚xetastòn t¿n Çdikhmàtwn ka» timwr‰n Çpara–thton t¿n paranomo‘ntwn parÄ t®c ˚htorik®c dunàmewc £ mÏnon £ màlista t¿n ällwn Çpaito‹men, Usher’s transl. modified; emphases mine); cf. Dem. 44.2: ‘I think that our orator was first taught by nature and experience that crowds which flock to festivals and schools require different forms of address from those who attend the political assemblies and the law-courts. The former wish to be diverted and entertained, the latter to be given information and assistance in the matters with which they are concerned. He did not think either that the forensic speech should employ hypnotic or striking phonetic effects, or that the ceremonial speech should be full of a dry and musty antiquity’ (Dokeÿ d† moi f‘sei te ka» pe–r¯ didaqje»c Â

Çnòr pr¿ton m‡n ‚keÿno katamajeÿn Ìti oŒq Âmo–ac Çpaito‹si kataskeuÄc lËxewc o… pr‰c tÄc panhg‘reic ka» sqolÄc surrËontec Óqloi toÿc e c tÄ dikast†ria ka» tÄc ‚kklhs–ac Çpant¿sin, Çll+o… m‡n Çpàthc ÊrËgontai ka» yuqagwg–ac, oÀ d‡

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mentality in the citizens, such as the will to obey and protect the laws, synthesis is directly related to the maintenance of Athenian democracy. Not only does this invest the aesthetics of a text with a political dimension; an orator’s knowledge of the techniques of composition also turns out to be crucial to his leading role in politics and his power over the recipients in general. These examples point to an important aspect of Dionysius’ conception of Classical rhetoric: writing a Classical text was a purely technical process. The author planned which emotions he had to induce in the recipients to make the speech fit its purpose, and designed the synthesis accordingly. Therefore Dionysius emphasizes throughout his work the Classical authors’ commitment to technical perfection, filoteqn–a, as their defining characteristic (Dem. 36.3): 644

Poll† tic ‚gËneto ‚n toÿc Çrqa–oic ‚pijum–a ka» prÏnoia to‹ kal¿c ÅrmÏttein tÄ ÊnÏmata Ín te mËtroic ka» d–qa mËtrwn, ka» pàntec Ìsoi spouda–ac ‚boul†jhsan ‚xenegkeÿn grafàc, oŒ mÏnon ‚z†thsan Ênomàsai tÄ no†mata kal¿c, ÇllÄ ka» aŒtÄ 〈tÄ ÊnÏmata〉 eŒkÏsm˙ sunjËsei perilabeÿn. Much energy and thought was spent by ancient writers on the beautiful arrangement of words, both in verse and in prose; and all those who wanted to produce serious works of literature sought not only to express their ideas beautifully as regards individual words, but also to put the words themselves together in a beautiful and orderly combination.

This passage should be read alongside Dionysius’ definition of the alliance of theory and practice as the distinctive feature of Classical rhetoric at Amm.I , 2.3 645 and his similar assertion at Comp. 5.12 that composing texts according to tËqnh and jewr†mata distinguished the Classical authors (o… Çrqaÿoi) from the epigones (o… metagenËsteroi). 646 Dionysius combines knowledge, didaq®c ¡n ‚pizhto‹si ka» ≤fele–ac. O÷te dò t‰n ‚n dikasthr–oic lÏgon æeto deÿn kwt–llein ka» liga–nein, o÷te t‰n ‚pideiktik‰n aŒqmo‹ mest‰n e⁄nai ka» p–nou). 644 filÏteqnoc is a common attribute of Homer in ancient scholarship which was introduced probably by Aristarchus, see Schenkeveld (1970); on the filoteqn–a of the Classical authors cf. Comp. 18.1–2; Dem. 38.6; 40.1; 51.2; 53.3. 645 See above, pp. 41–42. 646 Contrast Comp. 5.12 (about the Çrqaÿoi): ‘They [the ancient poets, historians, philosophers, and orators] considered that neither words, nor clauses, nor periods should be put together at random’ (o÷te tÄ ÊnÏmata toÿc ÊnÏmasi o÷te tÄ k¿la toÿc k∏loic o÷te tÄc periÏdouc Çll†laic e k¨ sunàptein æonto deÿn) with Comp. 4.14 (about the

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filoteqn–a, and practice to form a comprehensive conception of a Classical mentality (Dem. 51.2–6): E  dË tic Õpote‘xetai pr‰c ta‹ta jaumàzein lËgwn, e  ka» kakoda–mwn o’twc ™n  thliko‹toc Çnòr [sc. DhmosjËnhc] πsj+, Ìte gràfoi toÃc lÏgouc, änw ka» kàtw strËfein tà mÏria t®c lËxewc ka» tÄ ‚k to‘twn suntijËmena k¿la, ‚mmele–ac te ka» ˚ujmoÃc ka» mËtra […] e c tòn politikòn ‚narmÏttwn fràsin […], pr¿ton m‡n ‚keÿno ‚njumhj†tw Ìti  tosa‘thc dÏxhc öxiwmËnoc Çnòr ‚p» lÏgoic Ìshc oŒde»c t¿n prÏteron, a ∏nia suntattÏmenoc Írga ka» tƒ pànta basan–zonti qrÏn˙ paradido‘c, oŒd‡n ‚k to‹ ‚pituqÏntoc Ígrafen. […] Ta‹ta gÄr ‚nnohje–h än, e“ tic mò komid¨ skai‰c £ d‘seric, ka» oŒk ãn jaumàseien e  front»c ‚gËneto DhmosjËnei Íti mel¿n ka» ˚ujm¿n ka» sqhmàtwn, ka» t¿n ällwn pàntwn oŸc ôde–a ka» kalò g–netai s‘njesic. ToŒnant–on gÄr mêllon Õpolàboi tic 〈ãn〉 Çnòr m†te ÊligÏponoc m†te Åy–koroc m†te ÇkrÏsofoc äporon e⁄nai ka» Çm†qanon, £ mhdem–an ‚pimËleian pepoi®sjai t‰n ˚†tora t®c Årmon–ac t¿n lÏgwn, £ fa‘lhn tinà, boulÏmenon mnhmeÿa t®c ·auto‹ diano–ac Çjànata katalipeÿn. If anyone should reply to this, saying that he is surprised that so great a man [Demosthenes] should be such a victim of misfortune that whenever he writes speeches he turns his words upside down, and also the clauses formed from them, trying to introduce into the language of political oratory melody, rhythm and metre […] – if he should say this, let him first consider that the man who enjoyed an unparalleled reputation as an orator and composed speeches that were to be immortal, and handed them down to Posterity, the Universal Scrutinizer, wrote nothing casually; […] These, then, are the points which our critic would consider, if he is not completely dense or contentious, and he would not be surprised to find Demosthenes concerning himself with music and rhythm, with figurative expression, and with all the other factors that contribute towards charm and beauty of composition. On the contrary, anyone who took some trouble, and did not treat the matter superficially, and had a modicum of intelligence, would find it impossible and impracticable for the orator to have completely neglected melodious composition in his speeches, or to have considered it but little, if he wished to leave them as an undying monument to his genius.

post-Classical authors): ‘no one regarded it [synthesis] as essential, or even thought that it contributed anything to the beauty of discourse’ (ka» oŒde»c æeto deÿn Çnagkaÿon aŒt‰ e⁄nai oŒd‡ sumbàllesja– ti tƒ kàllei t¿n lÏgwn, emphases added).

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Dionysius’ idea of Classical oratory is extreme: Classical texts are prose compositions the smallest details of which are planned, endowed with rhythms and melodies, and controlled by the orator. 647 In order to forestall objections, Dionysius invests the accomplished beauty (ôde–a ka» kalò s‘njesic) of Classical literature (Comp. 4.14, quoted below) with a metaphysical character: just as the lÏgoi are the expression of the individual speaker’s character (proa–resic), so the beauty which characterizes Classical texts as a whole is the expression of the mentality of the Classical authors in general. Dionysius’ Demosthenes never wrote for the moment. He saw beauty through technical perfection as a means to create an immortal memorial of his superior intellectual ability (mnhmeÿa t®c ·auto‹ diano–ac Çjànata). Demosthenes’ technical perfection and the resulting perfect aesthetics of his texts are an attempt to overcome mortality. 648 Dionysius calls this attitude towards the text, the will and ability to rework and polish each and every aspect of it until it is perfect, the Classical Èxic. It is the result of a long process of learning and internalizing the rules of synthesis (qrÏnioc äskhsic; pollò ‚pimËleia ka» front–c in the next quotation) until the author applies them automatically (Dem. 52.1):649

Boulo–mhn d+ãn ka» ta‹ta ‚njumhj®nai toÃc Íti duspe–stwc Íqontac pr‰c tÄ e rhmËna, Ìti meiràkion m‡n Íti Ónta ka» newst» to‹ maj†matoc ÅptÏmenon aŒt‰n [sc. DhmosjËnh], oŒk älogon ™n ka» ta‹ta ka» tílla pànta diÄ poll®c ‚pimele–ac te ka» front–doc Íqein, ‚peidò d+ô qrÏnioc äskhsic Èxin aŒtƒ ‚nepo–hse pollòn ka» t‘pouc  squroÃc ‚neirgàsato t¿n a e» meletwmËnwn, tÏte Çp‰ to‹ ˚åstou te ka» t®c Èxewc aŒt‰ poieÿn. I should like those who are still unconvinced by my arguments to consider that it would not have been unreasonable to expect him [Demosthenes], while still a young man and new to his studies, to have examined these and all other aspects of the subject with great care; but that after long training had imbued him with

647 At Dem. 51.7 Dionysius describes Demosthenes as a ‘politician-handicraftsman, who had raised himself above all his contemporaries through natural ability and hard work’ (politik‰c […] dhmiourgÏc, pàntac Õperàrac toÃc kaj+aÕt‰n f‘sei te ka» pÏn˙, emphasis mine; Usher’s transl. modified) and who never ‘neglected the smallest means, if smallest they be,’ of his works (oŒ […] t¿n ‚laq–stwn tin‰c e c t‰ efi lËgein, e  dò ka» ta‹ta ‚làqista, ≤lig∏rhse). 648 On the interrelation of mortality and canonization cf. Most (1990). 649 Cf. Porter (2006b) 308–310.

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great empirical skill, and left in his mind a firm impression of whatever he had been studying, he then wrote with the utmost facility, drawing on his experience.

Dionysius’ conception of Classical Èxic is in keeping with central aspects of his theory of mimesis. The t‘poi  squro– in Demosthenes’ mind recall the first anecdote of the peasant’s wife in On Imitation which illustrated the passage of beauty from the text into the author’s mind. 650 In the same manner Demosthenes internalized the knowledge of the rules on which the beautiful is based. The result of this learning process, the Èxic, evokes Dionysius’ description of the result of mimesis, if it is properly done: Classical style becomes the reader-speaker’s nature (aŒtofu†c; ‚k f‘sewc, Din. 7.6). 651 Once he had internalized the rules of synthesis, Demosthenes was able to perform even the most complicated stylistic procedures automatically, out of his Èxic. Conceiving of Classical aesthetics as a technical process, Dionysius provides a solution to the central problem of Classicism: how to experience Classical texts as the original audience did. The key to this question is a reading technique which compensates for the loss of the live performance of the Classical texts. Such an ‘authentic reading’ is possible if the effects of Classical texts are a product of the author’s knowledge of the rules of synthesis: if readers in the first century obtain the same knowledge, they will be able to reconstruct what effects the author intended his text to have on his original audience and thus to reconstruct these effects. Dionysius’ analyses of text passages offer his reader such an insight into the Classical authors’ minds. Frequently, he couches his own explanations in terms of the author’s considerations and intentions while writing the text. Dionysius’ authorial voice becomes a vehicle for the Classical writers’ thoughts so that his reader does not seem to be learning from him, but from observing the mental process of Demosthenes. In the following passage, for example, Dionysius first announces that he will reveal ‘what principles [Demosthenes] followed and what practical means he employed to master the most important aspects of each of the styles’ 652 (t–si jewr†masi 650 Above, pp. 78–84. 651 Above, pp. 89–90. 652 Usher accepts Sadée’s conjecture, who inserts mikt®c ka» mËshc before Årmon–ac, while Aujac suggests ·katËrac. The question of which of these is preferable has no bearing upon the present argument, although I think that Aujac’s solution is slightly preferable. It is clear from the context (esp. Dem. 42.2) that Dionysius regards Demosthenes as a representative of what he calls ‘the third kind of composition’ (t®c […] tr–thc Årmon–ac) which he

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qr∏menoc ka» diÄ po–ac Çsk†sewc proelj∞n t‰ kràtiston Ílabe t®c 〈·katËrac〉 Årmon–ac, Dem. 47.1); in the subsequent paragraphs he continues (Dem. 47.2–4): E⁄den Ìti kÇn toÿc lÏgoic toÿc te ‚mmËtroic ka» toÿc Íxw to‹ mËtrou kataskeuazomËnoic 〈oŒde»c ÇxiÏlogoc ‚gËneto, e  mò〉 Ímellen Çpoqr∏ntwc Èxein ÇmfotËrwn to‘twn [sc. to‹ kalo‹ ka» t®c ôdon®c] […]. Ta‹ta dò sunid∞n ka» t®c m‡n aŒsthrêc t‰ kal‰n Õpolab∞n e⁄nai tËloc, t®c d‡ glafurêc t‰ ôd‘, ‚z†tei t–na poihtikÄ to‹ kàllouc ‚st» ka» t–na t®c ôdon®c. E’riske dò tÄ m‡n aŒtÄ ÇmfotËrwn Ónta a“tia, tÄ mËlh ka» toÃc ˚ujmoÃc ka» tÄc metabolÄc ka» t‰ parakoloujo‹n âpasin aŒtoÿc prËpon […]. Demosthenes knew that <nobody can achieve anything worthwhile> either as a poet or as a prose author without a sufficient measure of both [pleasure and beauty] […]. Realising this, and understanding beauty to be the object of the severe style and charm that of the polished style, he tried to discover what describes as ‘a mixture obtained by selecting the best qualities of the other two’ ([Ífhn] miktòn ‚x Çmfoÿn e⁄nai tÄ qrhsim∏tata ‚klËgousan Çf+·katËrac, Dem. 41.1), the latter being the ‘noble, austere and grand in conception’ which ‘has an old-fashioned flavour’ (ô gennikò ka» aŒsterÄ ka» megalÏfrwn ka» t‰ Çrqaioprep‡c di∏kousa, Dem. 39.8) and ‘the polished, spectacular kind’ which ‘chooses to be decorative rather than dignified’ (ô glafurÄ ka» jeatrikò ka» t‰ komy‰n a…roumËnh pr‰ to‹ semno‹, ibid. 40.1). According to Dionysius, this third kind of composition ‘has no quality peculiar to itself but […] varies according to the purpose and the selective ability of the person trying to use it (oŒde–c ‚sti qaraktòr “dioc, Çll+±c ãn o… metiÏntec aŒtòn proairËsewc Íqwsin £ dunàmewc tÄ m‡n fugeÿn, tÄ d‡ labeÿn, o’twc k–rnantai, ibid. 41.1). Aujac’s ·katËrac takes into account the fact that Dionysius specifically states that the third kind of composition is simply a mixture of the elements that characterize the other ones and therefore neither has any distinctive qualities of its own nor, by consequence, its own name like the other ones. Demosthenes excels in the third kind of composition because he is a master in each (·katËrac) of the two others. That Dionysius himself was thinking of the third Årmon–a in terms of a combination of the first two, rather than a category of its own, is further suggested by the fact that Dionysius points out immediately afterwards that Demosthenes, having realised that ‘beauty’ was the ‘object of the severe style’ and ‘charm’ that of the ‘polished style,’ attempted to find out how to create each of these qualities. Dionysius is here imagining Demosthenes as achieving perfection in the third kind of composition by achieving perfection in the first and second kind separately. Sadée’s conjecture, by contrast, imposes a name upon the third kind of harmony on the basis of Dionysius’ characterization of it as ‘mixed’ (miktòn, Dem. 41.1; cf. 42.2; 36.5) and thus implicitly sets the third Årmon–a on a par with the other two although Dionysius explicitly states that it ‘has no quality peculiar to itself’ (quoted above). This seems to be less compatible with Dionysius’ line of argument in this passage.

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constitutes beauty and what charm. And he discovered that both had the same elements, tone, rhythm, variation and propriety of use, which accompanies all these […]. 653

Instead of explaining the principles of good synthesis in his own voice, Dionysius ‘reconstructs’ the process of thought through which Demosthenes came to understand the principles of composition (e⁄den, Õpolab∏n, ‚z†tei, e’riske). The elements Demosthenes ‘finds’ to be constitutive of both charm and pleasure are identical with those listed by Dionysius (in his authorial voice) as the constituents of synthesis at Comp. 11.1; close verbal correspondence between both passages further underlines the parallels of the content and bring Dionysius’ point home: what Demosthenes ‘found’ and ‘knew’ is identical with what Dionysius’ reader can find in and learn from On Literary Composition. 654 Dionysius’ words and Demosthenes’ thoughts merge to an even higher degree towards the end of Dem. 47. Dionysius first explains in his own voice, marked as such by ‚g∏, the role of mËloc, ˚ujmÏc, metabola–, and prËpon in synthesis (‘I shall try to explain the meaning of each of these terms,’ Án d‡ lÏgon Íqei to‘twn Èkaston, ‚g∞ peiràsomai didàskein, Dem. 47.4). These explanations are followed in Dem. 48 by a brief, but essential discussion of the most important aspects of each of these basic elements of synthesis which is still provided in the authorial voice: ‚g∞ peiràsomai didàskein, ‘I shall try to explain,’ at the beginning of Dionysius’ discussion (Dem. 47.4) is picked up by an affirmative ‚mo– g+ofin dokeÿ, ‘certainly I think so,’ at Dem. 48.4, which concludes Dionysius’ explanation of the last element of synthesis, t‰ prËpon. The personal pronoun at the beginning and the end of Dionysius’ explanations gives the whole passage the character of a 653 With Usher I accept Radermacher’s assumption of a lacuna after kataskeuazomËnoic and his proposed solution, to supply oŒde»c ÇxiÏlogoc ‚gËneto, e  mò. Dionysius says that Demosthenes realised that writing either prose or poetry successfully was impossible without the ability to achieve both ‘beauty’ and ‘charm’ and therefore (ta‹ta dò sunid∞n) set out to enquire systematically how that was possible. This would not make sense if Dionysius had stated shortly before that ‘he [Demosthenes] knew that he would have a sufficient measure of both [beauty and charm],’ which would be the sense of the sentence without Radermacher’s insertion. 654 Cf. Comp. 11.1: ‘Of the ingredients from which an attractive and beautiful style may be constituted, there are four which are the most important and effective – melody, rhythm, variety, and appropriateness accompanying the use of these three’ (>Ex ¡n d+o“omai gen†sesjai lËxin ôdeÿan ka» kal†n, tËttarà ‚sti tÄ kuri∏tata ta‹ta ka» kràtista, mËloc ka» ˚ujm‰c ka» metabolò ka» t‰ parakoloujo‹n toÿc tris» to‘toic prËpon, emphasis added) with Dem. 47.4 (quoted above).

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ring composition and identify Dem. 48.1–4 as Dionysius’ own explanations. But in the following sentence the divide between Dionysius’ words and Demosthenes’ thoughts becomes uncertain (Dem. 48.5):

Ta‹ta dò katamaj∞n  DhmosjËnhc tà te mËlh t¿n Ênomàtwn ka» k∏lwn ka» toÃc qrÏnouc aŒt¿n ‚pilogizÏmenoc, o’tw sunarmÏttein aŒtÄ ‚peirêto πsj+‚mmel® fa–nesjai ka» e÷rujma, ‚xallàttein te ka» poik–llein ·kàteron aŒt¿n ‚peirêto mur–oic Ìsoic sq†masi ka» trÏpoic ka» to‹ prËpontoc Ìshn oŒde»c t¿n per» lÏgouc spoudazÏntwn ‚poieÿto dÏsin. Well, Demosthenes realised this, and, taking into account the tones and quantities of his words and clauses, tried to arrange them in such a way that they should appear melodious and rhythmical. He tried to alternate and decorate each of these with countless figures and tropes, and conferred upon his speeches a degree of appropriateness to their subject unmatched by any other serious writer.

‘This’ (ta‹ta) in ‘Demosthenes realized this’ (ta‹ta dò katamaj∞n) resumes Dionysius’ explanation of the elements of synthesis in the previous paragraphs; the juxtaposition of ‚mo– g+ofin dokeÿ (‘certainly I think so’) and ta‹ta dò katamaj∞n  DhmosjËnhc (‘Demosthenes realized this,’ emphases added) further underscores that Demosthenes learned (‚pilogizÏmenoc, ‚peirêto)655 the same things that Dionysius tells his readers. 4.2.5 Dionysius’ Writings: A Classical Course of Education Dionysius’ explanatory passages demonstrate how Classical texts have to be read. Based as it is on the knowledge of the aesthetic potencies of letters, words, and their combinations, Classicist reading is an analytical operation comparable to the decipherment of a code. In order to reconstruct the emotions ‘encoded’ in the lËxic of a Classical text, Classicist readers have to analyze it letter by letter, word by word, and syllable by syllable according to the aesthetic code of synthesis. They approach the text through the mind of the author, by re-enacting how it was composed. Therefore Classicists need the same knowledge for reading the Classical texts as the Classical authors needed for writing them: they need a Classical Èxic.

655 Cf. ‚njumhje–c, ‚skÏpei (48.6); e’riske (48.7); sunid∏n, Õpolàboi, ‚po–ei, kateb–bazen (48.8).

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On Literary Composition provides this knowledge. This, however, does not only regard the subject of Classical education. The preceding discussion has shown that Dionysius introduces his work as the as yet unwritten technique of Classical composition. Furthermore, at On Demosthenes 49.2 (see following quotation) Dionysius refers his readers to On Literary Composition to learn everything they need for understanding Demosthenes’ synthesis. But in the same passage Dionysius also defines the very process of learning Classical synthesis through his work as a Classical training programme (Dem. 49.1–2):

flArà ge Çpait†sei mË tic ‚ntaujoÿ lÏgon mel¿n te ka» ˚ujm¿n ka» t¿n ‚n taÿc metabolaÿc sqhmàtwn ka» to‹ ‚n ·kàst˙ prËpontoc, Çxi¿n Çko‹sai t–na te aŒt¿n ‚stin oŸc ô filàrqaioc Årmon–a kosmeÿtai, ka» t–na t®c kwt–lhc gËnoit+ãn Årmon–ac; «H o keiotËran tòn ‚k paid‰c ‚piferÏmenoc eŒmous–an õn Ík te t®c mousik®c ka» grammatik®c Ísqhken, aÀ ta‹t+Íqousi tÄ jewr†mata, ‚pilabÏnta t‰ qron–zein ‚n toÿc koinoÿc ka» gnwr–moic t‰n lÏgon oŒ sukofant†sei, ällwc te ka» to‹ kairo‹ tÄ mËtra Âr¿n; O“omai m‡n ofin, ±c ka» dÏxan ‚pieik® per» t¿n ällwn Íqw, Çrxàmenoc Çp‰ so‹, f–ltate >Ammaÿe, ka» ‚k t®c eŒmous–ac t®c s®c lambànwn. E  dË tic Çpait†sei ka» ta‹t+Íti majeÿn Ìp˘ pot+Íqei, toÃc ÕpomnhmatismoÃc lab∞n oœc per» t®c sunjËsewc t¿n Ênomàtwn pepragmate‘meja, pànta Ìsa pojeÿ t¿n ‚njàde paraleipomËnwn e“setai. Perhaps someone will ask me at this point to describe tones, rhythm and the figures used in variation, and what constitutes propriety in the case of each, expecting to hear which of them goes to form the old-fashioned style, and which produces the ingratiating style. Or will he think it more appropriate to apply the “sense of beauty and art” which he has acquired from childhood in his education in grammar and music, which cover these subjects, and refrain from criticising a treatise in which the time to be spent on common and familiar subjects is restricted, especially when he sees that the proper limits of relevance are being observed? I think he will and I am optimistic that others will too, taking you and your “sense of beauty and art” as my starting point, my dear Ammaeus. But anyone who still demands to learn how these things are can take my treatise On Literary Composition, where he will discover all that he wants to know of the subjects omitted from the present treatise.656

656 Usher’s transl. modified.

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Dionysius distinguishes two kinds of readers: one is represented by the addressee of On Demosthenes, Ammaeus. He was educated in grammar and music from childhood and has already acquired a ‘sense of beauty and art’ (eŒmous–a) which permits him to follow Dionysius’ explanations of Demosthenes’ synthesis. The other still has to complete his education; he is referred to On Literary Composition. This type of reader is represented by the addressee of On Literary Composition, the young Rufus Metilius. The treatise is Dionysius’ present for Rufus’ ‘first birthday since reaching man’s estate’ (pr∏thn ômËran ägonti genËjlion, Comp. 1.1); this gift is ideal for such a young man, Dionysius stresses repeatedly, because the complex rules of synthesis should best be learned from an early age onwards.657 Rufus is just about to embark on that course of education which Ammaeus has already finished (‚k paidÏc, Dem. 49.1 above). Dionysius’ description of the course of education offered by his essay evokes his description of Demosthenes’ learning process: in the same way Rufus starts studying synthesis as a ‘young [man] who [is] just beginning to take up the study’ (cf. màlista toÿc meirak–oic te ka» newst» to‹ maj†matoc ÅptomËnoic Õmÿn, Comp 1.4), Demosthenes started his training ‘while still a young man and new to his studies’ (meiràkion m‡n Íti Ónta ka» newst» to‹ maj†matoc ÅptÏmenon aŒt‰n, Dem. 52.1).658 Furthermore, Dionysius stresses the need for continuous exercise beyond the discussions in his essay. On Literary Composition provides only basic instruction, and Rufus, and all ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ in general, 659 have 657 See further Comp. 1.7: ‘But the love of beautiful expression flowers no less naturally in the days of youth […]’ (t‰ d‡ per» tÄc lËxeic filÏkalon ka» taÿc nearaÿc pËfuke sunanjeÿn ôlik–aic, Usher’s transl. modified). 658 Dionysius uses the same phrase at Comp. 25.36, when explaining how Demosthenes acquired his superior technique: ‘Anyone who argued along these lines would not seem to me to make any unreasonable claims; and he might further add that when Demosthenes was still a lad, and had only recently taken up the study of rhetoric, he naturally investigated all the effects which human application to the art could attain’ (to‘toic te dò toÿc lÏgoic qr∏menoc dokeÿ mo– tic ãn oŒd‡n Íxw to‹ e kÏtoc Çxio‹n, ka» Íti ‚keÿna e p∞n Ìti, meiràkion m‡n Ónta ka» newst» to‹ maj†matoc ÅptÏmenon, aŒt‰n oŒk älogon pànta periskopeÿn Ìsa dunatÄ ™n e c ‚pit†deusin Çnjrwp–nhn peseÿn, emphasis added). 659 At Comp. 1.3 Dionysius defines knowledge of synthesis as ‘the most necessary of all aids to all alike who practise politiko» lÏgoi’ (ÇnagkaiÏtaton Åpàntwn qrhmàtwn […] âpasi m‡n Âmo–wc toÿc Çsko‹si toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc, emphases mine; Usher’s transl. modified). Rufus is Dionysius’ primary addressee, but his learning process is exemplary for that of all those who aspire to become Classicists.

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to practice composition in daily exercises (‚n taÿc kaj+ômËran gumnas–aic, Comp. 20.23). 660 This and similar expressions such as ‘keep it in your hands constantly […] and exercise yourself in its lessons daily’ (‚n taÿc qers» […] suneq¿c Íqein or sunaskeÿn aÕt‰n taÿc kaj+ômËran gumnas–aic) in Dionysius’ final address to Rufus recall another characteristic of Demosthenes’ education, the qrÏnioc äskhsic (Comp. 26.17–18):

To‹j+Èxeic d¿ron ômËteron, ¬ ExËstai gÄr so» ka»

pant» äll˙ kaj+„n Èkaston t¿n ‚xhrijmhmËnwn Õp+‚mo‹ katÄ tòn proËkjesin to‹ qarakt®roc ‚pilËgesja– te ka» skopeÿn ‚p» paradeigmàtwn katÄ pollòn eŒkair–an ka» sqol†n; ‚mo» d+oŒk ‚gqwreÿ to‹to poieÿn Çll+ÇpÏqrh deÿxai mÏnon Çrko‘ntwc É bo‘lomai toÿc dunhsomËnoic parakolouj®sai, emphases mine). 661 Usher’s transl. modified.

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The emphasis on long-term practice, but also melËth ka» gumnas–a (‘practice and exercise’) and the willingness (boulomËnoic) to ‘undergo labour and hardship’ (poneÿn ka» kakopajeÿn) recall Dionysius’ characterisation of Demosthenes’ Èxic: the orator’s perfect command of the complex rules of synthesis was the result of his ‘long training’ (qrÏnioc äskhsic) and ‘great empirical skill’ (pollò ‚pimËleia ka» front–c, Dem. 52.1). 662 Dionysius further strengthens the parallel between (his image of) Demosthenes and his reader by introducing Demosthenes as an example of his ideal reader and thus as the ideal to which his actual readers should aspire. At Dem. 51.3, discussed above, Dionysius defends his portrayal of Demosthenes as a ‘Universal Scrutinizer’ (Usher) against the objections of an imaginary critic. Dionysius’ strategy is simple: he turns the readers’ decision for or against his image of Demosthenes into a Rorschach test of their qualities of character. The discussion in chapter 2.2.2 has shown that Dionysius conceives of style as an expression of the speaker’s character; in the present passage, it is less a person’s style than his attitude to work which has moral implications. A diligent reader, someone, that is, ‘who took some trouble, and did not treat the matter superficially, and had a modicum of intelligence’ (Çnòr m†te ÊligÏponoc m†te Åy–koroc m†te ÇkrÏsofoc), Dionysius says, will subscribe to his characterisation of Demosthenes.663 It is this type of reader which Dionysius envisages as his ideal recipient and with this ideal he urges his reader to identify. This description of Dionysius’ ideal reader is strikingly similar to the image of Demosthenes and the Classical orator’s Èxic which he creates in his writings. Demosthenes, too, worked hard on his style (oŒk ÊligÏponoc) and ‘did not treat a matter superficially’ (Usher’s translation of mht+Åy–koroc);664 Dionysius’ essay leaves no doubt that an orator who composed his 662 Demosthenes’ perfection is attributed to qrÏnioc äskhsic also at Comp. 25.37. 663 Dem. 51.6: ‘On the contrary, anyone who took some trouble, and did not treat the matter superficially, and had a modicum of intelligence, would find it impossible and impracticable for the orator to have completely neglected the melodious composition in his speeches, or to have considered it but little, if he wished to leave them as an undying monument to his genius’ (ToŒnant–on gÄr mêllon Õpolàboi tic 〈ãn〉 Çnòr m†te ÊligÏponoc m†te Åy–koroc m†te ÇkrÏsofoc äporon e⁄nai ka» Çm†qanon, £ mhdem–an ‚pimËleian pepoi®sjai t‰n ˚†tora t®c Årmon–ac t¿n lÏgwn, £ fa‘lhn tinà, boulÏmenon mnhmeÿa t®c ·auto‹ diano–ac Çjànata katalipeÿn). 664 Dionysius’ long list of features of style at Dem. 51.4–5 which, he claims, Demosthenes paid attention to shows that the orator could never be blamed for superficiality; on the contrary, he ‘wrote nothing casually’ (oŒd‡n ‚k to‹ ‚pituqÏntoc Ígrafen, ibid. 51.3); cf. ibid. 51.6: ‘Demosthenes concern[ed] himself with music and rhythm, with figurative

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speeches so carefully as to make them ‘an undying monument of his genius’ (mnhmeÿa t®c ·auto‹ diano–ac Çjànata, ibid. 51.6) did have at least ‘a modicum of intelligence’ (oŒk ÇkrÏsofoc). These similarities invite Dionysius’ readers to think of themselves as going through the same learning process as Demosthenes. If they aspire to being ändrec m†te ÊligÏponoi m†te Åy–koroi m†te ÇkrÏsofoi and study the rules of synthesis from their childhood and practice them in daily exercises, they will be like Demosthenes. Dionysius uses this image of Demosthenes to advertise his own educational programme: the learning process provided by Dionysius’ essays, the combination of qrÏnioc äskhsic and melËth ka» gumnas–ai, is a reenactment of the Classical course of education. 665 The lazy and superficial reader, by contrast, who ‘lacks a modicum of intelligence’ (ÇkrÏsofoc) reveals himself as falling short of being Classical by rejecting Dionysius’ portrayal of Demosthenes’ Èxic: his incompetence, which is coupled with moral flaws such as laziness and superficiality, prevents him from understanding the essence of being Classical, the devotion to learning and to technical perfection. This type of reader will never be Classical and serves as a contrastive foil to the character and competence which Dionysius wants his ideal addressees to conceive of themselves as possessing. The discussion in this section has shown that Dionysius’ conception of Classical synthesis solves a central problem of Classicism, the authentic experience of the past. The original effects of the Classical works are not lost. Classical authors carefully planned the effects of their works and encoded them in the lËxic according to a set of complex rules which they had to learn. Knowledge of these rules enables the reconstruction of what effects an author intended his text to have and thus to recover these effects. This process of reconstruction is Classicist reading, and the competence necessary for it, the Classical Èxic, is provided by Dionysius’ essay On Literary Composition. Thinking like a Classical author is possible only if Dionysius’ readers go expression, and with all the other factors that contribute towards charm and beauty of composition’ (front»c ‚gËneto DhmosjËnei mel¿n ka» ˚ujm¿n ka» sqhmàtwn, ka» t¿n ällwn pàntwn, oŸc ôdeÿa ka» kalò g–netai s‘njesic). 665 Cf. Porter (2006a) 45: ‘Classicism in any age involves its practitioners in more than an intellectual or visualized approximation to the past, because it involves them in a multiply layered experience of that past. […] classicism entails that individuals take on a hexis or a habitus and that they make it their own: one no longer merely inhabits the past like a tourist; one comes to be inhabited by it. The identification between past and present, self and other, is immediate, or at least it is imagined and felt (or pretended) to be so,’ and his remarks on Ps.-Longinus and Pausanias in id. (2001), esp. 64–66.

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through the same learning process as the Classical authors themselves. On Literary Composition not only reveals the Classical rules of synthesis, but Dionysius also teaches them to his readers in the same way as the Classical authors were taught. His works provide a Classical course of education. The preceding considerations provide new insight into how Dionysius conceived of the relationship of his criticism with the Classical past. In the First Letter to Ammaeus Dionysius defines the alliance between rhetorical theory and practice as the distinctive characteristic of Classical rhetoric. 666 His conception of Classical aesthetics as based exclusively on the authors’ knowledge of the rules of synthesis helps to understand why: for Dionysius being Classical is not a talent or a gift, but a product of learning. This also explains why Dionysius claims (in the same work) that his criticism is the representative of the Classical tradition: not only is the result of his criticism, authentically reading and writing Classical texts, a continuation of the Classical tradition, but also the very learning process which this presupposes. Learning how to be Classical is itself a re-enactment of a process which the Classical authors had to go through.

4.3 The Mysteries of Education: Being an Elite Critic The preceding section has shown that knowledge is the prerequisite for being a Classicist. Continuing the Classical tradition requires an intimacy with the Classical past which can be established only through reading. But not everyone is qualified to read Classical texts: the effects of the Classical texts must be reconstructed, and such a reconstruction presupposes Classical knowledge. Without reading the Classical texts properly writing Classical texts is, in turn, impossible; the works of the failed Classical Dinarchus illustrate well the disastrous results of a bad reading technique.667 This makes Classicist reading an important means of distinction in the struggle among different schools of thought – the Peripatetics in the First Letter to Ammaeus, the Stoics in On Literary Composition – in the field of literary criticism. It is the purpose of this section to explore the interrelation of knowledge and elitism in Dionysius’ Classicist ideology and to investigate the image of elite critic which Dionysius embodies and which he invites those addressees to adopt, who subscribe to his critical methods and judgments. 666 See above, ch. 1.2.2. 667 See above, ch. 2.2.2.

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4.3.1 Knowledge and Elitism Dionysius’ emphasis on knowledge does not mean that On Literary Composition actually gives a faithful reconstruction of the original, Classical rules of synthesis, the Classical authors’ intentions, or their method of literary composition. Dionysius’ code of Classical aesthetics is a construction rather than a re-construction. The original effects of Classical texts are imaginary effects which are based much more on Dionysius’ preconceptions than on textual evidence; the sound of a Classical text cannot be heard, it must be known. 668 Therefore Classicist reading requires a community of people in which this imaginary sound is constructed (or, as a Classicist would see it, re-constructed) and shared – the Classical experience can only be authentic if it is acknowlegded as such by other people. Dionysius’ detailed ‘code’ of Classical synthesis makes such a collective construction of the Classical sound possible in the first place. It standardizes the Classical sound by giving an exhaustive list of the elements of synthesis and their effects on the ear, while at the same time allowing for alternative (re)constructions of the rhythms and melodies of the same passage (cf. Comp. 18.11). 669 On Literary Composition is the reference work for anyone who wants to read Classical texts ‘authentically’; it is a handbook for the Classicist. Classicist reading thus turns out to be at the core of the constitution of the community of Classicists. By analyzing and reconstructing the original effects of a Classical text, and by discussing these reconstructions, on which their own Classical texts will be based, Classicists display the particular knowledge that distinguishes them as Classicists: the text itself and its properties matter less than the discourse which is constructed around it. The following passage shows this. In Dem. 48 Dionysius says that Demosthenes’ technique of synthesis was so perfect, his use of tones, melodies, and rhythms so subtle, that they can no longer be perceived through reading or listening (Çko‘wn). 670 In fact, synthesis is perfect only (ô kal¿c kateskeuasmËnh lËxic) if it conceals its effects (Dem. 48.9–10):

Ka» mhde»c Õpolàb˘ jaumast‰n e⁄nai t‰n lÏgon e  ka» t¨ pez¨ lËxei fhm» deÿn ‚mmele–ac ka» eŒrujm–ac ka» metabol¿n, πsper 668 On the reconstruction of ‘sounds you cannot actually hear’ in ancient literary criticism, with particular reference to the kritikoi in Philodemus, see Porter (2001). 669 Cf. the discussion on pp. 246–249 above and pp. 111–114 with n. 320 on the subjectivity of Dionysius’ (re)construction of the rhythms and melodies of the Classical texts. 670 On Çko‘ein meaning ‘to read’ see Schenkeveld (1992).

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taÿc ∂daÿc ka» toÿc Êrgànoic, e  mhden‰c to‘twn Çntilambànetai t®c DhmosjËnouc Çko‘wn lËxewc, mhd‡ kakourgeÿn me Õpolàb˘ tÄ 〈mò〉 prosÏnta t¨ yil¨ lËxei prosmarturo‹nta; Íqei gÄr ta‹ta ô kal¿c kateskeuasmËnh lËxic ka» màlistà ge ô to‹de to‹ ˚†toroc; t¨ d+eŒkair–¯ ka» t¨ posÏthti tòn a“sjhsin dialanjànei […]. Now nobody should be surprised to hear me say that prose should have good melody, rhythm and variation like vocal and instrumental music, if he cannot pick out any of these qualities when he listens to a passage of Demosthenes; nor should he think me dishonest in attributing to mere prose qualities which do not belong to it, for well-composed prose can obtain these qualities, and especially the prose of this orator. Used at the right time and in the right proportion, they go unnoticed by our senses […].

The rhythms and melodies of Demosthenes’ speeches are apparent only to those readers who, like Demosthenes, have already completed a long and demanding process of learning the rules of synthesis. The Classicists’ ability to detect rhythms and melodies which the ordinary reader cannot hear demonstrates their privileged access to the Classical past. This privilege was earned through learning and it sets them on a par with the Classical authors; as ‘elite readers,’ they enjoy insights into the aesthetics of a text which will always be concealed from ‘lay readers.’ Discussing the original effects of the Classical texts, Classicists reassure each other (and themselves) of their privileged status. The explanatory passages of Dionysius’ essays are a good illustration of how we have to imagine a Classicist talking about Classical texts: he analyzes the rhythms and melodies of a passage, discusses the combination of letters and identifies the various feet, thus decoding the effect of the passage, and gives his opinion on whether or not these effects fit the content; occasionally, he will use metathesis to suggest how the author could have done better – in short, he talks about texts like Dionysius. The other participants in the discussion will do likewise, agree or disagree with each other, propose alternative assessments of the passage or a different judgment on its quality. Participating in such a discussion requires the Classical knowledge which can be obtained from Dionysius’ works and from the concomitant daily exercises. It defines the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as a community of intellectuals who share the same approach to a group of texts and the same way of talking about them. This knowledge distinguishes the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ from all those who do not or did not have this knowledge. The post-Clas-

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sical authors, who relied on the mistaken instructions of the Stoics, are one example, the imaginary critic who objects to Dionysius’ explanations of Demosthenes’ synthesis at Dem. 51.2 (‘if anyone should reply to this, saying that he is surprised […],’ e  dË tic Õpote‘xetai pr‰c ta‹ta jaumàzein lËgwn […]) is another;671 the indefinite pronoun tic suggests a general distinction between ‘us’ and ‘the others.’ Dionysius’ question at the beginning of the next quotation has the same effect: knowledge not only controls access to the past, it also controls access to the community of Classicists (Dem. 49.1–2): 672

flArà ge Çpait†sei mË tic ‚ntaujoÿ lÏgon mel¿n te ka» ˚ujm¿n ka» t¿n ‚n taÿc metabolaÿc sqhmàtwn ka» to‹ ‚n ·kàst˙ prËpontoc, Çxi¿n Çko‹sai t–na te aŒt¿n ‚stin oŸc ô filàrqaioc Årmon–a kosmeÿtai, ka» t–na t®c kwt–lhc gËnoit+ãn Årmon–ac; «H o keiotËran tòn ‚k paid‰c ‚piferÏmenoc eŒmous–an õn Ík te t®c mousik®c ka» grammatik®c Ísqhken, aÀ ta‹t+Íqousi tÄ jewr†mata, ‚pilabÏnta t‰ qron–zein ‚n toÿc koinoÿc ka» gnwr–moic t‰n lÏgon oŒ sukofant†sei, ällwc te ka» to‹ kairo‹ tÄ mËtra Âr¿n; O“omai m‡n ofin, ±c ka» dÏxan ‚pieik® per» t¿n ällwn Íqw, Çrxàmenoc Çp‰ so‹, f–ltate >Ammaÿe, ka» ‚k t®c eŒmous–ac t®c s®c lambànwn. E  dË tic Çpait†sei ka» ta‹t+Íti majeÿn Ìp˘ pot+Íqei, toÃc ÕpomnhmatismoÃc lab∞n oœc per» t®c sunjËsewc t¿n Ênomàtwn pepragmate‘meja, pànta Ìsa pojeÿ t¿n ‚njàde paraleipomËnwn e“setai. Will someone perhaps ask me at this point to describe tones, rhythm and the figures used in variation, and what constitutes propriety in the case of each, expecting to hear which of them goes to form the old-fashioned style, and which produces the ingratiating style? Or will he think it more appropriate to apply the “sense of beauty and art” which he has acquired from childhood in his education in grammar and music, which cover these subjects, and refrain from criticising a treatise in which the time to be spent on common and familiar subjects is restricted; especially when he sees that the proper limits of relevance are being observed. I think he will and I am optimistic that others will too, taking you and your “sense of beauty and art” as my starting point, my dear Ammaeus. But anyone who still demands to learn how these things are can take my treatise On Literary Composition, where he will discover all that he wants to know of the subjects omitted from the present treatise. 673 671 Quoted above, p. 252. 672 Cf. the discussion of this passage above, pp. 258–259. 673 Usher’s transl. modified.

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Only a reader without sufficient knowledge could ask Dionysius at this point of his discussion to explain the different elements of synthesis and their function (mel¿n te ka» ˚ujm¿n ka» t¿n ‚n taÿc metabolaÿc sqhmàtwn ka» to‹ ‚n ·kàst˙ prËpontoc). Dionysius’ question at the beginning of the quotation shows that he is aware that his explanations demand certain reading competencies, and probably many a reader will have silently answered his question with ‘yes.’ But requesting more information on synthesis is tantamount to excluding oneself from the discussion: On Demosthenes is only for advanced readers like Ammaeus who already command the required knowledge; all others have to turn to the course of Classical education which Dionysius has designed for aspiring Classicists like young Rufus, his treatise On Literary Composition. As mentioned in chapter 1.2.3, Dionysius intends his works to be documents of the discursive tradition of his Classicism; the passage from On Demosthenes confirms this assumption. Different works of Dionysius correspond to the different levels of knowledge of his readers. Furthermore, this recalls Dionysius’ definition of his works as a long-term Classical course of education, which was discussed in the preceding chapter: the hierarchy of his works – first On Literary Composition, then On Demosthenes – reflects the different stages his readers have to go through until they finally reach a genuinely Classical competence in literary composition and attain the status of elite reader with it.

4.3.2 The Mysteries of Knowledge The similarities of this process of education with the process of initiation into the mysteries is deliberate: Dionysius himself makes this comparison at Comp. 25.5. 674 This passage introduces a new section in the essay. Dionysius 674 Cf. de Jonge (2008) ch. 6 (‘The initiation rites of style. Dionysius on prose, poetry, and poetic prose’). de Jonge convincingly argues that Dionysius’ reference to the Orphic mysteries evokes ‘the idea of (Orphic) magic, which Dionysius associates with the effects of good poetic prose’ (ibid. 334–335); de Jonge also refers to Gorgias’ discussion of the enchanting effects of lÏgoc in his Encomium of Helen (ibid. 335–336) and similar ideas both in Ps.-Longinus (ibid . 337–338) and the kritikoi in Philodemus (ibid. 339). On the mysteries as a metaphor for rhetorical teaching in antiquity see Kirchner (2005). According to Kirchner, the initiation into the mysteries was first used as a metaphor for the acquisition of philosophical knowledge, e.g., in Plt. Smp. 209e–210a, Phdr. 250b–c and, more explicitly, by Aristotle, Eudemos fr. 10 Ross (these references ibid.); later it was transferred to rhetoric, and the first instance of this use is Cic. de orat. 1.206 (ibid. 165–

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will now demonstrate that prose texts have a rhythmic structure, and he proves this by quoting a passage from Demosthenes’ Against Aristocrates (XXIII) in which, he asserts, rhythms are so prominent that it resembles a poem (Comp. 25.2–3). Dionysius realizes that such a claim will provoke objection, since prose and poetry are generally assumed to be neatly separated (Comp. 25.5):

PeiratËon dò ka» per» to‘twn lËgein É fron¿. Musthr–oic m‡n ofin Íoiken ¢dh ta‹ta ka» oŒk e c polloÃc oŸà te ‚st»n ‚kfËresjai, πst+oŒk ãn e“hn fortik‰c e  parakalo–hn oŸc jËmic ‚st»n °kein ‚p» tÄc teletÄc to‹ lÏgou, j‘rac d+‚pijËsjai lËgoimi taÿc Çkoaÿc toÃc beb†louc. E c gËlwta gÄr Ínioi lambànousi tÄ spoudaiÏtata di+Çpeir–an, ka» “swc oŒd‡n ätopon pàsqousin. Now I must try, here as before, to state my views. But this new subject is like the Mysteries: it cannot be divulged to people in large numbers. I should not, therefore, be guilty of rudeness, if I invited only “those with a sacred right” to approach the initiation rituals of style, while telling the “profane” to “close the gates of their ears.” Some people reduce the most serious subjects to ridicule through their own callowness, and no doubt there is nothing unnatural in their attitude.

The comparison makes Dionysius’ readers aware that subscribing to Dionysius’ theories has implications for their self-definition. Their knowledge (‚mpeir–a) will unite them and all others, who decide to share Dionysius’ ideas, in an exclusive community of people, while distinguishing them from the ignorant masses (oŒk e c polloÃc; di+Çpeir–an); 675 Dionysius’ expression ‘and no doubt there is nothing unnatural in their attitude’ (ka» “swc 166). In his discussion of Comp. 25 Kirchner identifies three main functions of Dionysius’ comparison of rhetorical theory to the mysteries: (1) evoking the interest of advanced readers, who are able to follow Dionysius (cf. de Jonge [2008] 361, who stresses that it is Dionysius’ text itself which provides the readers with this ability); (2) forestalling possible criticism; and (3) describing how Dionysius experiences Demosthenes’ texts (the ‘Rezeptionserlebnis’) (ibid. 175–176). 675 Dionysius often refers to his readers as o… e dÏtec or eŒpa–deutoi: o… Çsko‹ntec tòn politikòn filosof–an / toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc: Orat. Vett. 4.2, Comp. 1.3, Pomp. 6.5; o… filÏlogoi: Thuc. 2.4, 25.2; eŒpa–deutoi: Comp. 22.35, Dem. 46.3; e dÏtec: Dem. 14.2, 23.3, Comp. 16.18, 22.35, Dem. 32.1, 35.2 (list not meant to be exhaustive); cf. Hidber (1996) comm. on 4.2 (p. 130). Cf. Dem. 15.6 (the vulgarity of the masses combined with their lack of knowledge in the expression ‘the common and uneducated masses,’ tƒ fa‘l˙ ka» Çmajeÿ pl†jei [transl. mine]) with Comp. 25.29 (Dionysius contrasting himself and his readers with ‘certain persons, who have no general education,’ Çnjr∏pwn t®c ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac Çpe–rwn).

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oŒd‡n ätopon pàsqousin) shows that this distinction is, to a certain degree, desired.676 The quotation from the Orphic Diaj®kai, ‘I will speak to those with a sacred right; but the profane shall close the gates of their ears’ (fjËgxomai oŸc jËmic ‚st–; j‘rac d+‚p–jesje bËbhloi),677 sets Dionysius’ addressees into the tradition of Orphism. Orphism in particular made a suitable model for an elitist circle of literati because it belonged to a category of mysteries which Festugière has called ‘mystère littéraire.’ ‘Mystères littéraires’ were distinguished from other mysteries mainly by two aspects which probably appealed to Dionysius: first, they were commonly associated with elite circles; second, and more importantly, they were centred on a text, the …er‰c lÏgoc. Initiation into such a cult was obtained through a reading process: a mystagogue guided the initiand through the text and revealed its secrets to him;678 the initiand had to become a ‘competent reader,’ who was able to understand a text differently from the ‘lay readers’ on the one hand, and who shared this understanding with the other initiates on the other.679 Dionysius’ comparison between an elite mystery cult and a community of literati probably was familiar to his recipients: terms and expressions derived from mystery cults were part of the conceptual vocabulary of rhetorical education. 680 This probably made it easy for readers to accept Dionysius’ claim that reading On Literary Composition, and the resultant acquisition

676 Knowledge and elitism are linked also in other writers, for example Pausanias (Jones [2001] 35–36). Philodemus, in particular, constantly contrasts his own opinion with that of Crates and the kritiko–, see Janko (2000); further Blank (1994); Porter (1995); Schenkeveld (1968); for an example of Philodemus’ strategies of argumentation cf. Porter (1995a) on Philodemus’ treatment of Neoptolemus of Parium. 677 Frgs. 245–247 Kern, see Aujac III, 176 n. 1; Orphism in the imperial period is discussed in Brisson (1990). 678 Festugière (1932) 127. Following Burkert, Brisson (1990) 2875 points out that Orphism was the first mystery cult which was based on texts and thus caused a ‘revolution’ (‘une véritable révolution’) in religious practices. Her. 2.81 mentions a …er‰c lÏgoc of the Orphics which, as Brisson argues, might be identified with the Orphic theogony on the Derveni papyrus (ibid. 2876–2877); Kirchner (2005). 679 The model for this kind of elitist mysteries was probably the philosophical schools of Plato and Aristotle: their members were defined by sharing an exclusive knowledge which had to be acquired through a long intellectual process, Kirchner (2005) 165– 166. As the discussion in chapter 1.2.4 has shown, Dionysius models his community of Classicists along the lines of the philosophical schools which, in turn, entails the necessity of distinguishing his community from theirs (‘identity through distinction,’ p. 51 above). 680 Kirchner (2005).

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of knowledge, defined the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as an elitist community of literati.

4.3.3 Classical Politicians and Classicist Readers: Knowledge and Leadership The comparison of the acquisition of knowledge of Classical rhetoric to initiation into the mysteries also provides the link to another aspect of Dionysius’ conception of elitism: gaining access to the ruling elite through education was often compared to initiation into the mysteries in antiquity. The discussion in chapter 2.2.1 has shown that Dionysius and his readers conceive of themselves as re-enacting the Isocratean ideal of the statesman; and chapter 2.3 has demonstrated that Dionysius regards political rulership, and Roman power in particular, as bound up with Classical language and education. The following passage shows that in Dionysius’ conception of the Classicist elite reader, intellectual elitism was coupled with a consciousness of social elitism. Dionysius constructs a precedent for his conception of the Classicist elite reader: the Classical elite hearer-politician. At Dem. 15.1–7 Dionysius explains why Demosthenes’ mixed style (ô miktò lËxic, Dem. 3.1) is superior to both Lysias’ plain and simple style (ô litò ka» Çfelòc ka» doko‹sa kataskeu†n te ka»  sqÃn tòn pr‰c  di∏thn Íqein lÏgon, Dem. 2.1) and Thucydides’ ‘striking and elaborate style’ (ô ‚xhllagmËnh ka» perittò ka» ‚gkatàskeuoc ka» toÿc ‚pijËtoic kÏsmoic âpasi sumpeplhrwmËnh lËxic, Dem. 1.3). In order to do so, he distinguishes between two different groups of recipients in the assemblies in Classical Athens whose reaction to the speeches was determined by their education (Dem. 15.2–6):

O… suniÏntec e c tÄc ‚kklhs–ac ka» tÄ dikast†ria ka» toÃc ällouc sullÏgouc, Ínja politik¿n deÿ lÏgwn, o÷te deino» ka» peritto» pàntec e s» ka» t‰n Joukud–dou no‹n Íqontec o÷j+âpantec  di¿tai ka» kataskeu®c lÏgwn genna–wn äpeiroi, Çll+oÀ m‡n Çp‰ gewrg–ac, oÀ d+Çp‰ t¿n bana‘swn teqn¿n sunerruhkÏtec, oŸc Åplo‘steron ka» koinÏteron dialegÏmenoc mêllon än tic ÇrËsai. T‰ gÄr Çkrib‡c ka» peritt‰n ka» xËnon ka» pên Ì ti mò s‘nhjec aŒtoÿc Çko‘ein te ka» lËgein, Êqlhr¿c diat–jhsin aŒto‘c, ka» πspËr ti t¿n pànu Çniar¿n ‚desmàtwn £ pot¿n ÇpostrËfei toÃc stomàqouc, o’twc ‚keÿna Êqlhr¿c diat–jhsi tÄc Çkoàc. OÀ d‡ politiko– te ka» Çp+Çgorêc

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ka» diÄ t®c ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac ‚lhlujÏtec, oŸc oŒk Íni t‰n aŒt‰n Ìnper ‚ke–noic dialËgesjai trÏpon, ÇllÄ deÿ tòn ‚gkatàskeuon ka» perittòn ka» xËnhn diàlekton to‘toic prosfËrein. E s» m‡n ofin “swc ‚làttouc o… toio‹toi t¿n ·tËrwn, mêllon d‡ pollost‰n ‚ke–nwn mËroc, ka» to‹to oŒje»c Çgnoeÿ; oŒ mòn katafroneÿsja– ge diÄ ta‹ta äxioi.
Dionysius’ judgment on the different styles is not based on any intrinsic features of either of them, but on the extent to which Dionysius imagines them to have fulfilled their function in Athenian democracy. This, in turn, depends on their effect on the Classical audience or rather on Dionysius’ ideas of how a Classical assembly was composed and how the different groups reacted to different styles. Demosthenes’ ‘mixed style,’ a combination of Lysias’ plain and Thucydides’ elaborate style, is adapted to the mixed public of the assemblies; its plain features will appeal to the ordinary hearers, its elaborate features to the educated elite. This makes it the most effective instrument of persuasion, and therefore Dionysius considers it superior to either of the other styles. It is beyond the scope of this study to explore to

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what an extent Dionysius’ judgment on various aspects of Classical texts is based on his vision of the Classical past rather than on stylistic criteria; suffice it here to point out that the discussion of his criticism of Thucydides in chapter 3.2 has demonstrated how moral and political conceptions influenced Dionysius’ assessment of Classical texts. The present discussion will focus on another aspect of this passage. Educated readers and ordinary readers, mass and elite, are distinguished by their reaction to the stylistic properties of Demosthenes’ speeches. These reactions are based on education or lack of it (tƒ fa‘l˙ ka» Çmajeÿ pl†jei); education is coupled with practice in political oratory (oÀ d‡ politiko– te ka» Çp+Çgorêc ka» diÄ t®c ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac ‚lhlujÏtec) in the case of the elite hearers, whereas lack of education is coupled with handiwork (bana‘swn teqn¿n) in the case of the ordinary hearers. The unreflected and instinctive reaction of the masses to ‘any manner of speaking that they themselves are not accustomed to use or to hear’ (Ì te mò s‘nhjec aŒtoÿc Çko‘ein te ka» lËgein) is illustrated by the graphic comparison with symptoms of food poisoning (πspËr ti t¿n pànu Çniar¿n ‚desmàtwn £ pot¿n ÇpostrËfei toÃc stomàqouc, o’twc ‚keÿna Êqlhr¿c diat–jhsi tÄc Çkoàc) which creates a marked contrast to the appreciation of the same features on the part of the educated elite. 681 681 For the same distinction between ordinary and educated recipients cf. Comp. 11.8–9. Here, too, the uneducated mass is characterized by a spontaneous reaction (pàjoc); but the focus of this passage is on the expert hearer’s ‘technical knowledge’ (‚pist†mh) that enables him to explain the reason for this reaction, an ability which distinguishes him from the ordinary hearers: ‘Before now I have thought I perceived, even in the most popular theatres, filled with a crowd of men of all kinds and of little culture, how all of us feel naturally at home with tuneful melody and good rhythm. I have seen an able and very renowned harpist booed by the public because he struck a single false note and so spoiled the melody. I have also seen a reed-pipe player who handled his instrument with supreme skill suffering the same fate because he blew thickly, or through not tightening his embouchure produced a discordant sound or what is called a “broken note” as he played. And yet if anyone told the unskilled listener to take up the instrument himself and play any of the passages whose performance by professionals he was criticising, he would be unable to do so. Why ever is this? Because the latter is a matter of technical knowledge, which we do not all share, while the former is a matter of feeling, which nature has conferred upon all men’ (óHdh d+Ígwge ka» ‚n toÿc poluanjrwpotàtoic jeàtroic, É sumplhroÿ pantodap‰c ka» ämousoc Óqloc,

Ídoxa katamajeÿn ±c fusik† t–c ‚sti Åpàntwn ôm¿n o keiÏthc pr‰c ‚mmËleiàn te ka» eŒrujm–an, kijarist†n te Çgaj‰n sfÏdra eŒdokimo‹nta  d∞n jorubhjËnta Õp‰ to‹ pl†jouc Ìti m–an qordòn Çs‘mfwnon Íkrouse ka» diËfjeire t‰ mËloc, ka» aŒlhtòn katÄ t®c äkrac Èxewc qr∏menon toÿc Êrgànoic t‰ aŒt‰ to‹to pajÏnta

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Parallels between the Classical elite hearer and Dionysius’ Classicist reader invite Dionysius’ addressees to conceive of their position in the first century BCE as analogous to that of the elite in the Classical past. Both share an exclusive education (paide–a) which permits them to understand and appreciate fully every possible variation of style, even the most unusual and extravagant ones. 682 The expression ‚gk‘klioc paide–a is significant: at Comp. 25.29, Dionysius defends himself against the objections of ‘certain persons, who have no general education but practise rhetoric on a street corner level without method and art’ (Õfor¿ma– tina pr‰c ta‹ta katadromòn Çnjr∏pwn t®c m‡n ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac Çpe–rwn, t‰ d‡ Çgoraÿon t®c ˚htorik®c mËroc Âdo‹ te ka» tËqnhc qwr»c ‚pithdeuÏntwn). Rather than between two strata of society, masses and elite, as at Dem. 15.2–6, Dionysius here distinguishes between two distinct groups within the educated audience, those who have a proper knowledge of synthesis and those who lack it. Nevertheless, Dionysius uses the same term, ‚gk‘klioc pa–deia, in both passages to characterize himself and his readers as well as the Classical elite (o… diÄ t®c ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac ‚lhlujÏtec). Due to their education, both the Classicist readers and the Classical elite hearers react to Classical texts in the same manner; their reaction defines them as belonging to the same category of recipients and distinguishes them from the uneducated recipients in both the Classical past and the present. The Classical elite not only appreciated the whole range of style when hearing it used by others; they also actively used it themselves (Çko‘ein te ka» lËgein) for their political speeches. The Classical recipients exemplify the interrelation of education and political power: their education is the basis of their status as the ruling elite (politiko– te ka» Çp+Çgorêc ka» diÄ t®c ‚gkukl–ou paide–ac ‚lhlujÏtec), whereas the lack of education of the masses goes hand-in-hand with manual labour. Thus Dionysius’ image of the Classical elite hearers provides a model for his readers’ self-image: like the Ìti, Çs‘mfwnon ‚mpne‘sac £ mò piËsac t‰ stÏma, jruligm‰n £ tòn kaloumËnhn ‚kmËleian h÷lhse. Ka–toi e“ tic kele‘seie t‰n  di∏thn to‘twn ti ¡n ‚nekàlei toÿc teqn–taic ±c ômarthmËnwn aŒt‰n poi®sai, labÏnta tÄ Órgana, oŒk ãn d‘naito. T– d† pote; ìOti to‹to m‡n ‚pist†mhc ‚st–n, ©c oŒ pàntec meteil†famen, ‚keÿno d‡ pàjouc, Á pêsin ÇpËdwken ô f‘sic). 682 Cf. Porter (2001a) 79 n. 67 (on Pausanias and Ps.-Longinus): ‘Far from being direct and immediate, the sublime, we might say, is experienced through the agency of an imaginary, ideal audience, one that is contemporary with the Classical past. This is the correlative of Longinus’s rule that in order to write sublime Greek you have to imagine, through an act of intense visualization, Homer or Demosthenes as your audience (14.1–3).’

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Classical elite hearers, they are engaged not only in reading Classical texts, but also in producing written texts in a style which is hardly appreciated, let alone practiced, by the majority of their contemporaries (whether because they belong to the uneducated masses, as in Dem. 15.2–6, or because they are members of a segment of the elite lacking the right kind of knowledge, as in Comp. 25.29). Knowledge and the ability to respond properly to the Classical texts define Dionysius’ readers as the only true intellectual elite of the present in the same way as they were the distinctive characteristics of the elite in the Classical past. In analogy to their Classical predecessors, Dionysius conceives of his readers, and the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ in general, as being entitled to leading positions in society by their education. Both the dichotomy between elite and masses and the connection between knowledge of Classical language and the right to political superiority underlie Dionysius’ description of the ‘archetypal’ struggle on which his whole conception of Classicism is based: the dichotomy between Asianism and Classical rhetoric. Here the right to fill positions of power is coupled with education and taste: filÏsofoc ˚htorik† represents paide–a and filosof–a.683 This entitles its practitioners to ‘civic honours and high office’ (tÄc timÄc ka» prostas–ac t¿n pÏlewn, Orat. Vett. 1.4), to ‘control the whole estate’ (t®c oŒs–ac ärqein, ibid. 1.5), and ‘to rule over cities’ (dioikeÿn pÏleic, ibid.1.7; Usher’s transl. modified); they are ‘chosen on merit, and administer the state according to the highest principles’ (o… dunaste‘ontec kat+Çretòn ka» Çp‰ to‹ krat–stou tÄ koinÄ dioiko‹ntec, ibid. 3.1), while being ‘thoroughly cultured and in the highest degree discerning’ (eŒpa–deutoi pànu ka» gennaÿoi tÄc kr–seic genÏmenoi, ibid.). Asianism, by contrast, is conspicuous for its lack of ‘a vestige either of philosophy or of any other aspect of liberal education’ (o÷te filosof–ac o÷te ällou paide‘matoc oŒden‰c meteilhfuÿa ‚leujer–ou, ibid. 1.3) and taste (fortik† tic pànu ka» Êqlhrà, ibid. 1.4; Çnàgwgoc,684 ibid. 1.3). Therefore the rule of Asianism is unlawful

683 Cf. Orat. Vett. 1.2: filÏsofoc ˚htorik†; 1.5: ‚leujËra ka» s∏frwn; 1.7: Çmaj†c vs. filÏsofoc; 2.2.: ô Çrqa–a ka» s∏frwn vs. ô nËa ka» ÇnÏhtoc; 2.4: Çmaj–a vs. ô t¿n kal¿n màjhsic; 3.1: eŒpa–deutoi, t‰ frÏnimon; 4.2: politikò filosof–a; see the discussion in ch. 2.3.1 above. 684 For Çnàgwgoc ‘tasteless’ see LSJ, p. 102, s.v., who list the passage from Dionysius quoted above and Pseudo-Longin. 43.2 (Ç. sk∏mmata); for the combination of lack of education and tastelessness cf. further DS 34/35.2.35 (Çnàgwgoc ka» Çpa–deutoc trÏpoc) (transl. ‘ill-bred’), quoted ibid.

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(ibid. 1.4–6) and based on the seduction of the stupid masses (lajo‹sa ka» parakrousamËnh tòn t¿n Óqlwn ägnoian, ibid. 1.3). 685 The relationship between Classicist knowledge, intellectual elitism, and political power is also prominent in the introduction to On Literary Composition. As mentioned above, the essay is a birthday present for Rufus, who has just reached adult age (Comp. 1.1), which is the ideal moment, Dionysius says, to start training in synthesis. Dionysius compares writing his essay (po–hma) to giving birth (gËnnhma): On Literary Composition is ‘the product and the offspring of my learning and my mind’ (po–hma […] ka– gËnnhma paide–ac ka» yuq®c t®c ‚m®c, ibid. 1.3) and passes this learning to Rufus through the reading process. The vocabulary recalls the anecdote of the peasant’s wife in On Imitation, which illustrated the passage of Classical beauty into the mind of the Classicist through reading and its re-emergence in the Classicist’s works. In On Literary Composition, it is not Classical beauty itself which is internalized through reading the Classical text, but knowledge about Classical beauty which is revealed in Dionysius’ theoretical text and then internalized by Rufus. Dionysius couples the passage of knowledge with Rufus’ passage into adult life: learning the rules of synthesis marks the beginning of his adult age, and the process of reading On Literary Composition is the process of initiation into the adult world. Dionysius specifies this shortly afterwards: synthesis is ‘a useful aid in all the business of life that is transacted through speech’ (qr®ma pr‰c Åpàsac tÄc ‚n tƒ b–˙ qre–ac ÂpÏsai g–nontai diÄ lÏgwn ≤fËlimon, ibid., emphasis mine). Given the close alliance between Classical rhetoric and political power in Dionysius’ Classicism, this phrase probably refers to a political career which Dionysius envisages for Rufus and which requires knowledge of politiko» lÏgoi. 686 Yet knowledge of synthesis is not only the prerequisite for a political career but also the defining characteristic of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ Dionysius stresses that his instructions are not addressed to Rufus alone but ‘to all alike who practise politiko» lÏgoi, whatever their age and disposition may happen to be’ (âpasi mËn Âmo–wc toÿc Çsko‹si toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc, ‚n ≠ pot+ãn ôlik–¯ te ka» Èxei tugqànwsin Óntec, ibid. 1.3). 687 Acquiring knowledge of synthesis through Dionysius’ essay thus links being a Classicist to social elitism: synthesis is the prerequisite for both. Learning synthesis therefore 685 On the relation of politiko» lÏgoi with Roman power see above, ch. 2.3. 686 Cf. the discussion in ch. 2.3.1 above. 687 Usher’s transl. modified.

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marks the pupil’s initiation into the Classicist community as well as into a successful social life. The initiation into society through knowledge is illustrated by an intertextual reference to Odyssey 15.125–126 which parallels Rufus’ initiation into adult life through learning with Telemachus’ initiation into adult life through marriage (Comp. 1.1–2).688 These verses describe how Helen gives Telemachus a richly embroidered wedding garment as a parting gift; the wedding garment alludes to Telemachus’ becoming a full member of adult society, the day when he will marry, leave home, and found his own household. The comparison to Helen’s peplos implies that an education in the rules of synthesis plays an analogous role in a young man’s initiation into adult life to that of his marriage. But the parallel also implies a decisive difference between Dionysius’ and Helen’s gifts. The contrast of Dionysius’ ‘product and offspring of [his] learning’ to Helen’s ‘work of [her] own hands’ (qeir¿n dhmio‘rghma, Comp. 1.2–3) recalls the contrast between elite and ordinary hearers in Classical times. Handiwork and craftmanship were here associated with the uneducated masses, whereas rhetorical theory and practice characterized the ruling elite: in the period of the rebirth of politiko» lÏgoi the value of material objects has been replaced with the symbolic value of learning and education. For a future member of the social elite in Dionysius’ day an essay On Literary Composition is much more useful than a wedding garment. 689

688 Comp. 1.1–3: ‘ “I too, dear child, have here a gift for thee,” as Helen says in Homer when she is giving Telemachus a parting gift […]. However, I am sending you not the work of my own “hands” (as Helen says when she gives the robe to the young man), nor what is suited only to “the season” of “marriage” and to please the bride, but the product and the offspring of my learning and my mind […]’ (D¿rÏn toi ka» ‚g∞, tËknon f–le, to‹to d–dwmi, kajàper ô par+
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4.4 Summary Reading is a key element of Dionysius’ Classicism because it provides the only access to the Classical texts and, thus, the only means by which to re-live the Classical past itself (chapter 4.1). As such, reading is the precondition of mimesis, the act of the Classicist’s self-fashioning as being Classical through which Classical identity is implemented in the present through language. The discussion of On Dinarchus in chapter 2.2.2 has shown that Dionysius regards the proper reading technique as essential to the ability to re-enact the Classical past. Dionysius’ conception of Classical synthesis and his conception of ‘authentic reading,’ which is bound up with it, allows us to understand better how Dionysius imagined such a technique of reading the Classical texts properly. In On Literary Composition Dionysius develops the idea that Classical synthesis is the result of a technical process: every letter, combination of letters, and the rhythms of individual syllables, words, and combinations of words, have a specific effect upon the recipient. These effects and the rules of how to combine letters and syllables in order to achieve the desired effect had to be internalized by the Classical authors themselves in a long training process. Classical writers were filÏteqnoi: they planned and polished the smallest detail of their sentences according to the rules of synthesis. Therefore the aesthetics of a Classical text and the Classical authors’ aesthetic sensibility are not a gift, but are acquired through learning (chapter 4.2.4). Hence if readers in the first century obtain the same knowledge of synthesis as the Classical authors, they can reconstruct the intentions and the reasoning of the Classical author from the lËxic of his text and thus reconstruct what effect the text was intended to have upon the original audience. Dionysius claims to have recovered the Classical rules of synthesis from the Classical texts and to have made them available to his readers in On Literary Composition. Complemented by daily exercises, gumnas–ai, Dionysius’ essays offer the authentic Classical training which is required to internalize the Classical rules of synthesis. This knowledge defines the Classicist: Dionysius’ approach is the only one to provide such a Classical training, and Classicists are distinguished from other readers by their ability to experience the Classical texts authentically; the same knowledge also enables the Classicists to write Classical texts exactly as a Classical author would have done. This privileged access to the Classical past through reading Classical texts authentically, which is offered by Dionysius’ writings alone, is a crucial element of the image of the Classicist critic which Dionysius presents of

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himself in his writings and which he invites his addressees to adopt. The key element of this (self-)image is the awareness that the particular knowledge and competence offered by Dionysius’ writings directly inscribes the reader into the tradition of the Classical orators themselves and that this knowledge thus unites Dionysius and his addressees in an exclusive circle of intellectuals. Since being a Classical author is not a natural given but had to be learned even by Demosthenes, the most exemplary of Classical orators, in a long and tiresome process, Dionysius invites those readers who are learning Classical synthesis from his writings to conceive of themselves as going through the same process of learning and education as Demosthenes. Their process of learning from Dionysius is the process of becoming Classical (chapter 4.2.5). Throughout his writings Dionysius reminds his reader of the exclusivity of the knowledge he imparts and of the intellectual elitism in which it results (chapter 4.3.1). He strengthens the connection between knowledge and elitism by comparing the community of elite readers, which results from this learning process, to exclusive religious communities such as the Orphic mysteries; he also supports the association of his reader-apprentice with the apprenticeship of the Classical authors by inviting his readers to view themselves as the successors of the politician-orators of the Classical times who combined literary connoisseurship with political power and influence. The knowledge Dionysius provides will entitle his addressees to an analogous leading role in politics and society, a claim which is additionally underlined by the strong connection between Classical Greek education and (Roman) power which informs the world view expounded in the preface to On the Ancient Orators (chapter 4.3.3; cf. 2.3). The stress on elitism and exclusivity points to the inseparability of self-image and distinction. The discussion of the First Letter to Ammaeus has shown that Dionysius conceives of intellectual culture as a struggle among competing communities of intellectuals for authority (chapter 1.2.1) and that the claim to be representing the Classical tradition itself was an important criterion of distinction (chapter 1.2.2). Dionysius’ exposition of his conception of ‘authentic reading’ is itself a means of distinguishing himself and his critical method from another serious competitor in the field of rhetorical theory, the Stoics, and Chrysippus in particular (chapters 4.2.1; 4.2.2). Dionysius’ refutation of Chrysippus’ methods and the theory of a natural word order, I have argued, is not simply a discussion of previous approaches to the same topic. It is a strategy of creating for himself and his critical method a unique position vis-à-vis scholarly tradition and within contemporary intellectual discourse (chapters 4.2.1; 4.2.2; 4.2.3).

5. Enacting Distinction: The Interactive Structure of Dionysius’ Writings The preceding chapter explored the (self-)image as a Classicist critic which Dionysius presents in his essays and invites his reader to adopt. It also investigated the role of knowledge as the mediator between present and Classical past and as a criterion of distinction: the knowledge of how to read (and write) Classical texts ‘authentically’ defines the Classicist critics and distinguishes them as elite readers (and speakers); this shared competence thus constitutes the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as an exclusive community while excluding all those who do not share it. The present chapter will be centred on how this feeling of communion, of being part of the exclusive community of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ if one subscribes to Dionysius’ judgment on the Classical texts, and its counter-part, a feeling of being excluded from this community if one chooses to disagree with Dionysius, is implemented through the very design of Dionysius’ writings. The very act of reading Dionysius’ essays is an important factor in the constitution of the community of Classicists. Chapter 5.1 will discuss what I suggest to call the ‘dialogic’ or ‘interactive’ structure of Dionysius’ discussions. Dionysius’ writings are designed as a dialogue of voices: apart from speaking in his own, authorial voice, Dionysius often also addresses his readers directly, thus inviting them to position themselves in the discussions, or makes them, and his adversaries, participants in the virtual discussions through the voice of a fictus interlocutor; finally, even the voices of the Classical authors themselves participate in the discussions (usually supporting Dionysius’ view) in the form of extensive verbatim quotations. This alternation of voices gives Dionysius’ writings an interactive or dialogic shape: criticism is carried out as a virtual dialogue between the critic, his adversaries, the reader, and the Classical authors, which is enacted by the recipients as they read the essays. Moreover, as Dionysius often presents his analysis of the Classical texts in a (virtual) altercation with members of other communities, Dionysius’ writings constitute criticism as an intellectual controversy.

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In chapter 5.1 I will examine the various means through which Dionysius gives his writings this interactive shape; I will also argue that the generic name itself, Õpomnhmatismo–, by which Dionysius refers to his essays, is meant to reflect the dialogic nature of his writings. Examining the interactive structure of Dionysius’ criticism also offers a novel understanding of his conception of the community of critics, in particular the ‘literary circle,’ within and for which Dionysius’ essays were produced. The essays, I will suggest, are designed to transcend the concrete historical and situative context in which they came to existence. They transform the ‘literary circle’ into an ‘imagined community’ of Classicists which is no longer bound by time and space but is constituted through the very process of reading Dionysius’ essays. The essays themselves become the virtual space in which (and through which) the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ convene. In chapter 5.2 I will then discuss two examples of how the reading process produces a feeling of community, or exclusion, in the reader: literary criticism is performed in Dionysius’ essays as an ‘in-group reading/outgroup reading.’ Both passages demonstrate how the creation of an image of the Classicist critic, whom his particular intellectual competence qualifies as a privileged representative of the Classical tradition, is combined with the creation of the image of an adversary whose exclusion from the discussion about the Classical texts and the Classical tradition alike is enacted through the reading process. Chapter 5.2.1 will return to the First Letter to Ammaeus and explore how Dionysius performs his refutation of the Peripatetic’s opinion as a virtual trial in which Dionysius’ position is supported by the ‘testimony’ of Aristotle himself, the founder of the very intellectual tradition which the Peripatetic claims to be representing. In this virtual trial Dionysius employs the polyphony of his writings as a strategy of debasing the Peripatetic’s point of view along with his claim to be continuing the Aristotelian discursive tradition and associates himself with the very methods and principles of Aristotelian philosophical enquiry instead. A different strategy of distinction will be the subject of chapter 5.2.2 which will discuss Dionysius’ controversy with admirers of Plato who claim that Plato’s style should be the supreme model not only of philosophical but also of political writing and oratory (Dem. 5–7; 23–30). This passage is particularly fascinating because Dionysius associates different methods of criticism with different rhetorical styles which he views as directly related to Classical Athenian democracy. Dionysius defines his critical method as the correlative of the genuine and true-to-nature style of Lysias, which, in

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turn, he regards as the stylistic representation of Classical Athenian democracy. The critical method of his adversaries, by contrast, he associates with a tasteless, incomprehensible, and baroque ‘dithyrambic’ style which, as such, is also ‘un-democratic’ because it is incompatible with Classical Athenian democracy, even detrimental to the dignity and splendour of Classical Athens. In Dionysius’ discussion, intellectual authority, critical method, stylistic aesthetics, and the relation of rhetorical style to concrete, everyday Athenian politics form a fascinating, original, and idiosyncratic combination.

5.1 Criticism as Dialogic Interaction: Creating an ‘Imagined Community’ of Classicists Examining Dionysius’ essays from the aspect of creating communion and enacting distinction provides an entirely new perspective on an element of Dionysius’ writings which is usually neglected by scholars: the introductory chapters. They present the ‘history’ of the individual work and explain Dionysius’ motivation to write it. 690 On Literary Composition, as mentioned above, was written as a birthday present to Rufus. The background to the Letter to Pompeius is more complex (Pomp. 1.1): Pompeius received Dionysius’ essay On the Ancient Orators from a certain Zenon, a common acquaintance of Dionysius’ and Pompeius’, and finds in it what he thinks is an accusation of Plato; since Pompeius admires Plato, he writes a letter to Dionysius and chastises him for this alleged accusation; the Letter to Pompeius is the reply to this letter from Pompeius. The introduction to On Thucydides not only explains the reason for the publication of the essay but also relates the essay to other works of Dionysius. Dionysius tells his reader that he has already dealt with Thucydides in his essay On Imitation (Thuc. 1.3). 691 Displeased by the somewhat summary discussion in Dionysius’ previous work, Quintus Aelius Tubero asked Dionysius to compose a separate treatise on Thucydides, 690 The introductory chapters of Dionysius’ essays, which locate the essays in a specific moment of contemporary critical discourse, are similar to the introductions of Plato’s dialogues, which provide the setting for the philosophical discussions. 691 Thuc. 1.3: ‘I gave my opinion of Thucydides, but expressed it in a brief and summary manner […]’ (‚d†lwsa ka» per» Joukud–dou tÄ doko‹ntà moi, suntÏm˙ te ka» kefalai∏dei graf¨ perilab∏n […]).

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and although Dionysius had already begun to write On Demosthenes, he interrupted his work and wrote On Thucydides (ibid. 1.4).692 The Second Letter to Ammaeus, which deals with Thucydides, too, owes its existence to similar circumstances: Ammaeus had found Dionysius’ treatment in On Thucydides insufficient (©tton ökrib¿sjai tòn graf†n, Amm.II , 1.2), especially his discussion of the text passages; hence the letter, in which Dionysius retained the content of his previous work and changed only the arrangement of the argument. The First Letter to Ammaeus, as mentioned in chapter 1.2.1, is a reply to an oral pronouncement of an anonymous Peripatetic regarding the relation between Demosthenes’ and Aristotle’s works. Ammaeus had heard the Peripatetic’s theory and reported it to Dionysius, and Dionysius wrote the First Letter to Ammaeus to refute the Peripatetic’s opinion and to prevent him from publishing it. Finally, the preface to On the Ancient Orators sets Dionysius’ rhetorical œuvre as a whole into the larger context of the ongoing struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric (Orat. Vett. 4.1). These opening chapters do not contribute anything to Dionysius’ discussion of the Classical texts nor do they provide information necessary to understand Dionysius’ explanations; the fact that On Dinarchus lacks any such introduction shows that they are not essential to the subject matter of his essays. Rather, they set the scene for the whole treatise and position the reader towards it. Originally, Dionysius’ essays were more or less spontaneous contributions to controversies and discussions in progress, born out of and interfering with a specific ‘communicative act.’693 Dionysius made these concrete, historical circumstances an integral part of the essays themselves: 694 he turned the historical context of his writings into a means of ‘contextualization.’ The introductions create the ‘interpretive framework’ for the readers’ reception of the texts: 695 from the beginning of the works 692 ‘But when you expressed the desire that I should write a separate essay on Thucydides, including everything that required comment, I promised to set aside the work on Demosthenes that I had in hand, and do as you preferred. Here is the essay, in fulfilment of my promise’ (So‹ d‡ boulhjËntoc  d–an suntàxasja– me per» Joukud–dou grafòn âpanta perieilhfuÿan tÄ deÏmena lÏgwn, ÇnabalÏmenoc tòn per» DhmosjËnouc pragmate–an õn e⁄qon ‚n qers–n, ÕpesqÏmhn te poi†sein, ±c pro˘ro‹, ka» telËsac tòn ÕpÏjesin Çpod–dwmi). 693 Cf. Hanks (1987) 668 (‘communicative acts’). 694 Ibid. 682 (on ‘embedding of speech context within the linguistic code itself’). 695 In linguistic terminology ‘contextualization’ describes the process by which signals, or ‘contextualization cues’ (Gumperz), which are integrated into the utterances (be they

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they are participants in a controversy. Through reading the essays, they are re-enacting these controversies and become themselves part of the discursive network. The historical debates and discussions are transferred from reality into the texts. They determine the shape of Dionysius’ essays and thus of his criticism in general: literary criticism can be carried out only as an interactive activity: as a response to a question, a reply to an attack, or an attack against others. This interactive structure of Classicism is coupled with its collective character. Dionysius presents his works either as the result of discussions within a group of intellectuals (as in Thuc., Amm.II , Comp.) or as written to defend the interests of this group against others (as in Amm.I , Pomp., Orat. Vett.). Thus criticism in Dionysius’ essays can no longer be abstracted from discussions within and between communities of intellectuals. This section will demonstrate that this interactive character of criticism is not confined to the introductory sections of the essays but has deeply influenced the very structure of Dionysius’ arguments: in Dionysius’ works criticism is ‘performed’ as a dialogue of voices between Dionysius, the reader, (imagined) opponents, and even the Classical authors themselves. Dionysius often employs the first person singular and is constantly present in the discussions as the ‘authorial I.’ This authorial voice interacts with a ‘You,’ which represents Dionysius’ reader;696 Dionysius also directly addresses questions to his readers; occasionally, he even shapes whole passages as an actual dialogue in which Dionysius answers the questions of his reader, who is represented by a fictus interlocutor. This interaction invites the readers to react to what they are reading, thus making them virtual participants in the critical discussions. Criticism is thus acted out as a joint effort between Dionysius and his reader. This creates a feeling of togetherness between Dionysius and his recipients; it keeps them aware that they share the same approach to, and judgment on, written or oral), enable the recipients to locate the utterances in the appropriate context. Thus they produce the ‘interpretive framework’ (Baumann/Briggs [1990] 68) in which to understand the utterance. See Gumperz’ (1992) 230 definition of contextualization: ‘speakers’ and listeners’ use of verbal and nonverbal signs to relate what is said at any one time and in any one place to knowledge acquired through past experience, in order to retrieve the presuppositions they must rely on to maintain conversational involvement and assess what is intended’; Bauman (1992) 128, 136. 696 On the ‘implied reader’ and its role in fictional literature see Booth (1983); recently, the reader’s role in ancient literature has been explored in a series of articles, see, e.g., Schmitz (1999) on Callimachus’ Aetia prologue and Scodel (1996) and (1997) on archaic poetry. For theoretical observations on the role of the implied audience in literature see Ong (1975); Lotman (1982).

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the Classical texts and that their knowledge and their competence define them as ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’697 At the same time, (potential) competitors of Dionysius’ are also represented by a fictus interlocutor who questions Dionysius’ opinions and argues for an alternative view. Dionysius’ texts constantly create an image of the Others; in part, Dionysius’ opponents remain anonymous, but they are also often identified with representatives of philosophical traditions, such as the Peripatetics and ‘Platonists.’ 698 In order to appreciate the force of such dialogic devices, it is important to keep in mind that Dionysius’ recipients would usually read his essays aloud and thus literally enact this dialogue of voices. 699 This ‘polyphony’ renders Dionysius’ essays unique among the extant rhetorical handbooks, both Greek and Latin. Given Dionysius’ ambivalent relationship with the tradition of the philosophical schools it is significant that this design has its closest parallel not in a rhetorical handbook but a Platonic dialogue, namely the discussion of ‘Lysias” speech on love in Plato’s Phaedrus. 700 697 Examples of these structural devices have already occurred in previous chapters, e.g., the questions which introduce Dionysius’ paraphrases of Isocrates’ speeches in On Isocrates (see pp. 72–73 above) or On Demosthenes 51.2–6, where Dionysius creates the image of the Çnòr ÊligÏponoc, Åy–koroc and ÇkrÏsofoc as a counter-image to Demosthenes’ and his ideal reader’s ‘Classical Èxic’ alike (see pp. 252, 261–262 above). 698 Here and in the following I use this term not in a philosophical sense but to refer to those critics who, according to Dionysius, claim that Plato should be the superior model of literary style. In his argument Dionysius associates them with key ideas of PlatonicSocratic philosophy but we cannot be sure whether this reflects an actual affiliation of the ‘Platonists’ with philosophy or whether this association is an element of Dionysius’ argument strategy only; see the discussion in n. 727 below. 699 I am drawing freely on Bakhtin’s conceptions of ‘heteroglossia’ and dialogism which he developed to analyse the novel. Bakhtin conceives of the novel as constituted by a ‘dialogue’ of voices, a phenomenon which he calls ‘heteroglossia.’ In the sense in which Bakhtin uses the term, ‘dialogic’ does not refer to an actual exchange of opinions between two or more persons but designates a principle of structural organization by which the world in the text is constituted by a plurality of ‘voices.’ According to Bakhtin, three basic forms of voices interact in the text of a novel: ‘parodic stylization of generic, professional and other strata of language’ ([1981] 301), the characters’ speech and the belief system behind it (ibid. 315), and, finally, ‘incorporated genres’ (ibid. 320: ‘The novel permits the incorporation of various genres, both artistic [inserted short stories, lyrical songs, poems, dramatic scenes, etc.] and extra-artistic [everyday, rhetorical, scholarly, religious genres and others]’). 700 I am grateful to Prof. Michael Reeve for pointing out this similarity to me; Dionysius refers to Plato and the Platonic dialogue as a model for his critical method also in his Letter to Pompeius in which he defines synkrisis as an adoption of Plato’s strategies

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I suggest that the origin of this peculiarity can be found in Dionysius’ conception of mimesis. At On Dinarchus 7.5–6, Dionysius discusses two different kinds of mimesis: unnatural mimesis is based on abstract rules for composition which have been extrapolated and assembled by authors of rhetorical handbooks (‚k t¿n t®c tËqnhc paraggelmàtwn, Din. 7.5); natural mimesis, by contrast, relies on ‘intensive learning and familiarity’ (‚k poll®c kathq†sewc ka» suntrof–ac, ibid.) with the Classical texts.701 The two constituents of ‘natural’ mimesis, suntrof–a, ‘familiarity,’ and kat†qhsic, ‘instruction,’ 702 is reflected in the polyphony, the alternation of voices, in Dionysius’ writings: the extensive verbatim quotations from Classical texts establish direct contact with the Classical authors, suntrof–a, and Dionysius’ comments and discussions of these passages represent the theoretical instruction, kat†qhsic. The polyphonous design of Dionysius’ critical discussions thus supports his claim to be providing an entirely new way of teaching (Orat. Vett. 4.2): the verbatim quotations, through which the Classical authors speak for themselves, familiarize the reader with the original texts, and the commenting passages instruct the reader on how to deal with these texts properly. In the following, I will explore the various means through which Dionysius involves his reader in the text as well as the implications of this particular design of Dionysius’ criticism for our understanding of Classicist collective identity. To begin with, questions to the reader are a recurrent feature in Dionysius’ writings and the simplest form of a virtual interaction between author and readers. 703 At Dem. 10.1, for example, Dionysius introduces a new point in his discussion, the differences between Demosthenes’ of argumentation, see Wiater (2008) 12–22; cf. Hunter (2009) 110–113 on the potential influence of Plato’s Symposium on Dionysius’ conception of mimesis described in On Imitation. 701 See above ch. 2.2.2, esp. pp. 89–91. 702 LSJ, p. 927, s.v. I. 703 For further examples see Dem. 25.2; 26.3; 27.3–4; 28.3–4; 44.1–2 (list not exhaustive); particularly instructive on the interactive nature of these questions is Dem. 13.7. Here Dionysius confirms on behalf of his reader that he is addressing a topic which his addressee wishes to learn more about: ‘What, then, is the difference between them? And how can one judge, when Demosthenes has recourse to this economical style, in what ways he expresses himself more effectively than Lysias? This, too, you will want to know’ (T–c ofin ‚sti kÇn to‘toic ô diaforà; ka» p¿c ãn diagno–h tic ãn, Ìtan e c t‰n Çnagkaÿon katab¨ qarakt®ra  DhmosjËnhc, p¨ kre–ttwn ‚st» Lus–ou ka» katÄ tòn lËxin; >Axioÿc gÄr ka» to‹to majeÿn, emphasis mine). See further Lys. 3.1; 6.3; 10.5 and cf. ibid. 11.2; 14.1, and passim.

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and Thucydides’ style, in the form of an indirect question coupled with a subjunctive in the first person plural: ‘now let me describe, as my thesis demands, in what respect the style of Demosthenes, which has the same basic character as that of Thucydides, differs from it’ (FËre dò ka» t–ni

diallàttei t®c Joukud–dou lËxewc ô DhmosjËnouc ô parÄ t‰n aŒt‰n kateskeuasmËnh qarakt®ra, e“pwmen; Çpaiteÿ gÄr  lÏgoc). Formulas such as fËre d† are common in Greek literary works modelled on oral conversations, such as comedy and Plato’s dialogues; 704 the passage is thus invested with the immediacy of a verbal interaction which solicits the reader’s attention and participation. The indirect question involves the recipient in the discussion: after the preceding part of the essay (Çpaiteÿ gÄr  lÏgoc), Dionysius expects his reader to wonder ‘in what respect the style of Demosthenes, which has the same basic character as that of Thucydides, differs from it.’ The question suggests a mental attitude for the addressee to adopt towards the text on the basis of the preceding considerations, namely, a desire for a summary of the respective characteristics of Thucydides’ and Demosthenes’ style. And Dionysius reacts to this desire: the subjunctive in the first person presents the following chapter as his immediate reply to his reader’s needs. At Dem. 21.3 Dionysius presents the results of his analyses in a question which is followed by a long verbatim quotation from Demosthenes: ‘who would not agree that this passage is in a general way superior to that of Isocrates?’ (Ta‘thn tòn diàlekton t–c oŒk ãn Âmolog†seie ka» katÄ tílla m‡n pànta diafËrein t®c >Isokràtouc;). The question calls for the reader’s approval of Dionysius’ reconstruction of the emotional effects of Demosthenes’ and Isocrates’ speeches. 705 If they agree with Dionysius’ assessment, they will share it not only among each other, but also with Dionysius himself (ibid. 21.4): ‘at any rate I propose to describe my feelings when I read both orators, feelings which, I think, are not uniquely mine but are experienced by everyone’ (>Eg∞ go‹n Á pr‰c ÇmfotËrac pàsqw tÄc lËxeic ‚r¿; o“omai d‡ koinÏn ti pàjoc Åpàntwn ‚reÿn ka» oŒk ‚m‰n “dion). 706 Author and reader are united by their opinion on how the Classical texts are supposed to be experienced. 704 See Denniston, GP, s.v. 1.8.iii.b (p. 217) with references. 705 Dem. 21.4–22.3. 706 Cf. Porter (2006b) 333–334 (with special reference to Dem. 21): ‘criticism was contending over structures of feeling, not private revelation. The classical pleasures afforded by great literature from the past and analyzed and fought over in the present were thus decidedly

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Another means of engaging the reader in the discussion is by introducing a fictus interlocutor, for example, at Dem. 42.2:

Ta‹ta d‡ dò boulÏmenoc tàc te diaforÄc t¿n Årmoni¿n ka» toÃc qarakt®rac aŒt¿n ka» toÃc prwte‘santac ‚n aŒtoÿc di®ljon —n+, ‚peidÄn Çpofa–nwmai gn∏mhn Ìti tòn mËshn te ka» miktòn Årmon–an ‚pet†deusen  DhmosjËnhc, mhde»c Õpotugqàn˘ moi ta‹ta lËgwn; {A… gÄr äkrai t–nec e s»n Årmon–ai; ka» t–c aŒt¿n ·katËrac 〈ô〉 f‘sic, ka» t–c ô mÿxic £ ô krêsic a’th; OŒd‡n gÄr dò t¿n 〈Årmoni¿n “smen t¿n〉 äkrwn.} My purpose in describing the differences between these modes of composition and their distinguishing features, and the leading exponents of each, was to ensure that, when I stated it as my opinion that Demosthenes employed the intermediate, mixed form of composition, nobody would interrupt and say “What are the extreme forms of composition, and what is the nature of this mixture and blend? For we know nothing about the extreme forms of composition.” 707

Dionysius is engaged in a virtual dialogue with his addressee in which he explains the structure of his argument. He has presented his material in the present order because he wanted to forestall objections and questions from his reader. The choice and organization of the material thus appear as determined by the addressee’s (potential or expected) reactions to it. The phrasing additionally emphasizes this point: instead of simply explaining the advantages of the present arrangement, Dionysius describes how he anticipated his readers would react to a different arrangement. The material is presented in this way and no other because while writing his essay, Dionysius constantly imagines how his recipients would respond to alternative arrangements. The reader’s reactions are thus made an integral part of the composition of the work itself: it is the result of an internal dialogue between author and (envisaged) addressee. The introductions, in which Dionysius describes the ‘communicative acts’ that have given rise to his works, thus set the scene for the way in which criticism is performed throughout the essays in general. Not only are the essays in their entirety elaborate answers to the envisaged reader’s questions about Classical language and style. These answers themselves are provided in the shape of a virtual dialogic interaction public pleasures, pleasures that came freighted with a history and a context, having been already cited and (re-)cited for generations. […] given the public and external nature of the debate, at issue was not whether one should or should not take pleasure in literary excellence, but how one should appropriate ideological pleasures as one’s own.’ 707 Usher’s transl. modified.

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between author and recipient. Dialogicity is thus made an intrinsic quality of Dionysius’ criticism: what Dionysius says and how he says it presupposes, even requires, an addressee. Occasionally, the interaction between Dionysius and his reader is more elaborate. At Dem. 24.9–10 Dionysius analyzes and criticizes a brief passage from Plato’s Funeral Oration in the Menexenus. After quoting the original passage, lÏg˙ d‡ dò t‰n leipÏmenon kÏsmon Ì te nÏmoc prostàttei to‘toic Çpodo‹nai toÿc Çndràsi ka» qr† (Mx. 236e1), he comments:

t‰ ka» qrò pàlin ‚nja‹ta ke–menon ‚p» teleut®c, t–noc Èneka pare–lhptai ka» diÄ t–; PÏtera safestËran poi®sai tòn lËxin; >AllÄ ka» qwr»c t®c projËsewc ta‘thc ‚st» saf†c. E“ ge ofin o’twc e⁄qe; {LÏg˙ d‡ dò t‰n leipÏmenon kÏsmon  nÏmoc Çpodo‹nai prostàttei toÿc Çndràsi,} t–c ãn ta‘thn ‚mËmyato ±c oŒ saf®; >AllÄ to‹to °dion Çkousj®nai ka» megaloprepËsteron; Pên ofin toŒnant–on öfàniken aŒt®c t‰ semn‰n ka» lel‘mantai. Here again, what is the purpose of adding “as we are bound to” at the end? Does it make the meaning clearer? It is clear without this addition. If it were written as follows: “It remains to pay tribute to these heroes in words, as the law ordains.” Who would have criticised it for obscurity? But perhaps the form that we have sounds better and is more impressive? Quite the contrary: its dignity has been removed and destroyed.

The interplay of questions and answers invites the reader actively to engage in the discussion. Questions such as ‘Who would have criticised it for obscurity?’ elicit agreement and urge the addressee to subscribe to Dionysius’ opinion. A question like ‘But perhaps the form that we have sounds better and is more impressive?,’ on the other hand, verbalizes an objection which might have come to the minds of some readers. Dionysius seems to be arguing with these readers, and his words seem to reply to their objections. Other readers, by contrast, who had not thought of such an objection, are challenged by Dionysius’ question to consider this alternative assessment of the passage and to position themselves toward it. 708 Such a dialogic interaction culminates in a passage such as Dem. 13.1–3 which presents the whole argument as a dialogue between Dionysius and his addressee:

708 I will return to this passage in ch. 5.2.2, pp. 344–345 below.

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Ta‹t+oŒ kajarÄ ka» Çkrib® ka» saf® ka» diÄ t¿n kur–wn te ka» koin¿n Ênomàtwn kateskeuasmËna πsper tÄ Lus–ou; – >Emo» m‡n gÄr Õpàrqein dokeÿ. – T– dË; OŒq» s‘ntoma ka» strogg‘la ka» Çlhje–ac mestÄ kajàper ‚keÿna; – Pàntwn m‡n ofin màlista. – OŒq» d‡ ka» pijanÄ ka» ‚n ¢jei legÏmenà tini ka» t‰ prËpon toÿc ÕpokeimËnoic pros∏poic te ka» pràgmasi fulàttonta;
The quality of a Classical text is assessed in an interplay of questions and answers, and author and reader explore the stylistic features of the text in a joint effort. Both the speaking ‘I’ and the answering ‘You’ concur in their judgment on the similarities of Demosthenes’ style with Lysias’. The result is a virtual community of author and recipients: after mutual agreement has been achieved through the dialogue, ‘I’ and ‘You’ merge into ‘We’ (E  go‹n mò diÄ t®c ‚pigraf®c o› tinÏc ‚stin ·kàteroc t¿n lÏgwn gn∏rimoc ™n,

oŒ polloÃc ãn ôm¿n o“omai diagn¿nai ˚¯d–wc pÏteroc DhmosjËnouc ‚st»n £ Lus–ou, emphasis added).709 Dionysius’ text acts out criticism as 709 Cf. Dem. 25.1–2: ‘But perhaps someone will say: “You are misrepresenting the matter, demanding beauty of language and elegance of style from an author who is not expert in these matters. Examine his ideas, and see whether they possess nobility and grandeur, and are uniquely his. Ideas were his concern, and it was in these that his genius lay. Call him to account for these, and leave his style alone.” How can one say this? Everyone knows the reverse to have been the case, that the philosopher [sc. Plato] prided himself more

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a collective activity which eventually results in a community between the participants in the virtual discussion. The ‘We’ links the virtual dialogue in the text with Dionysius’ recipients outside the text; it invites them to see the answering ‘You’ as their representative in the discussion and to accept the results of the dialogue within the text, as if it had been an actual dialogue between Dionysius and them. 710 Dionysius’ conception of literary criticism as a dialogic interaction within a community of ‘competent readers’ might also have influenced his choice of the generic name of his writings. At Dem. 42.1, Dem. 46.3–4, Amm.II , 1.1–2, and Comp. 3.12 Dionysius refers to his works as Õpomnhmatismo–;711 at Dem. 46.3–4 and Amm.II , 1.2 he explicitly contrasts Õpomnhmatismo– with other modes of discourse, the sqolikÏn and the didaskalikÏn. on his powers of expression than upon his subject-matter’ (Sukofanteÿc t‰ pràgma, tàq+ãn e“poi tic, eŒËpeian Çpait¿n ka» kallilog–an parÄ Çndr‰c oŒ ta‹ta sofo‹. TÄc no†seic ‚xËtaze, e  kala» ka» megaloprepeÿc e si ka» par+oŒjen» t¿n ällwn ke–menai. Per» ta‘tac ‚keÿnoc ‚spo‘dazen, ‚n ta‘taic dein‰c ™n; to‘twn eŒj‘nac par+aŒto‹ làmbane, t‰n d‡ trÏpon t®c lËxewc Ía. – Ka» p¿c Íni ta‹t+e peÿn;

ToŒnant–on gÄr âpantec “sasin Ìti ple–oni kËqrhtai filotim–¯ per» tòn ·rmhne–an  filÏsofoc [sc. Plàtwn] £ per» tÄ pràgmata). 710 In a fascinating passage Ps.-Longinus discusses passages from Demosthenes’ First Philippic (4.10–11) in which Demosthenes presents his argument in the form of questions and answers. Ps.-Longinus’ comments on the effect of such an arrangement on the recipient support the interpretation of the interactive design of Dionysius’ essays and the concomitant effect of spontaneity: ‘As it is, the inspiration and quick play of the question and answer, and his [sc. Demosthenes’] way of confronting his own words as if they were someone else’s, make the passage […] not only loftier but also more convincing. For emotion is always more telling when it seems not to be premeditated by the speaker but to be born of the moment: and this way of questioning and answering one’s self counterfeits spontaneous emotion […] [and] misleads the audience, by encouraging it to suppose that each carefully premeditated argument has been aroused in the mind and put into words on the spur of the moment’ (nun» d‡ t‰ Ínjoun ka» Êx‘rropon t®c

pe‘sewc ka» Çpokr–sewc ka» t‰ pr‰c ·aut‰n ±c pr‰c Èteron Çnjupantên oŒ mÏnon ÕyhlÏteron ‚po–hse tƒ sqhmatismƒ t‰ ˚hj‡n ÇllÄ ka» pistÏteron. ägei gÄr tÄ pajhtikÄ tÏte mêllon, Ìtan aŒtÄ fa–nhtai mò ‚pithde‘ein aŒt‰c  lËgwn ÇllÄ gennên  kairÏc, ô d+‚r∏thsic ô e c ·aut‰n ka» ÇpÏkrisic mimeÿtai to‹ pàjouc t‰ ‚p–kairon. […] [t‰ sq®ma t®c pe‘sewc ka» Çpokr–sewc] e c t‰ dokeÿn Èkaston t¿n ‚skemmËnwn ‚x Õpog‘ou kekin®sja– te ka» lËgesjai t‰n Çkroatòn Çpàgon ka» paralog–zetai, 18.1–2). These remarks also suggest that the addresses to the audience in Attic oratory (an imagined audience in Isocrates’ case) might have influenced the dialogic design of Dionysius’ works. 711 Cf. Pomp. 3.1: ‘I have done this in the essays which I addressed to Demetrius on the subject of mimesis’ (pepo–hka ka» to‹to 〈‚n toÿc〉 e c Dhm†trion Õpomnhmatismoÿc per» mim†sewc, Usher’s transl. modified).

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This shows that Dionysius uses Õpomnhmatismo– to describe the particular arrangement and the presentation of his material in his essays. At first sight, the name seems to be adopted from the common name for literary or scholarly commentaries, ÕpÏmnhma.712 But the following discussion will suggest that Dionysius chose Õpomnhmatismo– because it describes the interactive character of his essays. At Dem. 46.3–4 Dionysius explains what he regards as characteristic of Õpomnhmatismo–:

Paradeigmàtwn d+oŒk o⁄mai deÿn ‚nja‹ta —na moi me–zona p–stin  lÏgoc làb˘, t¿n Írgwn to‹ ˚†toroc ‚xetazomËnwn, e  toia‹tà ‚stin oŸa lËgw; polà gÄr 〈ãn〉 ô s‘ntaxic t‰ m®koc làboi, ka» dËoc m†pote e c toÃc sqolikoÃc ‚kb¨ qarakt®rac ‚k t¿n Õpomnhmatism¿n. >Ol–ga d‡ lhfjËnta t¿n poll¿n …kanÄ tekm†ria, ka» âma pr‰c ‚pistamËnouc (oŒ gÄr d† ge toÿc Çpe–roic to‹ Çndr‰c tàde gràfw) t‰ deÿxai tÄ pràgmata sumbolik¿c ÇpÏqrh. I do not think I need to support my thesis here by examining specimen passages from his speeches to see whether they are as I say: for this would make my treatise much longer, and it would be in danger of assuming the character of a textbook instead of an essay. A small selection from the many examples available is enough to prove my point; and besides, for those who know the orator’s work (and this treatise is not intended for those who do not), a token proof is quite sufficient.

Dionysius distinguishes Õpomnhmatismo– from the sqolik‰c qarakt†r. The decisive difference between them is their length (dËoc m†pote e c toÃc sqolikoÃc ‚kb¨ qarakt®rac ‚k t¿n Õpomnhmatism¿n), and the reason for this difference in length is the authors’ different use of quotations. Whereas the sqolik‰c qarakt†r is characterized by an overabundance of quotations, Dionysius employs quotations only ‘symbolically’ (sumbolik¿c). 713 In antiquity symbolon referred to one half of a token which was broken between two parties when concluding a contract. Each party kept one half as proof of identity: any negotiation regarding the contract required 712
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that each partner identify himself by bringing the symbolon; only if the two halves matched would the negotiations be carried out. Dionysius adopts this principle to describe the relation between the passages he quotes and the whole work from which the passages are quoted: just as the shape of one half of the token allows conclusions about the shape of the other, the characteristics of the few passages quoted by Dionysius are representative of the style of the whole work or even of the entire œuvre of an author: ‘a small selection from the many examples available is enough to prove my point’ (Êl–ga dË lhfjËnta t¿n poll¿n …kanÄ tekm†ria). This method directly affects the form of Dionysius’ essays: an author of a sqolikÏn treatise presents his readers with a wealth of material and attempts to convince them through the sheer mass of quotations (cf. —na moi me–zona p–stin  lÏgoc làb˘); Dionysius, by contrast, convinces his recipients by presenting a selection of only the most characteristic examples. The smaller number of quotations makes Dionysius’ essays considerably shorter, but not less persuasive than a sqolikÏn. 714 Thus the length of the essays directly reflects the critical method which their author applied. Dionysius can employ this critical method and the ensuing ÕpomnhmatismÏc design of presentation because of the knowledge of his recipients: ‘and besides, for those who know the orator’s work (and this treatise is not intended for those who do not), a token proof is quite sufficient’ (ka» âma pr‰c ‚pistamËnouc (oŒ gÄr d† ge toÿc Çpe–roic to‹ Çndr‰c tàde gràfw) t‰ deÿxai tÄ pràgmata sumbolik¿c ÇpÏqrh). Dionysius makes a similar statement at Dem. 42.1:715 discussing Herodotus’ style, he says that further examples might make his point more convincing, but they would also cause 714 Dionysius uses sqolikÏc in a similar context at Comp. 22.8. After citing several authors who employed the ‘austere style’ (aŒsthrÄ Årmon–a), such as Antimachus, Empedocles, Aeschylus, and others (Comp. 22.7), he points out that he would have to present a great number of passages from these authors to illustrate this Årmon–a; but this he will not do, because ‘the work would then have probably seemed excessively long, more like a lecture course rather than a manual’ (ÕpËrmetron Ímelle fan†sesjai t‰ s‘ntagma ka» sqolik‰n mêllon £ paraggelmatikÏn). Here again the sqolik‰n sq®ma is associated with an improper length of the essay due to an over-proportionate number of examples from Classical texts. 715 ‘I should have liked to give more examples of the historian’s manner, because that would have made my argument more convincing; but I am prevented from doing so by my desire to proceed with the subject in hand, and also by my concern to avoid the charge of lacking a sense of proportion. […] for passing reference is enough for those who are familiar with them’ (>EboulÏmhn Íti ple–w parasqËsjai parade–gmata t®c to‹ suggrafËwc Çgwg®c;  squrotËra gÄr ô p–stic o’twc ãn ‚gËneto. N‹n d+

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his work to grow out of proportion. Although Dionysius does not explicitly say so, the phrasing and context, especially when compared with the similar passage Dem. 46.3–4 (above), suggest that Dionysius implies here, too, that such a lack of proportion (Çkair–a, Dem. 42.1) would bring about a shift to the sqolikÏn mode. Fortunately, though, this can be avoided and more examples are not necessary, ‘for passing reference is enough for those who are familiar with them’ (ô gÄr ÕpÏmnhsic ±c ‚n e dÏsin …kan†). At Comp. 3.12 Dionysius points out that a wealth of verses from Homer (toia‹ta d+‚st» parÄ tƒ poiht¨ mur–a) could be quoted in order to demonstrate that the combination of words (s‘njesic) is more important than the choice of words (‚klog†). But since he is ‘sure that everyone is aware’ of this, ‘it is enough for me to quote this single passage as a reminder’ (±c eŒ o⁄d+Ìti pàntec “sasin; ‚mo» d+Õpomn†sewc Èneka lËgonti Çrkeÿ ta‹ta mÏna e peÿn). Similarly, Dionysius stresses in numerous passages that he deliberately limits the number of examples because he can rely on the knowledge of his eŒpa–deutoi/e dÏtec readers.716 Length is an important generic criterion of Dionysius’ essays: it defines them as Õpomnhmatismo– as opposed to sqoliko» essays. The length depends on the number of quotations, which, in turn, is determined by the reader’s knowledge. Dionysius’ addressees do not need to be overloaded with examples because their competence enables them to recall the entire work of a Classical author on the basis of a few passages. The type of reader Dionysius envisages for his essay thus shapes the arrangement and presentation of his material: Dionysius’ Õpomnhmatismo– bear their name because they are brief, having been designed to serve only as ‘reminders’ (Õpomn†sewc Èneka, Comp. 3.12 above) – everything Dionysius chooses not ‚xe–rgomai, spe‘dwn ‚p» tÄ proke–mena ka» âma dÏxan Õfor∏menoc Çkair–ac. […] Arkeÿ gàr, ±c ‚n e dÏsi lËgontac, Ìti f‘sin Íqei mhd‡n t¿n spouda–wn ˚hmàtwn ämoiron πrac e⁄nai ka» qàritoc  d–ac, toso‹ton mÏnon e peÿn); 20.3; Comp. 16.18 ‘As I am addressing men who know their Homer, I do not think that more examples are necessary’ (>En e dÏsi lËgwn, oŒk o“omai pleiÏnwn deÿn paradeigmàtwn); 19.11: ‘I do not think that many words are needed on this part of my subject. I believe everyone knows that, in discourse, variation is a most attractive and beautiful quality’ (OŒ poll¿n

d+o⁄mai deÿn lÏgwn e c to‹to t‰ mËroc; Ìti gÄr °distÏn te ka» kàlliston ‚n lÏgoic metabol†, pàntac e dËnai pe–jomai); 22.35: ‘I need not say, when all educated people know it as well as I […]’ ([…] ±c pr‰c e dÏtac Âmo–wc eŒpaide‘touc âpantac oŒd‡n dËomai lËgein […]) (list not exhaustive).

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to say his addressees can supply on their own. Dionysius’ discussions and the reader’s knowledge are like two symbola which complement each other. The particular design of Dionysius’ essays is informed by the notion that his works are virtual dialogues with elite readers whose knowledge distinguishes them from the ‘other,’ ordinary readers: length and use of quotations distinguish his essays from other critical writings and define them as Õpomnhmatismo–. This, in turn, reflects upon the self-image of his addressees: if they prove to be able to follow Dionysius’ discussions without needing further examples, they are justified in regarding themselves as elite readers. Otherwise they would be unable to deal with this kind of text. Dionysius’ works thus create a particular reading situation. They constantly confront the readers with the question of whether or not they can define themselves as ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ If they have the knowledge that enables them to side with Dionysius, they are allowed to regard themselves as members of the ‘in-group’ of competent readers; if they do not, they reveal their lack of knowledge and are relegated to the ‘out-group’ of incompetent readers. Literary criticism in Dionysius’ essays is a performance of ‘in-group’/‘out-group reading.’ 717 The interactive structure of Dionysius’ criticism has important implications for our understanding of the nature of the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi.’ The embedding of the original discursive context into the text itself by way of the introductory chapters combined with the dialogical design of the discussions uncouples the texts from their contexts; Dionysius’ essays are ‘decontextualizable.’ 718 Independent of the time and place in which they are read, the essays preserve their original character of spontaneity and immediacy. The ‘in-group’ of Classicists, which is created through the reading process, is therefore not bound to a historically specific 717 It is important to remember that in antiquity texts were usually read aloud so that the readers literally enacted the different voices in the text; Porter has pointed out that reading viva voce was of special importance to Classicists because it allowed them to resuscitate the voices of the Classical authors and thus to ‘reliv[e] the authentic past’ (Porter [2006b] 319; cf. ibid. 314–315, 320). 718 In linguistics this process is known as ‘entextualization.’ Bauman/Briggs (1990) 73 define it as ‘the process of rendering discourse extractable, of making a stretch of linguistic production into a unit – a text – that can be lifted out of its interactional setting. A text, then, from this vantage point, is discourse rendered decontextualizable. Entextualization may well incorporate aspects of context, such that the resultant text carries elements of its history of use within it.’ On decontextualization in general see ibid. 72–78 (‘Decontextualization and Entextualization’).

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time or place; it is a function of the text and it is created through reading the text. Dionysius’ criticism may have started as the activity of a more or less well-defined group of people, his ‘literary circle.’ But Dionysius’ essays stretch out beyond this group: their interactive structure invites any and every reader to take part, albeit virtually, in the discussions about the Classical texts. Through their dialogic, interactive structure, Dionysius’ essays themselves constitute the space in which the virtual community of Classicist readers convenes. 719 The historical discussions of the ‘literary circle’ are now substituted, and continued, on a virtual plane by the readers’ dialogue with Dionysius about the Classical texts, which is enacted through the reading process. This conforms to the general purpose of Dionysius’ writings as he defines it at Orat. Vett. 4.1: they are part of the struggle between Classical and Asianist rhetoric and aim to bring home the final victory of politiko» lÏgoi over Asianism. As shown in chapter 2, Dionysius imagines this struggle as a global one in which the whole oikumene is involved; his writings are supposed to spread the philosophy of Classicism, filÏsofoc ˚htorik†, over the oikumene so that the last few ‘Asian cities, where the progress of culture (ô kal¿n màjhsic) is impeded by ignorance (di+Çmaj–an)’ (Orat. Vett. 2.4), will give up resistance. Dionysius’ works are the instrument by which Çmaj–a is to be replaced with t¿n kal¿n màjhsic; this fits Dionysius’ claim to be the heir of Isocrates. At Isoc. 1.6 Dionysius praises Isocrates because ‘his school came to represent Athens herself in the colonies of education (katÄ tÄc Çpoik–ac t¿n lÏgwn) abroad.’ 720 In the same manner, Dionysius envisages his critical writings (as well as the works of 719 This conception is inspired by Bakhtin’s ‘chronotope,’ the creation of the world in the text through the reading process. The notion ‘chronotope’ (‘time-space’) was developed by Bakhtin to describe how real historical time and space become constituents of the narrated world of the novel; cf. his ‘Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel. Notes Toward a Historical Poetics’ (published 1937–1938) in Bakhtin (1981) 84– 258, esp. 84. ‘Chronotope’ designates ‘the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature’ and ‘the inseparability of space and time […] as a formally constitutive category of literature’ (ibid. 84). This mutual interaction of time and space is for Bakhtin the prerequisite for the creation of a coherent world in literature: ‘In the literary artistic chronotope, spatial and temporal indicators are fused into one carefully thought-out, concrete whole. Time, as it were, thickens, takes on flesh, becomes artistically visible; likewise, space becomes charged and responsive to the movements of time, plot and history. This intersection of axes and fusion of indicators characterizes the artistic chronotope’ (ibid.; cf. ibid. 85, 250). 720 Usher’s transl. modified.

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politiko» lÏgoi which they are supposed to engender) as representing Rome, the city of politiko» lÏgoi (Orat. Vett. 3.1), all over the oikumene and to install the hegemony of Classical rhetoric by founding ‘colonies of Classical education’ with the help of Roman power. 721 Therefore Dionysius conceives of the community of Classicists as principally open, in terms of both space and time; the more people he convinces to subscribe to Classicism, the better. Thus not only will Asianism be defeated soon (Orat. Vett. 3.3); Dionysius’ Classicism will also gain more influence in the field of literary criticism in general and will be able to compete more efficiently with other communities of critics, such as the Stoics, the Peripatetics, and the Platonists. The historical ‘literary circle’ plays a crucial role for this conception of a community of Classicists: the way Dionysius’ approach to the Classical texts united him and his addressees in a group and distinguished them from others provides a model for Dionysius’ readership in general. It gives them an idea of how to imagine the community of which they are becoming a part through the reading process; the ‘literary circle’ might also serve as an example of how readers are supposed to form groups of Classicists and to discuss the Classical texts in other parts of the world, in the Çpoik–ai t¿n lÏgwn. The community of Classicists which is created by Dionysius’ writings is therefore even less based on personal acquaintance of, or even direct communication among, its members than the ‘literary circle.’ It relies entirely upon the readers’ feeling that they are sharing with each other a distinct knowledge about the Classical works as well as a distinct approach to them, and this feeling is created by Dionysius’ texts. The discussion of symbolic interactionism in chapter 1.1.3 has shown that this does not preclude solidarity among the members; on the contrary, what people think, or feel, they have in common with others is much more important for the existence of a community than what they really have in common. Communities are constituted around symbols, and Dionysius’ conception of politiko» lÏgoi is such a symbol. It implies an outlook on the world with which Dionysius invites his readers to identify. 722 But these symbols are flexible: every reader might have a slightly different idea of what politiko» lÏgoi mean to them. For the readers’ self-definition as Classicists it is more important that they think they all share the same conception of Classical rhetoric than that they actually do. This makes Dionysius’ community of ‘practitioners 721 Cf. above, ch. 2.2.1, p. 69, and ch. 2.3.1, esp. pp. 97–100. 722 See chs. 2 and 3 above.

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of politiko» lÏgoi’ what Benedict Anderson has called an ‘imagined community,’ i.e., a community in which most of the members ‘will never know their fellow-members or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion.’ 723

5.2 Strategies of Distinction: Out-Group Reading The previous paragraph illustrated how Dionysius’ essays create an ‘imagined community’ of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ through the dialogic design of the critical discussions. At the same time, it has become clear that this process of inclusion cannot be separated from a process of distinction and exclusion. Reading Dionysius’ writings is therefore a process with an ambiguous outcome, as the wish to identify oneself as a Classicist elite reader implies the risk of being excluded from the elite community. For only those can get access to this exclusive circle who already have the necessary knowledge and the ability to follow Dionysius’ explanations. Dionysius stresses this point at Dem. 46.4: 724 ‘for those who know the orator’s work (and this treatise is not intended for those who do not), a token proof is quite sufficient.’ Passages such as this, as well as the entire design of Dionysius’ essays which reflects the elitist status of their envisaged addressee, are thus also a warning to the recipients: the shorter the work, the more they will be expected to supply from their own knowledge, and the reading process will inevitably single them out as belonging to the one category of reader 723 Anderson (1991) 6; see especially his remarks on the importance of a shared language (in Dionysius’ case, the common interest in, and adoption of, the Classical language) through which ‘pasts are restored, fellowships are imagined, and futures dreamed’ (ibid. 154). I am aware that Anderson develops his notion of the ‘imagined community’ to describe the interrelation of members of the same nation, and I do not pretend that the community of literati constituted by Dionysius’ writings is comparable to a nation. Classicists, for example, do not have a well-defined territory, nor is there an institutional apparatus, like common schools, ministries, a common military body; above all, print and other mass media, which Anderson regards as essential for the existence of an ‘imagined community,’ did not exist in Dionysius’ day, a fact which limited the dissemination of his ideas. I borrow Anderson’s conception to illustrate an important factor which ‘imagined communities’ of nations have in common with other communities, be they Greek intellectuals or twentieth-century Christians: communities are constituted and persist not because the individual members know each other, but because all of them assume that they share the same values and ideas; cf. the discussion pp. 24–26 above. 724 Above, p. 291.

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or other. Participation in Dionysius’ criticism requires knowledge, and the ÕpomnhmatismÏc-design of Dionysius’ writings reflects this. The theoretical discussion in chapter 1.1.3 has shown that feeling of being, or becoming, part of a community depends on strategies of inclusion as much as on strategies of exclusion. 725 The perception of being part of a group depends on the perception of the boundaries of this group; these boundaries are established by distinction from other, ‘out-groups.’ The contrast with the ‘excluded,’ the äpeiroi, is therefore essential to a group’s developing a distinct profile of its own and is a primary constituent of collective identity. The preceding discussion was centred on structural devices by which Dionysius invites his reader to join the critical discussion by creating a feeling of togetherness between himself and his recipients. This section will explore the down-side of this process, the image of the excluded which is created in Dionysius’ essays, and the different strategies through which Dionysius distinguishes himself and his critical method from them and invites his ideal addressee to do likewise. Dionysius frequently couches his discussion of Classical texts in terms of a refutation of pronouncements of (real or imaginary) representatives of other communities of critics. It is of secondary importance whether these opponents really existed or, if they existed, whether they really made the (often unfounded) statements Dionysius ascribes to them. The discussion of the First Letter to Ammaeus in chapter 1.2 has suggested that the truth probably lies somewhere in the middle: given the outstanding position of the Peripatetics in Hellenistic literary criticism, it seems a plausible assumption that Dionysius might have perceived statements such as that of the anonymous Peripatetic as a real threat to the foundations of his critical method and his legitimation as a critic. 726 Nevertheless, the fact that it is always Dionysius whose opinion proves to be superior and that of his opponents to be untenable or even absurd, casts serious doubt on the reliability of Dionysius’ portrayal of his opponents’ positions and of their style of argumentation. The only conclusion which Dionysius’ essays allow us to draw is that Dionysius might have had discussions with a Peripatetic or Platonists, but the way Dionysius presents them in his essays hardly allows us to reconstruct them.727 Once incorporated into Dionysius’ essays, these discussions 725 See above, pp. 20–21. 726 See above, p. 39. 727 The case of Dionysius’ argument with the ‘Platonists’ is particularly difficult because sources for the role of ‘Academics’ or ‘Platonists’ in the first century BCE are scarce.

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become virtual controversies, that is, controversies which are ‘staged’ and acted out in Dionysius’ texts and are, as such, ‘de-contextualized.’ For this reason they preclude any reliable conclusions on the intellectual culture of Dionysius’ times: our enquiry cannot go beyond the texts. But they do grant us insight into Dionysius’ conception of literary criticism and the crucial role which distinction plays within it: in Dionysius’ writings, literary criticism is inseparable from competition. Hence for the present investigation the question of whether or not critical discourse actually was a struggle is less important than the fact that Dionysius’ essays constitute criticism as a struggle. Therefore the following discussion will not be concerned with the historicity of these controversies, but with their function in Dionysius’ argument. Introducing the voices of adversaries into his essays, Dionysius reminds his reader of the competitive and exclusive nature of literary criticism: expressing an opinion on the style or content of a particular Classical author, and the general approach to Classical literature which lies behind it, is a criterion of distinction. Contrasting his own method of criticism with that of his adversaries, Dionysius highlights the distinctive characteristics of Examining the evidence for the fate of the Academy after Philo of Larissa’s death, Glucker (1978) 120 concludes that by 44 BCE the Academy had virtually ceased to exist: ‘there was now, to the best of our knowledge, no official successor of Plato’: ‘between Theomnestus’s lectures attended by Brutus,’ Glucker continues ibid. 121, ‘[…] and Ammonius the teacher of Plutarch […] we meet with no philosopher living in Athens and described in our sources as an “Academic” or a “Platonist.” ’ This does not preclude, however, that there did exist a community of philosophers in Rome in the first century BCE who regarded themselves as the successors of Plato. The Academic tradition seems to have continued in Rome although those intellectuals who presented themselves as ‘Academics’ were not officially appointed or the acknowledged successors of Plato: Strabo (14.5.14, 674C, 7–8 Radt), for example, refers to Nestor of Tarsus, the teacher of Marcellus, as an ‘Academic’ (ÇkadhmakÏc), and L. Aelius Tubero is known to have been a fellow-student of Aenesidemus at the Academy, probably under Philo (Glucker [1978] 122–123). The case of Dionysius’ ‘Platonists’ is further complicated by the fact that Dionysius clearly associates them and their argument strategies with philosophical principles commonly associated with Plato and Socrates, such as the dichotomy of Çl†jeia and dÏxa and the use of irony (e rwne–a) (see pp. 315–318 below). But it seems impossible to determine whether their claim that Plato should be the supreme model of all rhetorical and philosophical writing originally had any philosophical implications or derived from any philosophical allegiance with the Academy. It seems equally possible that the connection between the Platonists’ rhetorical doctrines and their failure to implement the principles of Platonic philosophic enquiry is a trick of Dionysius with the sole purpose of disavowing their position. See the discussion in ch. 5.2.2 below, esp. pp. 317–318.

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Classicism and creates a sharp profile of himself and his ideal addressee as ‘Classicist critics.’ At the same time, by confronting the recipients with different approaches to and competing interpretations of Classical texts Dionysius urges them to make a choice. This choice implies defining themselves as members of one or another community of critics. Dionysius’ superior position in these virtual arguments demonstrates that only his approach is successful; the negative image of his adversaries, by contrast, which is created in the virtual discussions, is a warning example to the reader: any reader, it implies, who rejects Dionysius’ opinion and subscribes to the ‘wrong’ approach of his opponents, would expose themselves to the same degree of ridicule as Dionysius’ virtual adversaries. This negative foil is even more effective when Dionysius identifies his adversaries with representatives of actually existing communities of scholars, such as the Stoics, the Peripatetics, or the Platonists. Often, as in the first example of out-group reading which will be discussed below, these controversies are shaped as a dialogue between Dionysius, his readers, and the voice of the opponent(s). But Dionysius also has the Classical authors themselves take part in the argument as ‘further voices.’ The interaction of voices constitutes Dionysius’ essays as a virtual space in which temporal and spatial boundaries are blurred and in which the Classical authors regain their voice through verbatim quotations. They support Dionysius’ point of view and confirm that it is in accordance with their own statements. This argument strategy is not new in itself: writers before Dionysius have used quotations from Classical authors to substantiate their statements. What distinguishes Dionysius from them is the way he integrates these quotations into the discussions as voices in a dialogue between himself, his readers, and his adversaries. The Classical authors become Dionysius’ ‘witnesses.’ 728 This evokes a subtext for the dialogic shape of Dionysius’ essays which is firmly associated with Classical oratory, the trials in the Athenian courts. During a speech in the Attic court, the voices of the witnesses temporar-

728 See, e.g., Pomp. 1.9 (Plato as Dionysius’ witness); Amm.I , 10.2; 11; 12.1 (Aristotle as witness); similarly, Dionysius refers to the quotations as parade–gmata to prove his point, cf., e.g., Isoc. 15.1: ‘I think it may now be time to turn to examples, and to show through these where our orator’s strength lies’ (πra d‡ ãn e“h ka» t¿n paradeigmàtwn âyasjai ka» deÿxai t–c ‚sti to‘toic ô to‹ ˚†toroc  sq‘c) – notice Dionysius’ pun on the etymology of parà-deigma and deÿxai.

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ily substituted the speaker’s voice: the witnesses did not appear in court themselves, but their statements were read aloud. 729 In the same way, the Classical authors are not themselves present in Dionysius’ texts. They interfere only through their voices, which have to be enacted by the readers: just as the statements of human witnesses temporarily substitute the voice of the speaker in Attic court speeches, the quotations from the Classical authors temporarily speak to the readers on behalf of Dionysius. 730 The difference is that Dionysius uses quotations from literary works as witnesses, whereas in the Attic court the statements read out were usually those of living persons. But this would hardly present a problem to Dionysius’ readers, as Aristotle in the Rhetorics had already declared the words of famous authors to be the most trustworthy (pistÏtatoi) witnesses: being màrturec palaio–, their

729 Hence the blank spaces typical of the texts of Attic orations which mark the point when the speaker stops to have the statements of the màrturec take his place. 730 Fornaro has shown that Dionysius shapes the whole discussion of Plato’s style against the objections of his addressee Pompeius as a trial (Fornaro [1997] 10–11 and cf. her comm. on 1.17.24). In this letter-trial Dionysius has the role of the accused (Pomp. 1.15: ‘I have sufficiently defended’ (…kan¿c ÇpolelÏghmai), defines the first part of the letter as an Çpolog–a against Pompeius). He was blamed by Pompeius for having unjustly accused Plato (Pomp. 1.1: ‘the accusation against Plato’ (t¨ Plàtwnoc kathror–¯, Usher’s transl. modified); ibid. 1.4: ‘I admit that I am in the wrong and am transgressing the laws which we have established for eulogies’ (Çdikeÿn fhmi ka» parekba–nein toÃc kajest∏tac ômÿn ‚p» toÿc ‚pa–noic nÏmouc)). From Pompeius’ point of view, Plato himself is involved in this ‘trial’ as the wrongly accused. Dionysius, by contrast, cites Plato as his ‘witness’: Plato testifies that comparing his style with Demosthenes’, Dionysius was applying a standard procedure of the Platonic Ílegqoc (cf. Pomp. 1.9: ‘But if you require also to be furnished with proofs […] I will […] use Plato himself as my witness’ (e  d‡ deÿ ka» ‚k t¿n marturi¿n parasqËsjai soi p–steic […] aŒtƒ qr†somai màrturi Plàtwni) with ibid. 1.11: ‘Thus, when engaging in the most banal and invidious of tasks, praising his own oratorical ability, Plato did not think that he was doing anything worthy of censure in claiming that his own speeches should be examined alongside those of the best orator of the day, and in calling attention to Lysias’ failings and his own successes. In these circumstances, what was there so surprising in my action when I compared the speeches of Plato with those of Demosthenes, and took account of anything that is not good in them?’ (ÂpÏte ofin Plàtwn t‰ fortik∏taton ka» ‚paqjËstaton t¿n Írgwn proelÏmenoc, aÕt‰n ‚paineÿn katÄ tòn d‘namin t¿n lÏgwn, oŒd‡n æeto poieÿn

kathgor–ac äxion e  parÄ t‰n äriston t¿n tÏte ˚htÏrwn toÃc  d–ouc ‚xetàzein öx–ou lÏgouc, ‚pideikn‘menoc Lus–an te ‚n oŸc ômàrthken ka» ·aut‰n ‚n oŸc kat∏rjwke, t– jaumast‰n ‚po–oun ‚g∞ toÿc DhmosjËnouc lÏgoic sugkr–nwn toÃc Plàtwnoc ka» e“ ti mò kal¿c ‚n aŒtoÿc Íqein æmhn ‚pilogizÏmenoc;)). For a more detailed discussion see Wiater (2008).

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testimonies are ‘incorruptible’ (Çdiàfjoroi)731 and, inserted into speeches, they count as much as the testimony of a living person, potentially even more. 732 Dionysius’ use of the term e sàgein to introduce such quotations (Dem. 17.1; ibid. 21.1) further supports the interpretation of the verbatim quotations as participants in a dialogic interaction. This term either describes an actor or a speaker being brought forward on the stage to give his speech 733 or refers to a passage in a speech in which the speaker’s voice is temporarily replaced with the voice of another person. This rhetorical device, the ethopoiia, 734 was regarded as giving a work a dialogic character, and some rhetoricians preferred to call it diàlogoi or dialogismÏc instead of ethopoiia. 735 Dionysius’ use of this verb indicates that he conceives of the voices of the Classical authors as addressing the reader on his behalf. Similarly, Dionysius introduces a verbatim quotation from Plato’s Menexenus by telling his readers

731 732 733 734

Rh. 1376a16–17. Cf. ibid. 1375b28–1376a2. See LSJ, pp. 492–493, s.v. II. On ethopoiia/sermocinatio see the references collected in Lausberg (1990) §§ 820–825; Dionysius uses e sàgein in this sense at Thuc. 18.4: ‘[Why does the historian] introduce the most illustrious public orator, Pericles, to enact his performance of high tragedy’ ([…]  suggrafeÃc ka» t‰n ‚pifanËstaton t¿n dhmagwg¿n PeriklËan tòn Õyhlòn trag˙d–an ‚ke–nhn e sàgei diatijËmenon […]); ibid. 40.4: ‘[Thucydides] makes the Athenian retort in an even more arrogant manner’ ([…] aŒjadËsteron Íti t‰n >Ajhnaÿon ÇpokrinÏmenon e sàgei); cf. imit. 2.13: ‘Euripides does this often in the rhetorical performances’ ( d‡ EŒrip–dhc polÃc ‚n taÿc ˚htorikaÿc e sagwgaÿc, here the term probably refers to the rheseis; transl. mine) and a passage from the most likely spurious Ars Rhetorica, p. 378, l. 2 U–R: ‘Plato introduces the Egyptian to say […]’ ( Plàtwn t‰n A g‘ption lËgonta e sàgei, transl. mine). In so far as Dionysius’ quotations from the Classical authors introduce a second voice into the text they are comparable to ethopoiia; but they differ from ethopoiia in the important aspect that the speaker in the ethopoiiae was invented by the author, whereas Dionysius inserts actual words of other authors into his works. The effect of ‘dialogicity’ remains the same. 735 For diàlogoi see Lausberg (1990) § 820 (p. 407), who quotes Quint. inst. 9.2.31: ‘They prefer imaginary conversations between historical characters to be called Dialogues, which some Latin writers have translated sermocinatio’ (sermones hominum adsimulatos dicere dialÏgouc malunt, quod Latinorum quidam dixerunt sermocinationem); for dialogismÏc ibid., referring to Rufinus 20 (p. 43–44 Halm): ‘This happens when someone is arguing with himself or is considering what he should do or what he thinks should be done’ (haec ita fit, cum quis secum disputat et volutat, quid agat vel quid agendum putet, transl. mine); the term ‘polyphony’ for insertions of direct speech into oral narratives is used and analysed from a linguistic perspective by Macauley (1987).

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to ‘listen to’ 736 what Plato ‘says’ (Çko‘swmen d‡ aŒto‹ p¿c lËgei, Dem. 26.1).737 My first example of ‘out-group reading,’ Dionysius’ virtual trial against the Peripatetic in the First Letter to Ammaeus, is a powerful demonstration of how Dionysius employs polyphony as a strategy of self-definition and distinction.

5.2.1 ‘Objective Critic’ vs ‘Subjective Critic’: The Peripatetic on Trial The introduction to the First Letter to Ammaeus has been discussed in detail in chapter 1.2. I will therefore recall here only the main points concerning its origin and purpose. The letter is directed against an anonymous Peripatetic who claimed that Demosthenes had learned his superb rhetorical skills from Aristotle’s Rhetoric. If the Peripatetic’s opinion turned out to be true or if it were accepted by the majority of critics, the foundations of Dionysius’ criticism would be shattered: a teacher of Classical oratory like Dionysius would be superfluous if rhetorical skills of the quality of a Demosthenes could be obtained from Aristotle’s treatise. Dionysius’ letter is aimed at refuting the Peripatetic before he is able to publish his thesis and to make it known to a wider public. Whereas the discussion in chapter 1.2 has shown that distinction from the Peripatetics is an essential concern of Dionysius, in this chapter I will demonstrate how this distinction is enacted through the very process of reading the text. Dionysius acts out the controversy with the Peripatetic by confronting the Peripatetic’s erroneous thesis with the ‘testimony’ of his ‘witness’ Aristotle. In so doing, Dionysius ‘stages’ the controversy as a trial in the Attic court: Dionysius defends Aristotle against the wrong and selfish claims of the Peripatetic and gives Aristotle the opportunity to testify against his successor (Amm. I , 6.1):738 736 Thus convincingly Porter (2006b) 335 with n. 90, against Schenkeveld (1992) 133–134, who takes ÇkÏuein to mean ‘to read.’ 737 >Ako‘ein is found in this sense only once again in the works attributed to Dionysius, in the spurious Ars Rhetorica, p. 301, l. 4–5 U–R: ‘Let us listen to the style of the orator’ (Çko‘swmen t®c lËxewc to‹ ˚†toroc […], transl. mine). 738 See also Amm.I , 1.1: The Peripatetic ‘wish[es] to show all respect to Aristotle, the founder of his school’ (pànta qar–zesjai boulÏmenoc >AristotËlei tƒ kt–santi ta‘thn tòn filosof–an […]), and 10.1: ‘Enough has been said to expose the craving for reputation of those who assert that Demosthenes modeled his style after the Rhetoric of

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√A d‡ aŒt‰c  filÏsofoc Õp‡r ·auto‹ gràfei, pêsan Çfairo‘menoc ‚piqe–rhsin t¿n qar–zesjai boulomËnwn aŒtƒ tÄ mò pros†konta, pr‰c polloÿc älloic ¡n oŒd‡n dËomai memn®sjai katÄ t‰ parÏn, É tËjhken ‚n t¨ pr∏t˘ b–bl˙ ta‘thc t®c pragmate–ac […] tekmhr–wn ‚st»n  squrÏtera. What the philosopher says of himself completely nullifies the efforts of those who wish to accord him honours to which he is not entitled. In addition to many other proofs, none of which I need mention at the present time, there is the passage he has written in the First Book of the treatise under discussion. Here we have the strongest proof […].

This passage is the beginning of the second part of the letter (chs. 6–12) which is distinguished by an important change of voices: in the first part (chs. 4–5), Dionysius presents the relevant ‘data’ about Demosthenes and Aristotle, which he has drawn from historical and biographical works. Throughout this historico-biographical section, Dionysius is speaking in his own voice, ‘putting forth’ (proeipeÿn, Amm.I , 3.3) what he has found in the sources. From Amm.I , 6 onwards, by contrast, quotations from Aristotle’s writings predominate, whereas Dionysius confines his interventions to simply reminding the reader of what Aristotle has said (memn®sjai, Amm.I , 6.1). Dionysius temporarily cedes the place of the authorial voice to Aristotle and lets him speak for himself through the verbatim quotations (É d‡ aŒt‰c  filÏsofoc Õp‡r ·auto‹ gràfei, Amm.I , 6.1, emphasis mine).739 It is now Aristotle’s voice which directly addresses the reader, and the Peripatetic in particular, in order to ‘completely nullif[y] the efforts of those who wish to accord him honours to which he is not entitled.’ This change of voice does not mean that Dionysius is completely faded out of the discussion. Dionysius is arguing Aristotle’s case, and Aristotle takes part in the controversy as Dionysius’ màrtuc; though speaking for himself and in his own voice, Aristotle testifies for Dionysius (tekm†rion). 740 Dionysius provides Aristotle with a virtual courtroom so that he may save his reputation by refuting the absurd allegations of his (and Dionysius’) Aristotle’ (ÇpÏqrh m‡n ofin ka» ta‹ta ˚hjËnta fanerÄn poi®sai tòn filotim–an t¿n Çxio‘ntwn tÄc >AristotËlouc ‚zhlwkËnai tËqnac t‰n DhmosjËnh […], emphasis added; Usher’s transl. modified). 739 See further, e.g., Amm.I , 6.2, 7.1, 8.1, 11.2. 740 E.g., Amm.I , 8.1, 10.2, 11.1, 12.1, 12.4; quotations of ancient authors are called ‘witnesses’ and ‘testimonies’ also by other writers, cf., e.g., Strabo 9.1.6, 392C, 36–37 Radt (tekm†rion) and 9.1.10, 394C, 14 Radt (màrtuc).

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adversary. The result is a polyphonic space, 741 which is constituted by the voices of Dionysius, Aristotle, and the Peripatetic, who is represented by a fictus interlocutor (Amm.I , 8.1):

E  dË tic o’twc Ístai d‘seric πste ka» pr‰c ta‹ta ÇntilËgein, Ìti m‡n ’steron ‚gràfhsan a… ˚htorika» tËqnai t¿n Çnalutik¿n te ka» mejodik¿n ka» topik¿n, Âmolog¿n Çlhj‡c e⁄nai, oŒd‡n d‡ kwl‘ein lËgwn Åpàsac ta‘tac kateskeuakËnai t‰n filÏsofon tÄc pragmate–ac Íti paideuÏmenon parÄ Plàtwni, yuqrÄn m‡n ka» Çp–janon ‚piqe–rhsin e sàgwn, biazÏmenoc d‡ t‰ kakourgÏtaton t¿n ‚piqeirhmàtwn poieÿn pijan∏taton, Ìti ka» t‰ mò e k‰c g–neta– pote e kÏc, Çfe»c É pr‰c ta‹ta lËgein e⁄qon, ‚p» tÄc aŒto‹ trËyomai to‹ filosÏfou martur–ac […]. But if, even in the face of these arguments, some person should be so quarrelsome as to object, saying that while he admits the truth of the statement that the Rhetoric was written after the Analytics, the Methodics and the Topics, there is no reason why Aristotle should not have composed all these treatises while still a disciple in Plato’s school, such a contention is feeble and improbable, and is merely a violent attempt to make the most mischievous of paradoxes seem more credible, that even what is unlikely is likely to occur sometimes. Omitting, therefore, what I could have said in reply to this, I shall turn to evidence provided by the philosopher himself […].

The fictus interlocutor is reacting to one of Aristotle’s ‘testimonies,’ 742 a long verbatim quotation in the preceding chapter, accompanied by Dionysius’ comment. The occurrence of three different speakers within two chapters would have sufficiently marked the dialogicity of this part of the letter. But Dionysius additionally emphasizes the interaction of the different voices by using terms which explicitly characterize the different pronouncements as statement and reply: ÇntilËgein marks the objection of the fictus interlocutor as the direct response (Çnti-lËgein) to the quotation from Aristotle as well as to Dionysius’ comments in the preceding chapter; the term is then picked up by lËgwn in the fictus interlocutor’s statement. Taken together, both terms characterize the whole scene as a live argument in which different partners react spontaneously to each other’s words. >Epiqe–rhsic further supports this impression. The term means ‘attempt to prove, argue

741 Cf. my remarks on Bakhtin’s ‘chronotope’ above, n. 719. 742 Amm.I , 7.1–2; notice marturÏmenoc, ibid. 7.2.

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dialectically’ 743 and characterizes the communicative situation that results from the interlocutor ’s ‘reply.’ Furthermore, towards the end of the above quotation, Dionysius declines to respond to the interlocutor ’s statement and lets Aristotle himself reply to it (Çfe»c É pr‰c ta‹ta lËgein e⁄qon, ‚p» tÄc aŒto‹ trËyomai to‹ filosÏfou martur–ac). 744 This entire section of the letter is thus constituted by an interchange of statements, responses, and counter-responses, as in a real verbal dispute. The dialogic design of Dionysius’ letter is an essential element of Dionysius’ attempt to create an image of himself as an ‘objective critic,’ whose opinion is true because it is based exclusively on the textual testimony. This goes hand-in-hand with the definition of the Peripatetic as a ‘subjective critic’ who uses the texts for his personal interests. The Peripatetic’s intention (boulÏmenoc in the next quotation), Dionysius states, is to enhance the glory of Aristotle, the founder of his philosophical tradition (pànta qar–zesjai boulÏmenoc >AristotËlei tƒ kt–santi ta‘thn tòn filosof–an, Amm.I , 1.1). Therefore the Peripatetic deliberately ‘accords him [Aristotle] honours to which he is not entitled’ (qar–zesjai aŒtƒ tÄ mò pros†konta, Amm.I , 6.1), although he has to ignore both factual and textual evidence to do so. The terms filotim–a and filoneik–a (filoneik¿n, 12.4; d‘seric, 8.1), which characterize the Peripatetic’s behaviour, reveal why the Peripatetic is so keen on enhancing Aristotle’s reputation: in so doing, he enhances his own reputation (tim† in filotim–a) as Aristotle’s representative and thus strengthens his position in the struggle of criticism (neÿkoc in filoneik¿n). 745 He instrumentalizes the Classical texts in order to achieve his aim. Dionysius explicitly rejects this subjectivism (Amm.I , 2.2, above): truth, Çl†jeia, he declares at 2.3, is his major concern and that of the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi,’ which he represents.746 He even claims to 743 LSJ, p. 672, s.v. III. 744 Cf. Amm.I , 9.1: Aristotle himself ‘proves’ or ‘demonstrates’ a point (oÕtws» m‡n dò saf¿c aŒt‰c  filÏsofoc Çpodeikn‘ei […]); Amm.I , 12.4 represents a communicative situation similar to the one described above: ‘Now if one of those habitual quibblers is going to suggest […] I undertake to demonstrate, using the philosopher himself as my witness, that this oration too was completed before the publication of the Rhetoric’ (E  dË tic ‚reÿ t¿n pr‰c âpanta filoneiko‘ntwn […] ka» to‹ton ‚pide–xein Õpisqno‹mai t‰n Çg¿na pr‰ t¿n >AristotËlouc teqn¿n ‚pitetelesmËnon, aŒtƒ qrhsàmenoc tƒ filosÏf˙ màrturi); ibid. 12.7. 745 On the role of tradition for a critic’s claim to authority see ch.s 1.2.2 and 1.2.3 above. 746 Dionysius states that he wrote this letter ‘both out of regard for the truth, which I think should be the object of every enquiry, and for the gratification of all those who make

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be willing to reconsider his own position and to subscribe to the Peripatetic’s opinion despite the potential damage this would cause to his own reputation, if this were necessary to do justice to the Classical authors (Amm.I , 1.2).747 It is important to note that such claims to ‘objectivism’ along with his extensive discussions (and, in all cases, refutations) of alternative opinions, such as the Peripatetic’s, are by no means expressions of Dionysius’ modesty.748 They are part of Dionysius’ self-fashioning as the ‘advocate’ of the Classical authors. His claim to ‘objectivism’ is an element of the argument strategy which Dionysius uses to assert the superiority of his method over that of others. Taking these claims at face-value means to succumb to a carefully crafted self-image which Dionysius seeks to propagate and which is an important part of his attempt to arrogate authority for himself and his critical method. In this case, Dionysius’ programmatic claim to truth prepares the declaration of his ‘objective’ method at Amm.I , 2.2: the arguments of a ‘practitioner of politiko» lÏgoi’ are based only on the words of the Classical authors themselves. Ammaeus was right, Dionysius says there, to urge him ‘not to rest my case upon mere signs or probabilities or pieces of evidence extraneous to it […] but rather to call as my witness Aristotle himself’ (mò

shme–oic mhd‡ e kÏsi mhd+Çllotr–aic t‰ prêgma pist∏sasjai martur–aic […], Çll+aŒt‰n >AristotËlh parasqËsjai […]). The verbatim quotations from Aristotle’s works implement this programme. Letting Aristotle speak on his behalf, as his ‘witness,’ Dionysius substantiates his claim to ‘objectivity.’ Aristotle himself confirms that Dionysius’ pronouncements are ‘true.’ The whole dialogic structure of the letter is an essential part of the construction of Dionysius’ self-image as the representative and defender of a serious study of politiko» lÏgoi’ (t®c te Çlhje–ac pronoo‘menoc, õn ‚p» pant‰c o“omai deÿn pràgmatoc ‚xetàzesjai, ka» t®c Åpàntwn t¿n per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚spoudakÏtwn qàritoc, Usher’s transl. modified). 747 ‘After much private thought I concluded that the matter needed more diligent enquiry, in case the real truth had escaped me and the man had not spoken at random. I should then have either discarded my earlier view, on learning for certain that the Rhetoric of Aristotle preceded the speeches of Demosthenes, or tried to persuade the person who has adopted this view […] to change it’ ([…] polÃc ‚n ‚mautƒ genÏmenoc ‚pimelestËrac æmhn deÿsjai skËyewc t‰ prêgma, m† pote lËlhjË me tÇlhj‡c o’twc Íqon ka» oŒd‡n e k¨ tƒ Çndr» e“rhtai, —na £ tòn dÏxan õn prÏteron aŒt‰c Ísqon 〈Çfe–hn〉,

beba–wc maj∞n Ìti protero‹si t¿n DhmosjËnouc lÏgwn a… >AristotËlouc tËqnai £ t‰n o’twc ‚gnwkÏta […] metabaleÿn pe–saimi tòn dÏxan). 748 Such a view of Dionysius as a ‘modest’ critic is adopted by, e.g., Bottai (1999) 139 and Aujac I, 16.

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the Classical tradition and, thus, contributes to establishing his position of superiority in the field of criticism. Whereas Dionysius’ ‘objectivism’ strengthens his bonds with the Classical tradition, his characterization of the Peripatetic as ‘subjective’ disavows the Peripatetic’s claim to be the representative of the Aristotelian tradition. Estimating Aristotle’s (and his own) reputation higher than truth (filotim–a above), the Peripatetic acts against what had already been a ‘commonplace of Platonism,’ namely the principle that truth is the philosopher’s ultimate goal and must be the only standard of all his inquiries.749 This principle applied in particular if the quest for truth implied contradicting one’s friend and master and threatened to do harm to his reputation: amicus Plato sed magis amica veritas. 750 Some similar expressions in Plato’s dialogues notwithstanding, 751 the ultimate source of this principle is a passage from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (1096a13–14). 752 Discussing the universal good, Aristotle finds himself forced to criticize the theory of ‘ideas’ (e“dh) which had been introduced by ‘his friends’ (f–loi ändrec). 753 Hence the dilemma arises of what counts more, the thoughts of the friends or the investigation into the true nature of the universal good, even if this implies that the position of the friends must be abolished. Aristotle’s answer is clear: a philosopher always has to prefer truth to affection and respect for people who are dear to him (EN 1096a13–14): ‘Both are dear to us, but it is a sacred duty to put truth first’ (Çmfoÿn gÄr Óntoin f–loin Ìsion protimên tòn Çl†jeian). By claiming that the Peripatetic attempts to accord Aristotle ‘honours to which he is not entitled’ (qar–zesjai aŒtƒ tÄ mò pros†konta, Amm.I , 6.1) in order to gratify him (Amm.I , 1.1), Dionysius implies that the very attempt of the Peripatetic to enhance Aristotle’s reputation (and his own authority) 749 Tarán (1984) 102. 750 Tarán (1984) explores the origins of this saying and its different forms from Plato to Cervantes. 751 Esp., Plt. Resp. 595b9–c3, where Socrates says that although he loves and respects Homer, he is forced by truth to speak up and to criticize his poetry as harmful for education: ‘Yet all the same we must not honour a man above the truth’ (Çll+oŒ gÄr prÏ ge t®c Çlhje–ac timhtËoc Çn†r, 595c2–3) (Tarán [1984] 99), and Phd. 91b7–c5, where Socrates is warning Simmias and Cebes against ‘misology’ and says they should care less for Socrates and more for truth: ‘[But you will] give little thought to Socrates and much more to the truth’ (smikr‰n front–santec Swkràtouc, t®c d‡ Çlhje–ac polà mêllon, 91c1–2) (Tarán [1984] 100). 752 Tarán (1984) 98. 753 I agree with Tarán (1984) 98 that although Aristotle speaks of ‘his friends’ in the plural, his criticism is in fact directed against Plato.

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neatly contradicts one of the main principles of Aristotelian philosophical enquiry. The Peripatetic’s strategy itself thus undermines his claim to be a representative of Peripatetic tradition and to be acting on behalf of Aristotle. Dionysius, by contrast, establishes the uncompromising quest for truth as the main principle of his criticism. This makes Dionysius and his critical practice appear to be much closer to the discursive principles of Aristotle and the Peripatetic tradition than the Peripatetic himself. Dionysius’ strategy, to employ Aristotle’s own words to refute his adversary’s claims, further substantiates the close bond between Aristotelian philosophy and Dionysius’ critical method. For here Dionysius is following Aristotle’s advice in the Rhetoric on how to use quotations from respected authors as màrturec Çdiàfjoroi to support one’s case in a trial.754 Thus Dionysius not only annihilates his adversary’s attempt to reduce his critical method to a useless appendix of Peripatetic philosophy.755 He also disavows the Peripatetic’s claim to be a representative of the Aristotelian tradition. And by losing the affiliations with his tradition, the Peripatetic also loses his authority. The First Letter to Ammaeus is particularly illustrative of the inseparable interrelation of knowledge, criticism, the critic’s self-image, and distinction in Dionysius’ Classicism: Dionysius’ essay provides the reader with both factual knowledge about Classical texts, the relation between Aristotle and Demosthenes, and processual knowledge, i.e., how to deal with Classical texts in order to obtain reliable factual knowledge. Both the factual and the processual knowledge can be acquired only by re-enacting Dionysius’ controversy with the Peripatetic and the latter’s defeat which it inevitably entails. Dionysius’ attempt to distinguish himself and his method from the Peripatetic goes hand-in-hand with reminding the reader of the superiority of the community which is represented by Dionysius. From the introduction readers know that Dionysius is arguing with the Peripatetic on behalf of ‘all those who make a serious study of politiko» lÏgoi’ ([pronoo‘menoc]

t®c Åpàntwn t¿n per» t¿n per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚spoudakÏtwn qàritoc, Amm.I , 2.3). As they read how Dionysius establishes the principles of his criticism by refuting the Peripatetic, they realize that both Dionysius’ judgment on the Classical texts and his method define the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as much as they distinguish them from the Peripatetics. 754 Rh. 1376a16–17; cf. above, p. 302. 755 See above, ch. 1.2.2, esp. p. 43.

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The demonstration of the advantages and disadvantages of the different approaches to the Classical texts and of the superiority of Dionysius’ critical method invites the reader to identify with Dionysius and the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ and to side with them in the controversy. Thus the dialogic structure of Dionysius’ argument contributes to creating a feeling of togetherness between Dionysius and his addressees.

5.2.2 The Aesthetics of Criticism: Dionysius vs the Platonists Dionysius’ dispute with the Peripatetic was concerned with factual evidence, the chronology of Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Demosthenes’ speeches, and the method by which Classical texts have to be approached. In On Demosthenes 23–30 Dionysius presents his readers with another virtual controversy; this time he is arguing against admirers of Plato (‘Platonists’). 756 The argument is centred on the aesthetic judgment on a piece of political oratory, the Funeral Oration in Plato’s Menexenus. Dionysius is arguing against the Platonists’ claim that Plato should be the model not only of philosophical writing, but also of political rhetoric. In a detailed discussion of the style of Plato’s Funeral Oration Dionysius demonstrates that this claim would do considerable damage to the dignity of the Classical past: political oratory has to re-present the dignity of the subject of the speech, in this case Athenian democracy and the tradition of Athenian political and moral values. But Plato’s style does not meet this requirement; on the contrary, Plato’s way of dealing with political topics risks making Classical Athens appear ridiculous. Dionysius’ detailed discussion of the Funeral Oration in chapters 23–30 of On Demosthenes elaborates on themes which he introduces in an earlier section of his essay (Dem. 5–7). Since this section sets the scene for the longer discussion, it will be discussed first. At Dem. 5–7 Dionysius is concerned with the ‘mixed style,’ which is represented by the works of Plato, Isocrates, and Demosthenes, whom Dionysius judges as superior to the other two. Dionysius’ judgment provokes objections from the Platonists who hold that Plato should be regarded as the best model of ‘mixed style.’ Dionysius replies by establishing a correlation between the aesthetic sensibilities of the Classical authors and the critic’s aesthetic competence (Dem. 6.1–4): 756 Ancient judgments on Plato’s style are collected and discussed in Walsdorff (1927), on Dionysius’ criticism of Plato see ibid. 9–24.

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Mhde»c dË me tÄ toia‹ta Õpolàb˘ lËgein Åpàshc katagin∏skonta t®c ‚xhllagmËnhc ka» ‚gkataske‘ou lËxewc, ≠ kËqrhtai Plàtwn. Mò gÄr dò o’tw skai‰c mhd+Çna–sjhtoc ‚g∞ geno–mhn πste ta‘thn tòn dÏxan Õp‡r Çndr‰c thliko‘tou labeÿn, ‚pe» pollÄ per» poll¿n o⁄da megàla ka» jaumastÄ ka» Çp‰ t®c äkrac dunàmewc ‚xenhnegmËna Õp+aŒto‹. […] >Eg∞ d‡ öx–oun thliko‹ton ändra pefulàqjai pêsan ‚pit–mhsin. TaŒtÄ mËntoi o… kat+aŒt‰n ‚keÿnon genÏmenoi ±c Åmartànonti tƒ Çndr» ‚pitim¿sin, ¡n tÄ ÊnÏmata oŒj‡n dËomai lËgein, ka» aŒt‰c ·autƒ; to‹to gÄr dò t‰ lamprÏtaton. óHisjeto gàr, ±c Íoiken, t®c  d–ac Çpeirokal–ac ka» Ónoma Íjeto aŒt¨ t‰ dij‘rambon, Á n‹n ãn ûdËsjhn ‚g∞ lËgein Çlhj‡c Ón. But no one should suppose that in making these criticisms I am condemning all the forms of unconventional and ornate style which Plato employs. I hope that I should not be so obtuse and insensitive as to take this view of such a great man, for I know that he has produced many works on a variety of subjects that are great and admirable and show the highest ability. […] But I should have expected such a great writer to have insured himself against all forms of criticism. In point of fact, contemporaries of his whose names I need not mention reproach him with this very fault; and the most striking thing is that he acknowledges it himself. He apparently noticed his own tendency towards want of taste, and called it his “dithyrambic” style, a term which I should have been ashamed to introduce myself at this point, apt though it is. 757

The idea behind Dionysius’ criticism of Plato is that knowledge and aesthetics are interrelated. This conception is familiar from the discussion in chapter 4.2: the aesthetics of a text, its effect on the audience, is based on the author’s knowledge of the rules of synthesis. For Dionysius that means that Plato’s stylistic shortcomings could and should have been avoided: they are unworthy of a man of Plato’s intellectual capacities. 758 Therefore it is Plato himself, and his carelessness, which are to be blamed for the stylistic failures of his texts. 759 It is illuminating to compare Dionysius’ controversy with the Platonists and his debate with the Peripatetic which was discussed in the preceding 757 Usher’s transl. modified. 758 See Çndr‰c thliko‘tou; pollÄ per» poll¿n o⁄da megàla ka» jaumastÄ ka» Çp‰ t®c äkrac dunàmewc ‚xenhnegmËna Õp+aŒto‹; öx–oun thliko‹ton ändra pefulàqjai pêsan ‚pit–mhsin in the above quotation. 759 Dionysius expresses a much more favourable judgment on Plato’s use of prose rhythm, in which he places him second only to Demosthenes (Comp. 18.12–15).

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section of this chapter. In the latter, Dionysius was able to represent himself as the defender of a Classical authority whose works were in danger of being abused by one of his followers pursuing a selfish agenda. The fundamental difference in the controversy with the Platonists is that here Dionysius cannot avoid criticising one of the venerated Classical authors. The first sentence (mhde»c dË me […] Õpolàb˘ […]) of the above passage shows that such criticism was an inherently ambivalent enterprise because it risked undermining the authority (cf. ûdËsjhn) of the Classical authors on which, in turn, not only the Platonists’ authority and legitimation was based but also Dionysius’. The controversy with the Platonists thus allows us interesting insight into the relationship between critic and Classical author: how do you criticise someone who, by definition, should be beyond criticism? At the same time, it is in Dionysius’ interests to disprove the Platonists’ claim because they threaten his own authority which is based on the claim that political oratory in general, and its most outstanding representative, Demosthenes, in particular, are the supreme models of all forms of prose discourse. Dionysius manages to keep the balance between the two tasks by aligning his aesthetic position with both the critics of Plato in Classical times and, more important, with Plato’s own aesthetic judgment on his style. 760 Dionysius thus protects his position from the potential charge of a lack of respect for the Classical author – elsewhere Dionysius is even reproached with committing an act of sacrilege by criticising Plato (Pomp. 1.4) 761 – and declares the ambivalence to be a quality of the Classical author’s style itself rather than of his aesthetic judgment. He constructs the image of a bipartite tradition of aesthetic assessment of Plato’s style which was well established already in Classical times and ultimately went back to Plato himself, who acknowledged his lack of taste by calling it t‰ dij‘rambon. 762 Now the 760 Aujac II, 57 n. 2 refers to the Letter to Pompeius where Dionysius cites the names of Plato’s contemporaries who criticised his style, such as Aristotle, Cephisodorus, Theopompus, Zoilus, Hippodamas, and Demetrius of Phaleron. 761 See the detailed discussion in Wiater (2008) 14–22. 762 As Aujac II, 57 n. 3 points out, Dionysius is alluding here to Plt. Phdr. 238d2–3, where Socrates remarks that his own style ‘is not far from dithyrambs any longer’ (oŒkËti pÏrrw dijuràmbwn) which he interprets as a sign that he is becoming ‘possessed’ (numfÏlhptoc, d1). DeVries (1969), on Phdr. 238d2–3, remarks that the dithyramb was mocked already in the fifth century; he cites the scholiast on Ar. Av. 1392 who quotes the proverbial saying ‘you have even less brains than a dithyramb’ (ka» dijuràmbwn no‹n Íqeic ‚làttona, transl. mine). It is worth adding that the scholiast quotes the proverb to illustrate a sentence distinguished by overwhelming style (ple–sth […] lËxic) and minimal content (no‹c ‚làqistoc) (the scholia on Aristophanes are quoted from D.

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Platonists appear to be following the ‘wrong’ line of criticism of Plato’s style while Dionysius turns out to be following the judgment of Plato himself and Plato’s critics in Classical times. This points to a connection between the critic’s aesthetic judgment and the author’s taste: if it were not confirmed by Plato’s own judgment, Dionysius’ criticism of Plato’s Çpeirokal–a would reveal his judgment on Plato’s style as an expression of his own, rather than Plato’s, lack of taste (skaiÏc; Çna–sjhtoc). Dionysius forestalls this objection by proving that his aesthetic judgment is based on the same criteria for style which were recognized, though not always followed, by Plato (cf. ¶sjeto [Plato]): 763 Dionysius’ aesthetic judgment represents Classical taste in the present and is therefore beyond criticism: it is as ‘true’ as Plato’s own judgment on his style (Çlhj‡c Ón). Hence rather than Dionysius, it is the Platonists whose appreciation even of Plato’s stylistic failures reveals that they suffer from the same lack of aesthetic sensibility as their master occasionally did. Dionysius strengthens the parallel between his aesthetical competence and the Classical standards of style through an intertextual allusion. Usher notes that Dionysius’ words ‘I hope that I should not be so obtuse and insensitive’ (Mò gÄr dò o’tw skai‰c mhd+Çna–sjhtoc ‚g∞ geno–mhn) recall Demosthenes’ On the Crown 18.120: ‘but, really now, are you so unintelligent [literally, ‘devoid of perception’] and blind, Aeschines […]’ (ÇllÄ pr‰c je¿n o’tw skai‰c e⁄ ka» Çna–sjhtoc, A sq–nh […]). Dionysius models his controversy with the Platonists on Demosthenes’ dispute with Aeschines: he proves his adversaries to be skaio– and Çna–sjhtoi, as Demosthenes had proved Aeschines to be. Moreover, Dionysius is arguing against the Platonists because he wants to establish Demosthenes, the author of On the Crown, as the champion of style. In Classical times, Demosthenes defended his position against Aeschines himself; in the present, Dionysius is arguing on Demosthenes’ behalf against those who refuse to accept his authority. The main idea behind On Demosthenes 6.1–4 is thus that Classical rhetoric and literary criticism are correlated. Through the parallel with On Holwerda’s edition, Groningen 1991). As will become apparent below, the central point of Dionysius’ criticism of Plato’s style, too, is the misrepresentation of extra-textual reality in Plato’s ‘political’ passages which is caused by his ‘dithyrambic’ style. DeVries further mentions that Plato uses the term dij‘rambon for ‘a long and irrelevant answer’ at Hp. Ma. 292c7 (ibid. 88) and for a ‘striking’ word at Cra. 409c3 (ibid. 89). 763 I have discussed the intertextual relation between this passage and the Letter to Pompeius in Wiater (2008); cf. de Jonge (2008) 354 with n. 107.

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the Crown Dionysius suggests thinking of the controversies between the different schools of thought in his times as the continuation of the controversies between leading orators in Classical Athens. In Dionysius’ times, though, the focus has changed: the subject of the controversies between the critics is aesthetics rather than politics. But the question of whether Demosthenes or Plato is the champion of style is as important to the critics’ authority as the political questions were to the authority of the Classical orators. A critic’s influence depends on the authority of the Classical author with whom he identifies; the authority of a Classical author, in turn, depends on his stylistic qualities. Only an author whose speeches are aesthetically flawless is a suitable model of Classical style, and those critics who define themselves as the representatives of this author will control the standard of Classical writing in the present. Discussions about the aesthetic merits of an author, like the one between Dionysius and the Platonists, are concerned with establishing their favourite author as the main model of style. Therefore, the critic’s judgment on the style of the author which he favours must be as flawless as the style of the author itself: if the Platonists had had more aesthetic sensibilities, they would have realized from the start that Plato’s Çpeirokal–a prevented him from being ranked above Demosthenes. Dionysius, by contrast, realized this because his aesthetic judgment conforms to the Classical standards of style, including Plato’s own, and therefore is true. Thus neither Demosthenes’ authority as the primary exemplar of Classical style can be disputed nor Dionysius’ authority as Demosthenes’ representative. Dionysius picks up and elaborates on these themes in his detailed discussion of Plato’s Funeral Oration at Dem. 23–30. From the very beginning, Dionysius points out that the discussion of Plato’s style has immediate consequences for either his or the Platonists’ position in the field of literary criticism. The controversy over style is a controversy over influence (Dem. 23.1–3): […] per» d‡ Plàtwnoc ¢dh dialËxomai tà g+‚mo» doko‹nta metÄ parrhs–ac, oŒj‡n o÷te t¨ dÏx˘ tÇndr‰c prostije»c o÷te t®c Çlhje–ac Çfairo‘menoc, ka» màlista ‚pe– tinec Çxio‹si pàntwn aŒt‰n Çpo-

fa–nein filosÏfwn te ka» ˚htÏrwn ·rmhne‹sai tÄ pràgmata daimoni∏taton parakele‘onta– te ômÿn Ìr˙ ka» kanÏni qr®sjai kajar¿n âma ka»  squr¿n lÏgwn to‘t˙ tƒ Çndr–. óHdh dË tinwn ¢kousa ‚g∞ legÏntwn ±c, e  parÄ jeoÿc diàlektÏc ‚stin ≠ t‰ t¿n Çnjr∏pwn kËqrhtai gËnoc, oŒk ällwc  basileÃc øn aŒt¿n dialËgetai je‰c £

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±c Plàtwn. Pr‰c dò toia‘tac Õpol†yeic ka» terate–ac Çnjr∏pwn ômitel¿n per» lÏgouc, oÀ tòn eŒgen® kataskeuòn oŒk “sasin ° t–c pot+‚st»n oŒd‡ d‘nantai, pêsan e rwne–an Çfe–c, ±c pËfuka, dialËxomai. I shall […] pass on […] to Plato. I shall speak freely, making no concessions to the man’s reputation or being less than truthful. This impartial treatment is especially necessary because some claim that he is the supreme literary genius among all philosophers and orators, and urge us to regard him as the definitive norm for both plain and forceful writing. I have even heard it said, that if the gods speak in the same language as men, the king of the gods can only speak in the language of Plato. In dealing with these extravagant flights of fancy men who are only half-educated in rhetoric, and who do not and cannot know what noble style is like, I shall speak, setting aside all dissimulation, as is my way. 764

As in the First Letter to Ammaeus, Dionysius presents himself as engaged in a discussion with representatives of a philosophical tradition who claim authority not only in philosophical, but also in rhetorical discourse: the Peripatetic attempted to make Aristotle’s Rhetoric the standard of oratory, the Platonists try to install Plato as the ‘the definitive norm for both plain and forceful writing.’ The arrogation of power, which is implied in this claim, is brought out by expressions like ‘some claim that he is the supreme literary genius among all philosophers and orators’ (tinec Çxio‹si pàntwn

aŒt‰n Çpofa–nein filosÏfwn te ka» ˚htÏrwn ·rmhne‹sai tÄ pràgmata daimoni∏taton, emphasis mine) and ‘they urge us’ (parakele‘ontai), but also by the Platonists’ (alleged) claim that the king of the gods speaks like Plato. 765 As he did with the Peripatetic, Dionysius claims that also the Platonists use criticism to enhance the glory (dÏxa; cf. ûdËsjhn, Dem. 6.4 above) of the founder of the tradition of which they regard themselves as the representatives. Thus, as Plato’s representatives, they will define the standard of speech and establish a monopoly of criticism which threatens to suppress the voices of other critics (parrhs–a). Dionysius’ expression ‘I have even heard it said’ (¢dh dË tinwn ¢kousa ‚g∞ legÏntwn) creates the impression that 764 Usher’s transl. modified. 765 The identical statement made by Cicero Brut. 121 suggests that this judgment on Plato’s style was a cliché long before Dionysius arrived in Rome. However, this does not allow either a positive or a negative conclusion as to whether there actually existed a community of intellectuals in Rome in the first century BCE who endorsed this view; cf. the discussion in nn. 698 and 727 above.

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the Platonists’ claim is steadily gaining influence. Dionysius presents himself as reacting against an immediate threat to the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ for whom Demosthenes, if any, is the example of any kind of writing, be it plain or forceful (kajar¿n âma ka»  squr¿n lÏgwn). Dionysius contrasts his opponents’ concern for dÏxa with his own concern for ‘truth,’ Çl†jeia. In the above quotation Çl†jeia is part of a wider semantic field of similar expressions the common denominator of which is Dionysius’ ‘authenticity’ or ‘naturalness’: ‘I shall speek freely’ (tÄ g+‚mo» doko‹nta metÄ parrhs–ac), ‘setting aside all dissimulation (irony)’ (pêsan e rwne–an Çfe–c) and ‘as is my way’ (±c pËfuka). Dionysius’ judgment on the texts is ‘unfiltered,’ because it relies only on examination of the texts, whereas the Platonists’ claim is distorted by their concern for extra-textual factors, namely Plato’s and their own reputation (dÏxa). The chiastic structure underscores the main topic of the passage, Dionysius’ ‘authenticity’: dialËxomai at Dem. 23.3 resumes dialËxomai at Dem. 23.1, tÄ g+‚mo» doko‹nta corresponds to ±c pËfuka, and metÄ parrhs–ac picks up pêsan e rwne–an Çfe–c. The elaborated structure, similar to a ring-composition, invests the whole discussion about Plato’s style with a programmatic character: the following controversy is not simply about style, it is a controversy about principles of criticism. To his own ‘authenticity’ Dionysius opposes his opponents’ ‘distorted’ approach: whereas Dionysius’ words represent the text, he faults the Platonists for a discrepancy between Plato’s text and their assessment of it. E rwne–a is a key term in his argument: by so overtly refusing ‘irony,’ Dionysius implies that his opponents’ endorsement of Plato as the supreme model of all philosophers and orators is so absurd that it would be explicable only as an attempt to feign ignorance on a given subject in the Socratic manner with the sole purpose of stimulating a critical discussion that might eventually lead to the truth. Poignantly using the term that describes a typically Socratic method of argumentation, Socrates’ feigned ignorance, 766 Dionysius demasks the Platonists’ real ignorance (Çnjr∏pwn ômitel¿n per» lÏgouc, oÀ tòn eŒgen® kataskeuòn oŒk “sasin ° t–c pot+‚st»n oŒd‡ d‘nantai) and their neglect of Çl†jeia. Their assessment of Plato’s style is ‘ironic’ because the qualities they ascribe to it are incompatible with the textual evidence. This discrepancy is caused by the Platonists’ statements 766 See Plt. Resp. 337a4–5: ‘Socrates’ usual irony’ (ô e wjuÿa e rwne–a Swkràtouc, transl. mine); Arist. EN 1124b28–30, where, as in Dionysius, e rwne–a is contrasted with parrhs–a and Çl†jeia (these references in LSJ, p. 491, s.v. I).

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being based on their concern for Plato’s, and their own, reputation rather than on a thorough knowledge of rhetoric. The terms terateÿai and Õpol†yeic, literally meaning ‘fairy stories’ 767 and ‘assumptions,’ 768 with which Dionysius characterises his opponents’ opinion, substantiate this view. Like e rwne–a, ÕpÏlhyic is a word with philosophical connotations. Aristotle, for example, joins it with dÏxa at EN 1139b17 when dealing with a seemingly true, but actually erroneous assumption; Epicurus, Ep. 3, p. 60 Us., qualifies Õpol†yeic as ‘false’ (yeudeÿc), and Philodemus, Mus., p. 49 K., calls them ‘fallacious’ (moqjhra–). The common denominator of e rwne–a, ÕpÏlhyic, and terate–a is the idea of a false statement which pretends to be true, or, in more general terms, a lack of correspondence between a statement and the object about which the statement is made. Since the Platonists’ ignorance thus turns out not to be faked but real, Dionysius implicitly characterises them as people who believe themselves to be experts in a subject without realizing that they actually know nothing at all. They are portrayed, in other words, as those people whose mistaken view of themselves and their competence, their dÏxa, the Platonic Socrates programmatically set out to replace by an accurate, a true (Çlhj†c) vision of the world and their role in it. 769 In the present controversy, though, it is Dionysius who appropriates the Socratic role and corrects the mistaken views of Plato’s avowed successors. It is worth pointing out the similarities between Dionysius’ strategy to disavow the Peripatetic in the First Letter to Ammaeus and the one he applies in his argument with the Platonists. In both cases he seeks to prove his adversaries’ methods to be incompatible with the principles of discourse established by the very men whose traditions they claim to be continuing. The Platonists’ judgment on Plato’s style aims to enhance Plato’s dÏxa, ‘reputation’; therefore it is only dÏxa, ‘a wrong assumption,’ and reveals 767 LSJ, p. 1776, s.v. 1. 768 LSJ, p. 1887, s.v. II. 769 See, e.g., Plt. Ap. 21b9: ‘one of those who think that they are experts’ (tina t¿n doko‘ntwn sof¿n e⁄nai); 21c5–7: ‘this man seemed to me to seem to many other people as well as, above all, to himself to be an expert, but not to be one’ (ÍdoxË moi

o›toc  Çnòr dokeÿn m‡n e⁄nai sof‰c älloic te polloÿc Çnjr∏poic ka» màlista ·autƒ, e⁄nai d+o÷, emphases mine); 33c3: ‘those who think that they are experts but are not’ (toÿc o omËnoic m‡n e⁄nai sofoÿc, ofisi d+o÷) (all translations mine). DÏxa and Çl†jeia are often contrasted in Platonic thought, see, e.g., Sym. 218e6, Phdr. 275a6; dÏxa and ‚pist†mh are contrasted at Resp. 477b7, 478a6–b2, 506c6–7; cf. the following note.

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the Platonists’ ignorance in political oratory. Dionysius, by contrast, is concerned only with the text – his judgment is based exclusively on the textual evidence, but not on his personal interests; therefore, it is ‘true’ (Çlhj†c). Dionysius thus models his argument with the Platonists on the philosophical opposition between dÏxa and Çl†jeia. Since the idea of replacing dÏxa with Çl†jeia through dialectic discussion plays a prominent role in many of Plato’s writings, one would expect the Platonists to follow this line of enquiry; but as the Peripatetic had preferred the reputation of Aristotle and his tradition over truth and thus contradicted Aristotle himself, the Platonists’ critical method, too, turns out to be at odds with the tenets of Platonic philosophy. The relationship between dÏxa and Çl†jeia (and ‚pist†mh) in Platonic philosophy is, of course, much more complicated than that of a simple opposition, as Dionysius’ discussion implies. 770 But it is important to keep in mind that Dionysius’ purpose was not to present a philosophical discussion of Plato’s uses of dÏxa and Çl†jeia. Rather, he polemically appropriates key terms of Platonic philosophy for his own critical method in order to discredit the Platonists’ position and strengthen his own. We can observe the same principle behind Dionysius’ use of parrhs–a, ‘outspokenness, frankness, freedom of speech.’ 771 In the Gorgias, Plato’s Socrates defines parrhs–a as one of the three essential indispensable intellectual qualities of a competent critic (t‰n mËllonta basanieÿn …kan¿c, 487a1), alongside ‚pist†mh and e÷noia. 772 In this context, parrhs–a is defined as, in Hellwig’s words, ‘the positive and active liberty of stating one’s opinion frankly and without being prevented by any consideration of the opinion of the audience and their

770 See, however, the passages quoted in the preceding note. Dionysius makes no mention, for example, of Plato’s conception of Çlhjòc dÏxa which is acknowledged by Socrates as a guide to rightness of action on a par with frÏnhsic at Men. 97b9–10; cf. Tht. 194b3, where Socrates distinguishes between dÏxa yeud†c and Çlhj†c. On the different conceptions of dÏxa in Plato’s writings see the brief but helpful overview in Poulakos (2004) 46–51 (the passages from the Meno and the Theaetetus referred to here are discussed ibid. 51 and 47, respectively). Poulakos remarks that Plato ‘placed doxa between knowledge and ignorance’ (ibid. 51). He also points out, though, that the ‘philosophico-religious tradition’ clearly distinguished between ‘the bright path of aletheia and the dark path of doxa’ (ibid. 47). On the role of Çl†jeia in Isocrates’ and Plato’s respective conceptions of rhetoric and rhetorical education see Asmis (1986). 771 LSJ, p. 1344, s.v. 1. 772 Grg. 487a2–3; b1–6; d5. There is a good discussion of parrhs–a in Plato’s rhetorical theory in Hellwig (1973) 298–321.

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potential negative reaction to it.’ 773 The opposite of this outspokenness, through which alone philosophical dialogue can lead to uncovering the truth (Çl†jeian, Grg. 487a5–6), is a mistaken sense of shame (a sq‘nh) which is the result of the speaker’s fear of damaging his reputation with the audience.774 The entire phrasing of Dionysius’ programmatic statement of his critical method, that he will ‘speak freely’ about Plato, ‘making no concessions to the man’s reputation or being less than truthful’ (per» d‡ Plàtwnoc ¢dh dialËxomai tà g+‚mo» doko‹nta metÄ parrhs–ac, oŒj‡n o÷te t¨ dÏx˘ tÇndr‰c prostije»c o÷te t®c Çlhje–ac Çfairo‘menoc, Dem. 23.1), picks up the key notions of this principle of Socratic/Platonic philosophical enquiry (note dialËxomai): a speaker’s words must never be determined by a false respect for what (he thinks) his audience expects him to say in order to enhance his reputation, but he must speak frankly, guided by the sole concern for truth.775 It is Dionysius, not the Platonists, who continues this Socratic/Platonic tradition of philosophical argument. The term parrhs–a (and its close relation to Çl†jeia in particular) connects the Platonic quest for truth with another subtext of Dionysius’ discussion, Classical Athenian democracy and political oratory, which was prominent already at Dem. 6.1–4. The Athenians claimed parrhs–a to be one of the outstanding characteristics of their democracy, 776 and the notion was 773 Hellwig (1973) 298 (‘die positive aktive Freiheit, die darin besteht, ohne Rücksicht auf die Anschauungen des Zuhörers and dessen mögliche negative Reaktion, unbeirrt das zu sagen, was man denkt’). 774 See, e.g., Grg. 482e1–2 (Callicles criticising Polus): ‘he too in his turn got entangled in your argument and had his mouth stopped, being ashamed [a squnje–c] to say what he thought’ (aŒt‰c Õp‰ so‹ sumpodisje»c ‚n toÿc lÏgoic ‚pestom–sjh, a squnje»c É ‚nÏei lËgein); 487a7–b5: ‘our visitors here, Gorgias and Polus, though wise and friendly to me, are more lacking in frankness [parrhs–ac] and inclined to bashfulness [a squnthrotËrw] than they should be: […] they have carried modesty [a sq‘nhc] to such a point that each of them can bring himself, out of sheer modesty [a sq‘nesjai], to contradict himself in the face of a large company […]’ (t∞ d‡ xËnw t∏de, Gorg–ac te ka» P¿loc, sof∞ m‡n ka» f–lw ‚st‰n ‚m∏, ‚ndeestËrw d‡ parrhs–ac ka» a squnthrotËrw mêllon to‹ dËontoc; […] p¿c gÄr o÷; π ge e c toso‹to a sq‘nhc ‚lhl‘jaton, πste diÄ t‰ a sq‘nesjai tolmî ·kàteroc aŒt¿n aŒt‰c aÕtƒ ‚nant–a lËgein ‚nant–on poll¿n Çnjr∏pwn); 487d5: Callicles’ professed aptness to ‘speak out frankly and not be bashful’ (parrhsiàzesjai ka» mò a sq‘nesjai). 775 Cf. Hellwig (1973) 299. 776 Among the references quoted by LSJ s.v. I see esp. Eur. Hipp. 421–423, where parrhs–a is associated with another constitutive of Athenian democracy, ‚leujer–a: ‘[My husband

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linked with Çl†jeia in a political context already in Classical times by the very author on whose behalf Dionysius is arguing against the Platonists: Demosthenes couples parrhs–a with tÇlhj® at 6.31 (tÇlhj® metÄ parrhs–ac ‚r¿) and thus provides another reference for Dionysius’ use of parrhs–a and Çl†jeia as the principles of his critical method. As in Dem. 6.1–4, Dionysius grounds his approach to the Classical texts in the tradition of Classical oratory. Furthermore, eŒgenòc kataskeu† (‘noble style’), the knowledge of which Dionysius denies to his opponents, also evokes Classical rhetoric and Athenian democracy. EŒgËneia is a typical attribute of the Athenians in the Attic Funeral Oration, and it is a Funeral Oration about which Dionysius is arguing with the Platonists. Demosthenes’ speech and the Attic Funeral Oration are no doubt important models for the connection of Dionysius’ criticism with Classical oratory. But, as I will now argue, Dionysius himself creates a precedent, too, which allows him to link his ‘authenticity’ of criticism (f‘sic in ±c pËfuke dialËxomai, Dem. 23.3; Çl†jeia, 23.1) with Classical oratory. ‘Naturalness’ and ‘authenticity,’ f‘sic and Çl†jeia,777 are the outstanding characteristics of Dionysius’ portrayal of Lysias’ rhetorical technique in On Lysias;778 these, in turn, Dionysius explains as an expression of Athenian democracy: only a ‘natural’ style, which represents reality but does not distort it, made communication in the institutions of Classical Athens possible. A brief discussion of Dionysius’ characterisation of Lysias’ style in On Lysias will reveal how Dionysius imagines Lysias’ ‘natural’ style to be connected with Classical Athens. This discussion will enable us to assess the full implica-

and my children] may live in glorious Athens as free men, free of speech and flourishing’ (‚le‘jeroi œ parrhs–¯ jàllontec o koÿen pÏlin œ klein¿n >Ajhn¿n); Plt. Resp. 557b (on the constitution corresponding to the ‘democratic sort of man,’ Çnòr dhmokratikÏc): ‘[Such a city is] chock-full of liberty and freedom of speech’ (‚leujer–ac ô pÏlic mestò ka» parrhs–ac g–gnetai); Plb. 2.38.6: ‘[The political system of the Achaean league is the most favourable to] equality and freedom of speech, in a word [no other system is] so sincerely democratic’ ( shgor–ac ka» parrhs–ac ka» dhmokrat–ac Çlhjin®c); cf. Isoc. 8.14; on the crucial role of freedom in Greek political thought see Raaflaub (1985). On the close interrelation of Dionysius’ conception of Classical language and Isocrates’ conception of Athenian civic identity see chapters 2.2.1 and 2.3.1 above. 777 On Lysias’ ‘natural’ style cf. de Jonge (2008) 81–82, 253–258. 778 It is interesting to note that Dionysius’ contemporary Caecilius of Caleacte seems to have compared Plato’s style with Lysias’ and judged the latter far superior to the former, see Ps.-Longin. 32.8; cf. ibid. 32.7; Caecilius’ criticism of Plato is discussed in Walsdorff (1927) 24–33.

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tions of Dionysius’ association of his critical method with Çl†jeia and the function of this association in the argument with the Platonists. Dionysius declares both Lysias and Isocrates sign-posts in the evolution of Classical political oratory. Dissatisfied with the shortcomings of rhetorical tradition, mainly represented by Gorgias and Protagoras, each of them was responsible for significant changes in rhetorical technique. 779 Isocrates, as mentioned in chapter 2.2.1, brought about a paradigm-shift in content, the pragmatik‰c tÏpoc, of political rhetoric. Lysias’ impact on the development of Classical oratory was equally strong, but Lysias was an innovator of style: he was the first to develop a proper ‘democratic’ mode of rhetorical expression. 780 Lysias modelled his language (gl∏tta) on the language of the average citizen,  di∏thc, of his times (ô kat+‚keÿnon t‰n qrÏnon ‚piqwriàzousa, Lys. 2.1). In this Lysias differed from his predecessors (toÿc d‡ protËroic oŒq a’th ô dÏxa ™n, Lys. 3.3) who had employed a jeatrikÏc, ‘disguised, theatrical,’ 781 style (Lys. 3.3):782

BoulÏmenoi kÏsmon tinÄ proseÿnai toÿc lÏgoic ‚x†llatton t‰n  di∏thn ka» katËfeugon e c tòn poihtikòn fràsin, metaforaÿc te pollaÿc qr∏menoi ka» Õperbolaÿc ka» taÿc ällaic tropikaÿc  dËaic, Ênomàtwn te glwtthmatik¿n ka» xËnwn ka» t¿n oŒk e wj∏twn sqhma779 See p. 69 above. 780 Time and space preclude a more detailed discussion of the relation between Lysias and Isocrates in Dionysius’ thought. I am aware that reducing the former to style and the latter to content is overly simplistic, although this is the emphasis of Dionysius’ discussion of each of them. Nevertheless, Dionysius does not regard either Lysias’ or Isocrates’ style on their own as perfect. Lysias marks the beginning of a continuous evolution of Classical rhetoric which, via Isocrates, eventually results in Demosthenes, whom Dionysius regards as the apogee of Classical speech. Dionysius anticipates this further evolution of political oratory already in On Lysias: at Lys. 15.6, e.g., he criticizes Lysias’ pragmatik‰c tÏpoc, esp. his ‘ordering and development’ for being ‘less effective than they should be’ (tòn d‡ tàxin ka» tòn ‚rgas–an aŒt¿n, ‚ndeestËran ofisan to‹ pros†kontoc). Also Lysias’ ability to evoke pàjh (ibid. 19.5) requires improvement: Lysias did not ‘arouse his audience as powerfully as Isocrates and Demosthenes do theirs’ (oŒ diege–rei d‡ t‰n Çkroatòn πsper >Isokràthc £ DhmosjËnhc, ibid. 28.2). Lysias is the norm by which the others are measured, but his style is far from perfect; his deficiencies in subject matter will be compensated by Isocrates who is also better at arousing emotions in the audience. 781 For Dionysius jeatrikÏc encapsulates the un-Classical par excellence and is therefore also a main feature of Asianism (Çnaide–¯ jeatrik¨, Orat. Vett. 1.3); cf. Isoc. 12.15. 782 On ‘Language, thought, and reality’ in Dionysius cf. de Jonge (2008) 53–59; on Lysias cf. ibid. 81.

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tism¿n t¨ diallag¨ ka» t¨ äll˘ kainolog–¯ kataplhttÏmenoi t‰n  di∏thn. Whenever [Lysias’ predecessors] wished to add colour to their speeches, they abandoned ordinary language and resorted to artificial expression. They used a plethora of metaphors, exaggerations and other forms of figurative language, and further confused the ordinary members of their audiences by using recondite and exotic words, and by resorting to unfamiliar figures of speech and other novel modes of expression.

The frequency of words meaning ‘un-usual’ or ‘strange’ in this short passage (‚x†llatton, ÊnÏmata glwtthmatikÄ ka» xËna, o… oŒk e wjÏtec sqhmatismo–, diallag†, kainolog–a) points to the major difference between Lysias and his predecessors. They used unusual and strange words and expressions to scare (kataplhttÏmenoi) the ordinary hearer, the  di∏thc, so as to ‘alienate’ (cf. ‚x†llatton, xËnoc) him from both speech and speaker. Communication between the speaker and a large part of his audience was thus rendered impossible and was probably not even desired (boulÏmenoi). The ‘theatrical style’ is centred upon the speaker and serves to show off his rhetorical skills by overwhelming the hearer. Lysias took the diametrically opposite route. His words do not distort reality, because he ‘does not make his subject the slave of his words, but makes the words conform to the subject; and he achieves elegance not by changing the language of everyday life, but by reproducing it’ (oŒ toÿc ÊnÏmasi doule‘ei tÄ pràgmata par+aŒtƒ, toÿc d‡ pràgmasin Çkoloujeÿ tÄ ÊnÏmata, t‰n d‡ kÏsmon oŒk ‚n tƒ diallàttein t‰n  di∏thn, Çll+‚n tƒ mim†sasjai lambànei, ibid. 4.5). Dionysius emphasizes the degree to which Lysias’ style is authentic to extra-textual reality by calling it ‘the archetype of authenticity [t®c Çlhje–ac] […] differing in no way from it’ 783 (ÇrqËtupÏn tina […] t®c Çlhje–ac diafËronta ‚ke–nhc oŒd+Âtio‹n, Is. 11.1). An ‘authentic’ style represents nature, f‘sic, as it really is (Isoc. 12.3–4): 784 783 Usher’s translation modified. 784 f‘sic and Çl†jeia are joined also at Lys. 8.7: ‘the student of realism and naturalism would not go wrong if he were to follow Lysias in his composition, for he will find no model who is more true to life’ (Tòn Çl†jeian ofin tic ‚pithde‘wn ka» f‘sewc

mimhtòc g–nesjai boulÏmenoc oŒk ãn Åmartànoi t¨ Lus–ou sunjËsei qr∏menoc; ·tËran gÄr oŒk ãn e’roi ta‘thc ÇlhjestËran). For more examples of f‘sic and similar expressions characterizing Lysias’ style cf., e.g., Lys. 7.3: ‘He was the best of all the orators at observing human nature and ascribing to each type of person the appropriate emotions, moral qualities and actions’ (Kràtistoc gÄr dò pàntwn ‚gËneto

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Kràtiston d‡ ‚pit†deuma ‚n dialËkt˙ politik¨ ka» ‚nagwn–˙ t‰ ÂmoiÏtaton tƒ katÄ f‘sin; bo‘letai d‡ ô f‘sic toÿc no†masin Èpesjai tòn lËxin, oŒ t¨ lËxei tÄ no†mata. Sumbo‘l˙ d‡ dò per» polËmou ka» e r†nhc lËgonti ka»  di∏t˘ t‰n per» t®c yuq®c trËqonti k–ndunon ‚n dikastaÿc tÄ komyÄ ka» jeatrikÄ ka» meiraki∏dh ta‹ta oŒk o⁄da °ntina d‘naito ãn parasqeÿn ≤fËleian, mêllon d‡ o⁄da Ìti ka» blàbhc ãn a t–a gËnoito. The most effective style to cultivate in political and forensic oratory is that which most resembles natural speech; and nature demands that the words should follow the thought, not vice versa. I certainly doubt whether these affected, histrionic and juvenile devices could be of any assistance either to a politician advising on matters of war and peace or to a defendant whose life is at stake in a law-court; on the contrary, I am sure that they could cause considerable damage.

This quotation reveals what lies behind Dionysius’ appreciation of ‘authenticity’ and his aversion to ‘theatrical,’ ‘un-authentic’ speech. Dionysius conceives of the ‘naturalness’ of Lysias’ style as directly correlated with Classical Athenian democracy; the ‘distorting’ style of Lysias’ predecessors (tÄ komyÄ ka» jeatrikÄ ka» meiraki∏dh ta‹ta), by contrast, he regards as incompatible with the requirements of a Classical assembly (sumbo‘l˙ d‡ dò per» polËmou ka» e r†nhc lËgonti) and law-court ( di∏t˘ t‰n per» t®c yuq®c trËqonti k–ndunon ‚n dikastaÿc).785 These key institutions of Athenian democracy depended on communication among the citizens, but communication would have been made impossible by the ‘theatrical’ style. The close connection between Classical Athenian democracy and Lysias’ style is even more evident in the following passage (Lys. 9.1–2):

˚htÏrwn f‘sin Çnjr∏pwn katopte‹sai ka» tÄ pros†konta ·kàstoic Çpodo‹nai pàjh te ka» ¢jh ka» Írga); ibid. 8.3: Lysias’ style is ‘thoroughly familiar to everyone. All forms of pompous, outlandish and contrived language are foreign to characterisation’ ([tòn lËxin Çpod–dwsi] pêsin Çnjr∏poic sunhjestàthn;  gÄr Ógkoc ka» t‰ xËnon ka» t‰ ‚pithde‘sewc âpan Çnhjopo–hton); ibid. 8.5 (on the characteristics of Lysias’ style): ‘not contrived’; not ‘formed by any conscious art’; giving the impression of not having been ‘deliberately and artistically devised, but [as] somehow spontaneous and fortuitous’ (Çpo–htoc; Çteqn–teutoc; Çnepithde‘twc ka» oŒ katÄ tËqnhn, aŒtomàtwc dË pwc ka» ±c Ítuqe s‘gkeitai). 785 Dionysius’ judgment on Demosthenes’ ‘mixed’ style as superior to both the ‘plain’ and the ‘remote-from-nature’ style is also based on the alleged effectiveness of the ‘mixed’ style in the Athenian assemblies rather than on purely aesthetic or stylistic criteria, see the discussion of Dem. 15.2–6 in ch. 4.3.3, pp. 270–272 above.

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O“omai d‡ ka» t‰ prËpon Íqein tòn Lus–ou lËxin oŒjen‰c ©tton t¿n Çrqa–wn ˚htÏrwn, krat–sthn Åpas¿n Çretòn ka» teleiotàthn, Âr¿n aŒtòn prÏc te t‰n lËgonta ka» pr‰c toÃc Çko‘ontac ka» pr‰c t‰ prêgma (‚n to‘toic gÄr dò ka» pr‰c ta‹ta t‰ prËpon) Çrko‘ntwc ôrmosmËnhn. Ka» gÄr ôlik–¯ ka» gËnei ka» ‚pithde‘mati ka» paide–¯ ka» b–˙ ka» toÿc älloic, ‚n oŸc diafËrei t¿n pros∏pwn prÏswpa, tÄc o ke–ac Çpod–dwsi fwnÄc prÏc te t‰n Çkroatòn summetreÿtai tà legÏmena o ke–wc, oŒ t‰n aŒt‰n trÏpon dikast¨ te ka» ‚kklhsiastik¨ ka» panhgur–zonti dialegÏmenoc Óql˙. I think that in propriety, too – the most important and crowning virtue – Lysias’s style yields to that of none of the other ancient orators; for I observe that he has adapted it satisfactorily to the speaker, the audience and the subject, and it is in these, and in relation to these, that propriety is found. For characters differ from one another in age, family background, education, occupation, way of life and in other respects: Lysias puts words in their mouths which suit their several conditions. Similarly, with regard to his audiences, his words are gauged to suit their several purposes: he does not address a jury, a political assembly and a festival audience in the same style.

As at Isoc. 12.3–4, which was discussed above, Dionysius refers to central institutions of democratic Athens, the court, the ecclesia, and festivals, and the corresponding kinds of rhetoric, the genus iudiciale, the genus deliberativum, and the genus demonstrativum. Lysias managed all of them in an equally accomplished manner because he adapted (t‰ prËpon) his style to reality: the speakers’ words expressed their social status and were apt to the requirements of the different institutions. In order to work properly, Athenian democracy required a style which made the plain representation of extra-textual reality (Çl†jeia) the standard of rhetorical expression, and Lysias created such a style. 786 786 Also Lysias’ other stylistic qualities contribute to the ‘authenticity’ of his style. Dionysius lists ‘purity’ (kajarÏthc, ibid. 2.1), ‘lucidity’ (saf†neia, ibid. 4.1), ‘brevity of expression’ (t‰ braqËwc ‚kfËrein tÄ no†mata, ibid. 4.4) and ‘manner of expression in which ideas are reduced to their essentials and expressed tersely’ (ô sustrËfousa tÄ no†mata ka» strogg‘lwc ‚kfËrousa lËxic, ibid. 6.3). Lysias’ ‘purity’ and ‘lucidity,’ e.g., contributed to the success of his rhetoric in democratic institutions (Lys. 3.3–8, esp. 3.7); his ‘lucidity’ ensured that his speeches were comprehensible ‘even to someone who is supposed to be totally removed from the sphere of political speech’ (ka» tƒ pànu pÏrrw doko‹nti politik¿n Çfestànai lÏgwn, ibid. 4.2), i.e., to the  di∏thc, and his ‘brevity of expression’ was yet another way of avoiding ‘both inexact and obscure language.’ Lysias’ brevity, both in terms of subject matter and style, reflects the way an ordinary

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Due to its authenticity, Lysias’ style provides an authentic image of Classical Athens and her citizens; Lysias is a champion of vivid representation, ‚nàrgeia, the power ‘of conveying the things he is describing to the senses of his audience’ (d‘nam–c tic Õp‰ tÄc a sj†seic ägousa tÄ legÏmena, Lys. 7.1). For Dionysius and his readers this is true in a double sense: as Lysias’ style made his audience see the things he was describing, it grants Dionysius and his contemporaries an unfiltered view on Classical Athens. As Dionysius puts it at On Isaeus 4.5, the style itself, rather than the content (tÄ pràgmata), of Lysias’ (and Isocrates’) speeches encapsulates the constituents of Classical Athenian democracy, ‚leujer–a and dikaios‘nh. 787 As a medium of aesthetic expression, Lysias’ style (kÏsmoc, Lys. 4.5) encodes Classical Athenian democratic values. In the controversy with the Platonists in On Demosthenes, Dionysius uses the antithesis between an ‘authentic,’ true-to-nature style, and a ‘distorted’ style in Classical oratory as a basis for two different styles of criticism. Dionysius’ ‘authentic’ criticism, which claims to present truth (Çl†jeia) unfiltered, implements Lysias’ ‘democratic’ style in critical discourse. Dionysius thus authorizes his critical method by establishing a structural homology between his criticism and Classical political oratory: just as Lysias’ style gives a true-to-nature picture of Athenian democracy, Dionysius’ judgment on the Classical texts is an unfiltered representation of the textual evidence. The Platonists, by contrast, represent the distorted style of criticism, and as Dionysius links his own style with Lysias’, he links the Platonists’ style with Plato’s. Dionysius, as mentioned above, classifies Plato as a representative speaker argued his case in court: ‘[…] he does this [brevity] […] in order to keep within the time allowed for the delivery of his speeches. The short amount of time available was adequate for the ordinary citizen to explain his case, but insufficient for an orator who was anxious to display his rhetorical powers’ (summetr†sei to‹ qrÏnou, pr‰c Án Ídei genËsjai toÃc lÏgouc. Braq‘c ge mòn o›toc, ±c m‡n  di∏t˘ dhl¿sai boulomËn˙ tÄ pràgmata Çpoqr¿n, ±c d‡ ˚†tori perious–an dunàmewc ‚nde–xasjai zhto‹nti oŒq …kanÏc, ibid. 5.1–2). Finally, the Lysianic ‘manner of expression in which ideas are reduced to their essentials and expressed tersely’ is ‘most appropriate, and indeed necessary in forensic speeches and every other form of practical oratory’ (o ke–a pànu ka» Çnagka–a toÿc dikanikoÿc lÏgoic ka» pant» Çlhjeÿ Çg¿ni, ibid. 6.3). 787 Is. 4.5: ‘[The speeches of] Isocrates and Lysias seem the most genuine [Çlhjeÿc] and just [d–kaioi] of all, even when the facts of the case suggest otherwise, because they display nothing malicious in their presentation, but are straightforward [literally, ‘free’] and simple’ (o… d‡ >Isokràtouc ka» Lus–ou [sc. lÏgoi] pant‰c màlista d–kaio– te ka» Çlhjeÿc, kãn mò toia‹ta tÄ pràgmata ‚n aŒtoÿc, Ìti kako‹rgon oŒd‡n ‚pifa–nousin ‚p» t®c kataskeu®c, Çll+e s»n ‚le‘jero– tinec ka» Çfeleÿc).

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of the ‘mixed style,’ miktò lËxic (Dem. 3.1; 5.1). This classification is based on Dionysius’ distinction between the ‘authentic’ and the ‘distorted’ style (Dem. 23.4):

>Eg∞ tòn m‡n ‚n toÿc dialÏgoic deinÏthta to‹ Çndr‰c ka» màlista ‚n oŸc ãn fulàtt˘ t‰n Swkratik‰n qarakt®ra, πsper ‚n tƒ Fil†b˙, pànu ägama– te ka» teja‘maka, t®c d‡ Çpeirokal–ac aŒt‰n oŒdep∏pot+‚z†lwsa t®c ‚n taÿc ‚pijËtoic kataskeuaÿc, πsper Ífhn ka» prÏteron, ka» pàntwn °kista ‚n oŸc ãn e c politikÄc ÕpojËseic sugkaje»c ‚gk∏mia ka» yÏgouc kathgor–ac te ka» Çpolog–ac ‚piqeir¨ gràfein. ìEteroc gàr tic aÕto‹ g–netai tÏte ka» kataisq‘nei tòn filÏsofon Çx–wsin. I feel nothing but wonder and delight at Plato’s skill in the dialogues, especially those in which he preserves the Socratic character, like the Philebus; but, as I said earlier, I have never admired the tasteless use of the secondary devices of style, especially in those dialogues in which he introduces themes of praise and blame into political discussions and tries to make them into speeches for the prosecution and the defence. In these cases he writes in a manner foreign to his nature and dishonours his profession as a philosopher.

Dionysius explains at Dem. 3.1 that the miktò lËxic is ‘mixed’ because it combines two types of style: ‘the striking, elaborate style which is remote from normality and is full of every kind of accessory embellishment’ (ô

‚xhllagmËnh ka» perittò ka» ‚gkatàskeuoc ka» toÿc ‚pijËtoic kÏsmoic âpasi sumpeplhrwmËnh lËxic), the main representative of which is Thucydides (Dem. 1.3), and the ‘plain and simple’ style, the ‘artistry and power’ of which lies ‘in its resemblance to the language of ordinary speech’ (litò ka» Çfelòc ka» doko‹sa kataskeu†n te ka»  sqÃn tòn pr‰c  di∏thn Íqein lÏgon) and which is represented by Lysias (Dem. 2.1). The above passage shows that Plato is a representative of the ‘mixed’ style not because he combines the two types of style in a new, homogeneous diction; his style is ‘mixed’ because some parts of his œuvre are written in the Lysianic, plain style, and others in the Thucydidean, remotefrom-normality style. The plain style, Dionysius says at Dem. 2.2, was the standard for philosophical dialogues and especially ‘the entire Socratic school’ – the only exception being Plato because he did not preserve the plain style throughout his œuvre:788 when Plato follows his teacher Socrates 788 Dem. 2.2: ‘[The plain and simple style was chosen by, among others,] the natural philosophers and the moral philosophers who wrote dialogues, including the entire Socratic

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and writes philosophical dialogues, he employs the Lysianic style, and his works ‘ai[m] to use standard vocabulary and cultivat[e] clarity, spurning all superfluous artifice […]’ and their ‘piercing clarity seems not to give rise to garrulity, nor [their] elegance to mere show,’ just like Lysias’ speeches (t†n te koinÏthta di∏kei t¿n Ênomàtwn ka» tòn saf†neian Çskeÿ, pàshc Õperido‹sa kataskeu®c ‚pijËtou. […] Ka» o÷te t‰ ligur‰n Íoiken ‚mfa–nein làlon o÷te t‰ komy‰n jeatrikÏn, Dem. 5.3–4). This part of Plato’s work meets with Dionysius’ full approval (pànu ägama– te ka» teja‘maka). But whenever Plato tries his hand (‚pi-qeir¨) at political oratory and inserts pieces like the Funeral Oration into his works, he falls prey to ‘tastelessness’ (Çpeirokal–a) and ‘writes in a manner foreign to his nature’ (Èteroc […] tic aÕto‹ g–netai):789 Plato’s stylistic failure, his Çpeirokal–a,790 turns out to be un-Platonic. It occurs only when Plato arrogates competence in a type of discourse, political oratory, which is alien to his proper discursive tradition, Socratic philosophy (kataisq‘nei tòn filÏsofon Çx–wsin). Plato’s ‘writing in a manner foreign to his nature’ and the stylistic deficiencies which result from it, are an indicator of his ‘doing something foreign to his nature.’ 791 The ‘Thucydidean’ passages in Plato’s work which, like the Funeral Oration, claim to be political oratory, are not only bad style; Thucydides’ diction (in this case in his speeches) is similar to that of Lysias’ predecessors,

school except Plato’ (o… tÄ fusikÄ filosof†santec ka» o… t¿n öjik¿n dialÏgwn poihta–, ¡n ™n t‰ Swkratik‰n didaskaleÿon pên Íxw to‹ Plàtwnoc). 789 Cf. Dem. 5.4: ‘[Whenever Plato employs “impressive and decorated language,” tòn perittolog–an ka» t‰ kalliepeÿn, he] does himself far less than full justice’ (pollƒ qe–rwn ·aut®c g–netai). 790 Cf. Dem. 5.5: Plato’s ‘impressive and decorated language’ (see previous note) ‘abandons itself to tasteless circumlocutions and an empty show of verbal exuberance and, in defiance of correct usage and standard vocabulary, seeks artificial, exotic and archaic forms of expression’ (‚kqeÿtai d+e c Çpeirokàlouc perifràseic plo‹ton Ênomàtwn ‚pideiknumËnh kenÏn, Õperido‹sà te t®c kur–wn ka» ‚n t¨ koin¨ qr†sei keimËnwn tÄ pepoihmËna zhteÿ ka» xËna ka» Çrqaioprep®), and Dem. 7.3, where Dionysius describes Plato’s style in the Phaedrus as poihtikò Çpeirokal–a, with Dionysius’ characterisation of the style of Lysias’ predecessors at Lys. 3.3 (quoted above). In each of these cases, un-Lysianic ‘unnaturalness’ and artificiality of language are qualified as an aesthetic failure. 791 de Jonge (2008) 272 points out Dionysius’ similarly ‘ambiguous’ attitude towards Thucydides.

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Gorgias and Protagoras, 792 and therefore equally incompatible with Classical democracy and social life in general (Thuc. 49.2–3):793

O÷te gÄr ‚n taÿc ‚kklhs–aic qr†simÏn ‚sti to‹to t‰ gËnoc t®c fràsewc, ‚n aŸc Õp‡r e r†nhc ka» polËmou ka» nÏmwn e sforêc ka» politei¿n kÏsmou ka» t¿n ällwn t¿n koin¿n ka» megàlwn a… pÏleic bouleusÏmenai sunËrqontai, o÷t+‚n toÿc dikasthr–oic, Ínja per» janàtou ka» fug®c ka» Çtim–ac ka» desm¿n ka» qrhmàtwn ÇfairËsewc o… lÏgoi pr‰c toÃc ÇneilhfÏtac tòn Õp‡r to‘twn ‚xous–an lËgontai (〈ka» gÄr a… toia‹tai ˚htoreÿ〉ai lupo‹si t‰n politik‰n Óqlon oŒk Óntwn t¿n toio‘twn Çkousmàtwn ‚n Íjei), o÷t+‚n taÿc  diwtikaÿc Âmil–aic, ‚n aŸc per» t¿n biwtik¿n dialegÏmeja pol–taic £ f–loic £ suggenËsi dihgo‘meno– ti t¿n sumbebhkÏtwn ·autoÿc £ sumbouleuÏmenoi per– tinoc t¿n Çnagka–wn, £ noujeto‹ntec £ parakalo‹ntec £ sunhdÏmenoi toÿc Çgajoÿc £ sunalgo‹ntec toÿc kakoÿc; ‚¿ gÄr lËgein Ìti t¿n o’twc dialegomËnwn oŒd‡ a… 792 See Dem. 1.3; 2.3. 793 Cf. de Jonge (2008) 265: ‘Dionysius’ objections to Plato’s style closely correspond to his criticism of Thucydides’ “unnatural” style’; see his list of the aspects of Thucydides’ style which Dionysius criticizes ibid. 268 n. 68. Dionysius associates Plato’s style with Thucydides’ not only at Dem. 3.2 (quoted above); at Dem. 23.10 Dionysius states that Plato appropriated Thucydides’ style in the Funeral Oration in his Menexenus (Joukud–dhn paramimo‘menoc); consequently, both of their styles are characterized by the same features and attributes, above all, the ‘tasteless’ dijurambikÏn (Plato: Dem. 6.4, quoted above; ibid. 7.4: ‘mere high-sounding bombast’ (yÏfoi ka» dij‘ramboi); Thucydides: Thuc. 29.4: ‘[A phrase] more at home in a poetical, or rather dithyrambic setting’ (poihtik®c, mêllon d‡ dijurambik®c skeuwr–ac o keiÏteron)); use of strange and artificial words and expressions which terrify the recipients (Plato: Dem. 5.5; Thucydides: Thuc. 50.2: ‘shock’ (katapl†xewc, transl. mine); ibid: ‘[Thucydides’] recondite, archaic, figurative language, which diverges from normality towards the novel and the extravagant’ (tòn fràsin tòn glwtthmatik†n te ka» ÇphrqaiomËnhn ka» tropikòn ka» ‚xhllagmËnhn t¿n ‚n Íjei sqhmàtwn ‚p» t‰ xËnon ka» perittÏn)) and lack of kairÏc (Plato: Dem. 7.5; 24.8 (Çkair–a); Dionysius joins Çkair–a with Thucydides’ Çpeirokal–a, which is also a main characteristic of Plato’s dithyrambic style, Thuc. 51.3: ‘Whenever he [Thucydides] uses it [the recondite, archaic, figurative language, see previous note] with controlled moderation he is superb and in a class of his own; but when he uses it excessively and in breach of good taste, without discrimination of circumstances or regard for the degree required, he deserves censure’ (Ìtan m‡n ofin tetamieumËnwc aŒt¨ [sc. ta‘t˘ t¨ ·rmhne–¯] qr†shtai ka» metr–wc, jaumastÏc ‚sti [sc. Joukud–dhc] ka» oŒden» s‘gkritoc ·tËr˙; Ìtan d‡ katakÏrwc ka» Çpeirokàlwc, m†te toÃc kairoÃc dior–zwn m†te tòn posÏthta Âr¿n, memptÏc, emphasis mine)).

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mhtËrec ãn ka» o… patËrec Çnàsqointo diÄ tòn Çhd–an, Çll+πsper Çlloejno‹c gl∏sshc Çko‘ontec t¿n ·rmhneusÏntwn ãn dehjeÿen. It serves no useful purpose to employ this manner of address in public assemblies, where the communities of citizens come together to deliberate on questions of peace and war, on legislation and on the ordering of the constitution, and other important matters of common concern. Nor is it suited to the law-courts, where the audience is a jury empowered to impose these penalties: 〈for such displays of rhetoric〉 antagonise the average citizen body, which is not accustomed to hear that sort of thing. And it is not suitable for private conversations, in which we discuss everyday matters with fellow-citizens, friends or relations, describing some experience of ours, considering some urgent problem, giving advice or asking for help, and sharing other men’s joys and sorrows. I shall pass over the fact that if people spoke like this, not even their fathers or mothers could bear the unpleasantness of listening to them: they would need an interpreter, as if they were listening to a foreign tongue. 794

The basic idea behind this passage is familiar from the discussion of the ‘naturalness’ of Lysias’ style. A style like Thucydides’ would have made life in democratic Athens impossible on all levels because the citizens would not have been able to communicate. Dionysius’ statement that average citizens would have needed an interpreter to understand Thucydidean language underscores the paradoxicality inherent in Thucydides’ style: it is Greek, but it is so distorted that it does not seem to be Greek. In the same way, Plato’s ‘political discourses’ distort the diction appropriate to Socratic philosophy: they are written by Plato, but they are so alien from his philosophy that they do not seem to be written by Plato; Plato is not himself, Èteroc ·auto‹. Moreover, like Plato’s un-Platonic passages, Thucydides’ un-democratic style is an aesthetic failure (Çhd–an); ‘tastelessness’ has grave political implications. In a wider sense, it is an indicator of an author’s being out of line with the culture, politics, and society of his times: as Dionysius sees it, Thucydides, as shown in chapter 3.2.1, refused to identify with his native city and its political and moral values; the result was his un-Classical historical work. The un-democratic style of his speeches, too, reflects his attitude towards Athens. In a similar manner, Plato ‘dishonours his profession as a philosopher’ (Dem. 23.4 above) whenever he inserts pieces of political oratory into his works. The idea of a two-faced Plato, Plato the philosopher and the ‘Thucydidean’ Plato who is ‘not himself’ (Èteroc aÕto‹), is an important part of 794 Usher’s transl. modified.

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Dionysius’ argument strategy against the Platonists. This distinction permits Dionysius to criticize Plato without questioning his exemplary status as a Classical author (cf. thliko‹toc Çn†r; ûdËsjhn at Dem. 6.1–4 above; t¨ dÏx˘ tÇndrÏc, ibid. 23.1). There is no doubt that Plato is Classical, but occasionally he falls out of his role; more important, Plato himself knew that and used the term dij‘rambon for the tasteless, ‘political’ passages in his work. Dionysius thus justifies his criticism of Plato’s style: it does not diminish Plato’s dignity but simply states what Plato himself acknowledged. The half-knowledge about rhetoric of Dionysius’ adversaries (änjrwpoi ômiteleÿc per» lÏgwn, Dem. 23.3 above), by contrast, prevents them from recognizing the two facets of the work and style of their master. Their failure in criticism reflects Plato’s failure in political oratory: in the same way Plato fails when embarking on a kind of activity which is foreign to his profession, the Platonists fail when assessing the qualities of an author as a model of political oratory. If they had the necessary knowledge, they would realize, like Dionysius, that the ‘Thucydidean’ Plato is un-Platonic, a Plato not being himself. They would never have tried to enhance Plato’s reputation by postulating that he be the model for political rhetoric. Plato’s alleged authority, dÏxa, as a model of political oratory is incompatible with the textual evidence, the truth. Dionysius’ statement of his principles of argumentation leaves no doubt about this: he will discuss Plato’s style ‘freely,’ he claims at Dem. 23.1, ‘adding nothing to the man’s reputation or taking away anything from the truth’ (oŒj‡n o÷te t¨ dÏx˘ tÇndr‰c prostije»c o÷te t®c Çlhje–ac Çfairo‘menoc).795 The wording is suggestive: ‘adding’ (prostije–c) something to Plato’s reputation entails ‘taking away’ (Çfairo‘menoc) something from the truth. But this is what the Platonists do: they present a distorted assessment of Plato’s style, which is at odds with the text and, above all, with Plato’s own judgment. Dionysius’ characterisation of the Platonists as ‘half-finished in rhetorical education’ 796 (ômiteleÿc per» lÏgouc, ibid. 23.3) corresponds to his categorization of Plato’s style as ‘mixed’: Plato is competent only in philosophy, but fails in political rhetoric. In the same way, his followers should stick to the philosophical contents of his works rather than arrogate competence in the field of politiko» lÏgoi. The fact that they do so is a faux-pas in literary criticism, just as Plato’s adoption of the Thucydidean manner is a faux-pas in style. Both Plato and the Platonists are guilty of Çpeirokal–a (Dem. 23.4): 795 Translation mine. 796 Translation mine.

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Plato in terms of distorting reality through the Thucydidean ‘remote-fromnormality’ style, the Platonists in terms of distorting the textual evidence in their assessment of Plato’s style. Dionysius thus sets up a clear divide between natural and ethical philosophy, the domain of ‘the entire Socratic school,’ on the one hand, and the kind of ‘philosophy’ he and his addressees pursue, ‘political philosophy’ (politikò filosof–a) in the tradition of Isocrates, on the other. As far as the philosophical content of Plato’s dialogues is concerned, the Platonists may claim their right of interpretation. But whenever the political domain, the domain of power,797 is concerned (politika» ÕpojËseic, Dem. 23.4 above), it is up to the specialist in politiko» lÏgoi to judge and decide about good and bad. Both Plato’s attempt to write politiko» lÏgoi and the Platonists’ claim that their master should be regarded as ‘the supreme literary genius among philosophers and orators, and […] the definitive norm for both plain and forceful writing’ (pàntwn aŒt‰n Çpofa–nein filosÏfwn te ka» ˚htÏrwn

·rmhne‹sai tÄ pràgmata daimoni∏taton parakele‘onta– te ômÿn Ìr˙ ka» kanÏni qr®sjai kajar¿n âma ka»  squr¿n lÏgwn to‘t˙ tƒ Çndr–, Dem. 23.1 above) exceeds their field of authority: Plato may be the standard for all philosophers, but for Dionysius it is out of the question that he should be the standard also for all orators (pàntwn filosÏfwn te ka» ˚htÏrwn) (Dem. 23.5): KÇmo– ge pollàkic ‚p®ljen e peÿn, ‚p» t¿n toio‘twn aŒto‹ lÏgwn, Á pepo–htai par+Afrod–thn  Zeuc lËgwn; O÷ toi, tËknon ‚mÏn, dËdotai polem†ia Írga, ÇllÄ s‘ g+…merÏenta metËrqeo Írga gàmoio, Swkratik¿n dialÏgwn, ta‹ta d‡ politikoÿc ka» ˚†torsin Çndràsi mel†sei. It has often occurred to me to describe his essays in this vein in the words with which Homer makes Zeus address Aphrodite: “Fell deeds of war are not for thee, my child: Go now, your work is wedded love’s delights” [Iliad, 5.428–429]. “Socratic dialogues are your métier, Plato: let orators and politicians concern themselves with this kind of writing” [ibid. 430].

We have seen several times that quotations from Classical authors are an important part of Dionysius’ arguments, but this passage is particularly sophisticated. Not only does Dionysius employ a quotation from a Classical author to justify the sharp division of political rhetoric and philosophy; by 797 On the close interrelation of politiko» lÏgoi and power see above ch. 2.3.

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associating philosophy with Aphrodite and ‘wedded love’s delights’ and political oratory with warfare, the domain of men, and its god Ares, he also establishes a hierarchy between philosophy and criticism. Philosophy is a nice spare-time occupation, but political rhetoric is a man’s world and should be left to those who can handle it, ‘orators and politicians.’ 798 Zeus’ sentence is a mixture of his actual words in the Iliad and of Dionysius’ words. The king of the gods speaks on behalf of Dionysius; he decides the quarrel with the Platonists to Dionysius’ favour and confirms the hierarchy between philosophy and rhetoric. This recalls, and refutes, the statement of ‘some’ Platonists, reported at Dem. 23.2, 799 that ‘the king of gods can only speak in the language of Plato’; in the above passage, the king of gods is, in fact, speaking in the language of Dionysius. Thus Dionysius’ conception of different ‘styles’ of criticism, which correspond to different Classical styles, invests the originally philosophical opposition of dÏxa and Çl†jeia, in which Dionysius sets the controversy with the Platonists, with an additional, political dimension. Not only has this opposition turned into a general antithesis between philosophy and rhetoric. The discussion about the primacy of the one or the other, and about who has the right to determine what is ‘good’ style and what is not, is now also a discussion about the question of who has the right to leadership in political power. The controversy between Dionysius and the Platonists thus appears to continue the conflict between Plato and Isocrates

798 This quarrel over competencies resurfaces later in the controversy when the Platonists (represented by a fictus interlocutor) try to turn the tables and accuse Dionysius of measuring Plato by the wrong standard, namely rhetoric and style; a philosopher, they claim, should be judged by his ideas, not by his style (Dem. 25.1): ‘But perhaps someone will say: “You are misrepresenting the matter, demanding beauty of language and elegance of style from an author who is not expert in these matters. Examine his ideas, and see whether they possess nobility and grandeur, and are uniquely his. Ideas were his concern, and it was in these that his genius lay. Call him to account for these, and leave his style alone” ’ (Sukofanteÿc t‰ prêgma, tàq+ãn e“poi tic, eŒËpeian Çpait¿n ka» kallilog–an parÄ Çndr‰c oŒ ta‹ta sofo‹. TÄc no†seic ‚xËtaze, e  kala» ka» megaloprepeÿc e si ka» par+oŒjen» t¿n ällwn ke–menai. Per» ta‘tac ‚keÿnoc ‚spo‘dazen, ‚n ta‘taic dein‰c ™n; to‘twn eŒj‘nac par+aŒto‹ làmbane, t‰n d‡ trÏpon t®c lËxewc Ía). Dionysius replies that it is a well-known fact (âpantec “sasin) that Plato ‘prided himself more on his powers of expression than upon his subject-matter’ (ple–oni kËqrhtai filotim–¯ per» tòn ·rmhne–an  filÏsofoc £ per» tÄ pràgmata, Dem. 25.2); cf. the discussion of this passage p. 289 n. 709 above. 799 Quoted above, pp. 314–315.

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whose respective definitions of ‘philosophy’ already blurred the distinction between rhetoric, philosophy, and politics. 800 Moreover, the antithesis between the Platonic and the Isocratean conceptions of philosophy is a constitutive element not only of Dionysius’ quarrel with the Platonists. Rather, it seems to be of fundamental importance to Dionysius’ image of himself as a critic and his place in the tradition of rhetorical criticism. This is suggested by a programmatic passage in which

800 A detailed discussion of this intricate question is beyond the scope of this study. Noël (2004) argues convincingly that Plato criticised rhetoric so severely because professional teachers of rhetoric like Gorgias claimed that rhetoric was not simply the art of speaking but the art of successful political leadership (‘l’art politique’) par excellence and, as such, a rival of philosophy (140–141, the quotation at 140). Isocrates’ ‘philosophy’ was centred on the idea of teaching the ability to judge a political situation appropriately (a quality to which he refers as frÏnhsic at, e.g., 15.271) and to make successful decisions on the basis of this assessment, see Poulakos (2004) 60–61. This assessment Isocrates calls dÏxa and directly contrasts it with any ‘knowledge on the basis of which we know what to do or to say’ (‚pist†mhn […], õn Íqontec ãn e deÿmen, Ì ti praktËon £ lektËon ‚st–n, 15.271, my translation) which, he claims, man is unable to attain. Therefore ‘wise men’ (sofo‘c) are those who succeed due to their dÏxa (taÿc dÏxaic ‚pitugqànein) and ‘philosophers’ (toÃc filosÏfouc) those who strive to achieve this ability (ibid.). Schiappa (1999) 162– 184 has an excellent discussion of Isocrates’ conception of ‘philosophy’; above all, he argues compellingly that ‘Isocrates’ training would have been regarded by most Greeks as every bit as “philosophical” as that of his later rivals Plato and Aristotle’ (ibid. 172; cf. ibid. 181); see also Morgan (2004), esp. 135; cf. MacAdon (2004) 31 and ibid. 30–34 for a comparison of Plato’s and Isocrates’ notions of philosophos and philosophia. The locus classicus for Plato’s relation to Isocrates is Phdr. 279a2–b2. There Socrates judges Isocrates superior to orators such as Lysias and expresses the hope that some divine inspiration (Ârmò jeiotËra) will lead him to nobler achievements (‚p» me–zw); for he detects, Socrates says, ‘a certain philosophy’ (tic filosof–a) in Isocrates’ mind (t¨ to‹ Çndr‰c diano–¯) (279a8–b1). Scholars are still divided as to whether this judgment is ironic or an honest appreciation of Isocrates’ intellectual potential; see, e.g., de Vries (1969) 17 for the former, Erbse (1971) for the latter view (which I find more convincing). At any rate, when the Phaedrus was published, Isocrates was not a young man anymore and it would have been evident to any reader that Isocrates had not chosen the career of which Socrates (and, by implication, Plato) would have approved, see Erbse (1971) 196–197; de Vries (1969) 17. On the role of rhetoric in Platonic philosophy see further, e.g., Coulter (1964); Murray (1988); Coventry (1989); Hellwig (1973). Hence while assuming a ‘binary opposition’ between Plato and Isocrates is certainly an oversimplification (Morgan [2004] 125; similarly, Konstan [2004], esp. 107), Plato and Isocrates remain the most outstanding representatives of (in many ways) fundamentally different conceptions of ‘philosophy’ and the role of rhetoric in it. This opposition provides the background to Dionysius’ polemical antithesis of Platonic vs Isocratean ‘philosophy’ in his argument with the Platonists.

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Dionysius defines the ethical content and purpose of Isocrates’ philosophy as the standard for all ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ (Isoc. 4.3–4):801

>Ex ¡n [t¿n >Isokràtouc lÏgwn] oŒ lËgein deinoÃc mÏnon Çpergàsait+ãn toÃc prosËqontac aŒtƒ t‰n no‹n, ÇllÄ ka» tÄ ¢jh spouda–ouc, o“k˙ te ka» pÏlei ka» Ìl˘ t¨ <Ellàdi qrhs–mouc. Ka» ÍgwgË fhmi qr®nai toÃc mËllontac oŒq» mËroc ti t®c politik®c dunàmewc Çll+Ìlhn aŒtòn kt†sesjai to‹ton Íqein t‰n ˚†tora diÄ qeirÏc; ka» e“ tic ‚pithde‘ei tòn Çlhjinòn filosof–an, mò t‰ jewrhtik‰n aŒt®c mÏnon Çgap¿n ÇllÄ ka» t‰ pragmatikÏn, mhd+Çf+¡n aŒt‰c älupon Èxei b–on proairo‘menoc, Çll+‚x ¡n polloÃc ≤fel†sei, parakeleusa–mhn ãn aŒtƒ tòn ‚ke–nou to‹ ˚†toroc mimeÿsjai proa–resin. The influence of these [Isocrates’ writings] would make anyone who applied himself to his works not only good orators, but men of sterling character, of positive service to their families, to their state and to Greece at large. I therefore affirm that the man who intends to acquire ability in the whole field of politics, not merely a part of that science, should make Isocrates his constant companion. And anyone who is interested in true philosophy, and enjoys studying its practical as well as its speculative branches, and is seeking a career by which he will benefit many people, not one which will give him a carefree life, would be well advised to follow the principles which this orator adopts.

Although Dionysius does not mention Plato explicitly, the contrast between the ‘theoretic’ philosophy and the ‘true’ philosophy recalls the opposition between delightful love and warfare in the passage from the Iliad and evokes the controversy between Plato and Isocrates. 802 801 On this passage and the following remarks see my discussion above, ch. 2.2.1, pp. 70–71. 802 Since the term ‘true philosophy’ (and the active political life that is associated with it) clearly refers to Isocrates, it is unlikely that Dionysius, as Aujac I, 121 n. 1 suggests, is referring to the Stoic ideal of the ‘man of action.’ This conforms to Dionysius’ image of Isocrates, whose conception of Athenian civic identity significantly shaped Classical Athenian democracy and Classical Greek identity, see esp. Isoc. 1.5: ‘He [Isocrates] became the outstanding figure among the famous men of his day, and the teacher of the most eminent men at Athens and in Greece at large, both the best forensic orators, and those who distinguished themselves in politics and public life. Historians, too, were among his pupils, both those who wrote of Greek affairs and those who included the outside world, and his school came to represent Athens herself in the eyes of literate men abroad’ (‚pifanËstatoc d‡ genÏmenoc [>Isokràthc] t¿n katÄ t‰n aŒt‰n

Çkmasàntwn qrÏnon ka» toÃc krat–stouc t¿n >Aj†nhsi te ka» ‚n t¨ äll˘ <Ellàdi nËwn paide‘sac, ¡n o… m‡n ‚n toÿc dikanikoÿc ‚gËnonto äristoi lÏgoic, oÀ d‡ ‚n tƒ

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Moreover, both content and phrasing of the passage above recall Isocrates’ definition of his own philosophy, ‘properly conceived’ (tòn dika–wc ãn nomizomËnhn), as opposed to the ‘what some people call philosophy’ (tòn kaloumËnhn ÕpÏ tinwn filosof–an, 15.270) in the Antidosis (15.270–285). The entire passage is dominated by the opposition between a conception of ‘philosophy’ which aims at enabling the student to both succeed in civic life and benefit the community and one that concentrates on idle, purely theoretical speculation. 803 Isocrates emphasizes that the distinctive criterion of his philosophy is not the futile pursuit of any ethical or practical ‘knowledge’ (‚pist†mh […] Ìti praktËon £ lektËon, 271). Instead, it focuses on the ability (frÏnhsic) to assess situations in everyday political life properly and act successfully on the basis of this dÏxa (ibid.). 804 In stark contrast, any ethical speculation which seeks to convert people to virtue (Çret†) and justice (dikaios‘nh) is bound to fail, unless those who practice it will dedicate (filot–mwc diatijeÿen; ‚rasjeÿen) themselves to the ‘art’ (tËqnh) of speaking well (lËgein efi) and persuasion (pe–jein) (ibid. 274– 275). It is this art alone which combines both ethical excellence with political success because only an ethically flawless character can be truly persuasive in the first place (ibid. 278). 805 Therefore, the term ‘philosophers’ is not for those who ‘ignore our practical needs’ (t¿n m‡n Çnagka–wn Çmelo‹ntac) and ‘delight in the mental juggling of the ancient sophists’ (tÄc d‡ t¿n palai¿n sofist¿n teratolog–ac Çgap¿ntac); only those are entitled to it who pursue such things as ‘will enable us to govern wisely both our own households and the commonwealth’ (‚x ¡n ka» t‰n “dion o⁄kon ka» tÄ koinÄ tÄ t®c pÏlewc kal¿c dioik†sousin). As Schiappa points out, ‘it scarcely can be doubted that he [Isocrates] includes Plato’ in the group of the representatives of ‘what some people call

polite‘esjai ka» tÄ koinÄ pràttein di†negkan, älloi d‡ tÄc koinÄc t¿n <Ell†nwn te ka» barbàrwn pràxeic ÇnËgrayan, ka» t®c >Ajhna–wn pÏlewc e kÏna poi†sac tòn ·auto‹ sqolòn katÄ tÄc Çpoik–ac t¿n lÏgwn [‚tele‘ta]); cf. pp. 68–69 above. 803 Cf. Schiappa (1999) 175: ‘It is clear from passages in Antidosis and in Helen that Isocrates does not approve of the sort of Eleatic metaphysical speculation with which Plato’s academy would have been associated […]. The problem, from Isocrates’ perspective, is that eristical disputation becomes an end in itself, rather than contributing to civic virtue.’ 804 See the passages quoted and discussed in n. 800 above. 805 ‘Therefore, the stronger a man’s desire to persuade his hearers, the more zealously will he strive to be honourable and to have the esteem of his fellow-citizens’ (πsj+Ìs˙per än tic ‚rrwmenestËrwc ‚pijumhj¨ pe–jein toÃc Çko‘ontac, toso‘t˙ mêllon Çsk†sei kal‰c kÇgaj‰c e⁄nai ka» parÄ toÿc pol–taic eŒdokimeÿn).

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philosophy’ (15.270, quoted above).806 Isocrates’ strong focus on political activity; his claim that training in his philosophy will result not only in oratorical competence but also in ethical excellence; and his assertion, going hand-in-hand with this, that any ‘knowledge’ of matters ethical such as dikaios‘nh and Çret† can be attained through rhetorical education are diametrically opposed to central tenets of Socratic-Platonic philosophy. 807 These considerations strongly suggest that we are to see the PlatonicSocratic tradition behind the ‘speculative’ philosophy (t‰ jewrhtikÏn) criticised by Dionysius in the passage above: it is the ‘ethical philosophy’ of ‘the entire Socratic school’ (Dem. 2.2) that lacks the practical part, t‰ pragmatikÏn, through which theoretical knowledge (whether ethical or political) has to be implemented in everyday civic life in order to be useful. This practical part is the power of speech: not only does reading Isocrates’ speeches have a moral impact upon the recipients and make them ideal citizens. Rhetoric is also the medium through which civic identity is enacted in every day life and through which political life is acted out. 808 Isocrates’ philosophy provided both, civic education and the means to implement it. Plato, by contrast, dealt with political theory but argued for a complete withdrawal of the philosopher from Athenian political life: only the ideal polis conceived in his masterpiece of political theory, the Politeia, in which political power would be contingent on philosophical insight, would provide the environment appropriate for a Socratic-Platonic philosopher to participate actively in civic life. Moreover, according to the ancient biographical tradition, Plato failed utterly when he attempted to realize his theories in the court of Dionysius II. These intertextual references inscribe Dionysius’ Classicist programme, which he defines as the continuation of the Isocratean conception of language and identity, 809 into the controversy about the true conception of 806 Similarly, Morgan (2004) 135; de Vries (1969) 17. 807 E.g., Ap. 32a9–b1 (Socrates deliberately does not participate in political life); Tht. 172c3– d2; 174b8–175b7 (philosophy in Socrates’ sense is incompatible with an active political life); 173a1–b3 (a professional activity as orator corrupts the yuq†); on these passages from the Theaetetus see Eucken (1983) 274–281, who thinks that Socrates’ polemic against oratory and its negative ethical implications is directed at Isocrates. Cf. Grg. 500c1–8 on which Schiappa (1999) 172 remarks that ‘Plato’s Gorgias champions a separation of philosophy from direct involvement in civic affairs that was anathema to Isocrates’; similarly, Morgan (2004) 131, 133. 808 See above, ch. 2.2.1, pp. 65–66. 809 See ch. 2.2.1 above.

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philosophy between Plato and Isocrates. 810 The Platonists’ defeat in the controversy with Dionysius in On Demosthenes demonstrates that he conceives of his work not simply as the continuation of this Classical quarrel but as its final settlement in favour of Isocrates and the tradition of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. By claiming that Plato should be the model for all kinds of rhetoric, the Platonists maintain that Plato can provide also the ‘practical part’ of political philosophy and attempt to establish the primacy of Plato’s conception of philosophy over Isocrates’. But this claim is contradicted by the very style of the ‘political parts’ of Plato’s œuvre which, like Thucydides’ style, is incompatible with the Athenian democracy itself. Philosophy and filÏsofoc ˚htorik† are two different genres of discourse and each of them is associated with a particular diction which is responsible for the success of the latter and the failure of the former. Plato and Isocrates might both have dealt with similar moral and political questions. But the style of the passages of political oratory in Plato’s works shows that competence in the theoretical element of civic life does not qualify for a leading position in political and cultural discourse. For it is through an appropriate style alone that the jewrhtikÏn can be turned into actual, successful civic practice. Dionysius’ discussion of individual passages from Plato’s Funeral Oration illustrates the impact of style on the effect of political oratory. The general idea which underlies Dionysius’ argument with the Platonists and on which his judgment on Plato’s style is based, namely that the style is supposed to present an ‘authentic’ image of the extratextual reality described by the text, also provides the key to his discussion of the Funeral Oration. In this case, the interrelation of text and extratextual reality is of particular importance because the Funeral Oration is supposed to represent the dignity and political authority of Classical Athens. Dionysius’ critical analysis of the speech is designed to prove that contrary to the Platonists’ claim, Plato’s style in the ‘political’ passages of his œuvre is far from being an adequate mode of expression for matters of political importance. On the contrary, it even risks jeopardizing the dignity of Classical Athens: not only is it ineffective, it is dangerous. Dionysius’ discussion of the Funeral Oration is not only a highly illustrative example of how the design of Dionysius’ texts constitutes an ‘imagined community’ of Classicist critics while creating an image of the excluded Other. It also offers fascinating insights into how Dionysius imagined a 810 Cf. Walsdorff (1927) 17–18.

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period of the past, and certain notions and values associated with it, to be directly reflected in style and language. Dionysius’ discussion of the Funeral Oration has several aims. First, it is designed to refute the Platonists’ claim that Plato should be the supreme model of both philosophical and oratorical texts; second, in so doing, Dionysius contributes to settling the controversy (itself Classical) between Plato’s and Isocrates’ competing conceptions of ‘philosophy,’ and their respective definitions of the interrelation of philosophy, oratory, and politics, in the favour of the Isocratean ‘philosophical rhetoric’; finally, by eliminating Plato as a potential model of political oratory, Dionysius disavows the Platonists’ claim to leadership in the field of rhetorical training and literary criticism. At the same time, he corroborates his own assertion that he and the community of intellectuals which he represents are the only scholars entitled to represent and preserve the Classical heritage. Going hand-inhand with this, he provides further evidence for the central statement of his preface to On the Ancient Orators – a claim he reasserts throughout his essays – that a thorough training and education in filÏsofoc ˚htorik† unites its practitioners in an exclusive circle of intellectuals who alone have the right to occupy leading positions in society and politics. 811 Dionysius’ general objection to Plato’s ‘Thucydidean’ style is the relation between reality and text: 812 whereas Lysianic style gives a faithful image 811 See, above all, Orat. Vett. 1.3–4: ‘civic honours and high office’ (tÄc timÄc ka» tÄc prostas–ac pÏlewn) are ‘a power which ought to have been reserved for filÏsofoc ˚htorik†’ (Éc Ídei tòn filÏsofon Íqein, Usher’s transl. modified) and his characteristic of Rome’s leaders (aŒt®c o… dunaste‘ontec) as successful and exemplary politicians (Çp‰ to‹ krat–stou tÄ koinÄ dioiko‹ntec) as well as ‘thoroughly cultured and in the highest degree discerning’ (eŒpa–deutoi pànu ka» gennaÿoi tÄc kr–seic, ibid. 3.1). For a detailed discussion of these passages see above, ch. 2.3.1; on training in filÏsofoc ˚htorik† and social and political elitism in Dionysius see ch. 4.3. 812 The focus of the present discussion will be on the structure of Dionysius’ argument; on the means through which he reminds his recipients that literary criticism and aesthetic jugdment are criteria of distinction; on the intermingling of aesthetical and political categories in Dionysius’ conceptual vocabulary; and on the self-image of the critic as the preserver of the dignity of Classical Athens and the role of criticism as the instrument to achieve this aim. I will not be concerned, however, with the various grammatical and rhetorical categories (and their combination) which Dionysius employs in his discussion of Thucydides’ and Plato’s style, on which see now the excellent discussion in de Jonge (2008) 214–250. Suffice it to say that Dionysius’ main concern is the shift ‘from the object being signified to the word that is signifying it, and vice versa’ (pr‰c t‰ shmaÿnon Çp‰ to‹ shmainomËnou pràgmatoc […] Çpostrof[ò] £ pr‰c t‰ shmainÏmenon Çp‰ to‹ shma–nontoc, Amm.II , 13.1) (ibid. 242), i.e., the ‘interchanging of the accidentia of

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of reality, Thucydidean style distorts the noble subject of the Funeral Oration and thus belittles the dignity of Classical Athens. Dionysius dealt with a similar problem in his discussion of Thucydides’ History which distorts the character of the Classical Athenians. When discussing the History, Dionysius focuses on the content of Thucydides’ work; in his discussion of the Funeral Oration, Dionysius demonstrates the distorting effects of Thucydidean style. From this point of view, Dionysius’ criticism of Plato’s style is a complement to his criticism of Thucydides’ work: in both cases Dionysius arrogates the role of preserving the solemn and impeccable image of the venerated past. As in the First Letter to Ammaeus, Dionysius performs his criticism of the Funeral Oration as an in-group/out-group reading (Dem. 23.6):

Poio‹mai d‡ t®c ‚mauto‹ dÏxhc koinoÃc kritÄc toÃc filolÏgouc âpantac, Õpexairo‘menoc e“ tinËc e si filÏtimoi ka» pr‰c tÄc dÏxac ÇllÄ mò pr‰c tòn Çl†jeian kr–nontec tÄ pràgmata. I invite all lovers of literature to examine the validity of my opinion, except those who are ambitious, and make their judgments with an eye to their own reputations rather than the truth.

Dionysius uses the Çl†jeia-dÏxa antithesis to categorize the opposite opinions about Plato’s style which distinguish two different groups of critics: Dionysius represents the group of filÏlogoi, which is characterized by its adherence to truth, whereas the Platonists represent the filÏtimoi, whose judgment is based on their concern for ‘reputation.’ This distinction makes the following discussion a process of inclusion or exclusion (Õpexairo‘menoc): Dionysius’ readers are aware that they will be confronted with two diametrically opposite judgments on Plato and that subscribing to either of them defines them as belonging to the community of filÏlogoi or to the community of filÏtimoi. There is no neutrality in criticism: agreement with Dionysius or his adversaries defines them as Classicists or Platonists, as adherents of the tradition of Classical political oratory or of Platonic philosophy, and as representatives of a critical method based on truth or one based on a concern for reputation. Reading Dionysius’ discussion creates a feeling of togetherness (koino‘c) or of being excluded, depending on which side of the controversy the reader takes. the parts of the speech,’ such as voices, numbers, genders, tenses, and cases (ibid. 226); Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides is probably influenced by Stoic ideas on ‘analogy’ and ‘anomaly’ (ibid. 56–57; van Ophuijsen [2003]) and solecism (de Jonge [2008] 244–245; Vainio [2003]; Hyman [2003]).

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The point at issue with Plato’s style in the ‘political’ sections of his works is the representation of world in text (·rmhne‹sai tÄ pràgmata, Dem. 23.1), i. e., how the diction (·rmhne–a) influences the representation of extra-textual reality as the subject matter (tÄ pràgmata/t‰ Õpoke–menon). 813 Dionysius’ discussion of Lysias shows that Dionysius’ ideal of representation of the world in text is a true-to-nature representation of extra-textual reality, Çl†jeia. Such an effect can be achieved by synthesis. If properly done, it ‘imitat[es] the things’ (mimhtik‰n […] t¿n pragmàtwn) so that there is no difference between reading about an event and being an eyewitness (πste mhd‡n ômÿn diafËrein ginÏmena tÄ pràgmata £ legÏmena Ârên). 814 Plato’s stylistic choices, by contrast, often result in a distorted image of extratextual reality. 815 Dionysius quotes the second part of the opening sentence of the Funeral Oration (Mx. 236d4–6) to illustrate this flaw: óErg˙ m‡n Õmÿn o—de Íqousi tÄ pros†konta sf–sin aŒtoÿc, ¡n tuqÏntec pore‘ontai tòn e…marmËnhn pore–an […] propemfjËntec koin¨ m‡n Õp‰ t®c pÏlewc,  d–¯ d‡ Õp‰ t¿n o ke–wn. The first part of the period (Írg˙ […] pore–an), Dionysius says, is flawless, even ‘admirable and appropriate to the sub813 See in general de Jonge’s (2008) ch. 2.3 ‘Language, thought, and reality.’ de Jonge points out that Dionysius employs Õpoke–menon for ‘either the thought (e.g., tòn ÕpokeimËnhn diànoian […]) or the referent (person or object) in reality’ (for the latter de Jonge refers to Comp. 16.1: words ‘suit and illustrate’ an author’s subject (o keÿa ka» dhlwtikÄ t¿n ÕpokeimËnwn tÄ ÊnÏmata)); ‘Dionysius frequently specifies t‰ Õpoke–menon by the words pràgmata (things) and prÏswpa (persons)’ (ibid. 58–59), but does not seem to distinguish consistently between prêgma meaning ‘thought’ and prêgma meaning ‘referent’ (ibid. 59). 814 Comp. 20.6–7: ‘Even when the same men in the same state of mind report events at which they have actually been present, they do not use a similar style of composition to describe them all, but even use their word-order to represent what they are reporting […]. Bearing this principle in mind, the good poet or orator should be ready to represent the things which he is describing in words, not only in the choice of the words but also in the composition. This is what Homer, that most inspired poet, usually does […]’ (o… aŒto» änjrwpoi, ‚n t¨ aŒt¨ katastàsei t®c yuq®c Óntec Ìtan ÇpaggËllwsi pràgmata oŸc ãn paragenÏmenoi t‘qwsin, oŒq Âmo–¯ qr¿ntai

sunjËsei per» pàntwn ÇllÄ mimhtiko» g–nontai t¿n ÇpaggellomËnwn ka» ‚n tƒ suntijËnai tÄ ÊnÏmata […]. Ta‹ta d‡ parathro‹nta deÿ t‰n Çgaj‰n poihtòn ka» ˚†tora mimhtik‰n e⁄nai t¿n pragmàtwn Õp‡r ¡n ãn toÃc lÏgouc ‚kfËr˘, mò mÏnon katÄ tòn ‚klogòn t¿n Ênomàtwn ÇllÄ ka» katÄ tòn s‘njesin. √O poieÿn e“wjen  daimoni∏tatoc ìOmhroc […]; Usher’s transl. modified). 815 Cf. Hyman (2003) 180: ‘Ancient grammarians were aware of the difficulty of extricating syntactic from semantic and pragmatic structure; of the close relation between verbal and nonverbal planes of language; and of grammatical phenomena that appear in linguistic contexts larger than a single sentence.’

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ject in the beauty of the words, their dignity and melody’ (jaumastò ka» prËpousa toÿc ÕpokeimËnoic pràgmasi kàllouc te Ênomàtwn Èneka ka» semnÏthtoc ka» Årmon–ac, Dem. 24.2). The diction (ÊnÏmata) gives a faithful image of the described event (tÄ Õpoke–mena pràgmata) so that the recipients experience the semnÏthc of the event through its description, as though they had been eyewitnesses.816 The problem is the second part, propemfjËntec koin¨ m‡n Õp‰ t®c pÏlewc,  d–¯ d‡ Õp‰ t¿n o ke–wn. At first glance, Dionysius’ critique might seem trivial, but in his mind it has grave consequences: the second part is repetitive and does not add any new information. According to Dionysius, Íqousi tÄ pros†konta sf–sin already implies that the funeral procession for the glorious dead was attended by both representatives of the polis and their families, ‘so that it was unnecessary to say the same thing again’ (πste oŒk Çnagkaÿon ™n pàlin taŒt‰ lËgein, Dem. 24.3). The problem with this prosj†kh (Dem. 24.5) is not simply that it is gratuitous; it lays stress on the wrong aspects of the ceremony and thus misrepresents the Athenian festival (Dem. 24.4–5):

E  mò kràtiston Åpàntwn t¿n per» tÄc tafÄc nom–mwn to‹to Õpelàmbanen  Çnòr e⁄nai, lËgw dò t‰ pareÿnai polloÃc taÿc ‚kkomidaÿc, ka» oŒj‡n ätopon ‚dÏkei poieÿn sumperilab∏n te aŒt‰ toÿc polloÿc ka» qwr»c Õp‡r aŒto‹ mÏnou lËgein. >Hl–jioc ära tic ™n e  to‹ton ‚dÏkei toÿc teleut†sasi lamprÏtaton e⁄nai t¿n kÏsmwn oŸc ô pÏlic aŒtoÃc ‚kÏsmei. ìIna gÄr Çf¿ pànta tÄ älla, t‰ dhmos–¯ ghrotrofeÿsjai toÃc patËrac aŒt¿n äqri janàtou ka» paide‘esjai toÃc u…eÿc Èwc °bhc pÏs˙ kreÿtton ™n to‹ propËmpesjai tÄ s∏mata dhmos–¯; >Emo» m‡n dokeÿ makrƒ. [It was unnecessary to say the same thing again,] unless the speaker thought this to be the most important of the customs relating to state funerals, that the procession should be attended by a large crowd, and saw nothing incongruous in singling it out for reference after including it among other details. Certainly anyone who thought that the procession was the most splendid distinction which the state bestowed upon its dead would be silly: for, to pass over everything else, what of the provision that their fathers should be maintained for the rest of their lives and that their children should be educated until adulthood at public expenses? How much more important is this than the public funeral procession? Much more, I think! 816 On the style-contents distinction in Dionysius and the different terms which designate each of them cf. de Jonge (2008) 53–59.

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The speaker’s elaborating on one particular point is a signal that this point is the most important. 817 Plato’s emphasis on the funeral procession implies that Athens had nothing more to offer to her fallen citizens than a wellattended funeral. Dionysius corrects this impression by listing other, more important honours which Athens bestowed upon her war dead, towards the end of the passage. He has the knowledge necessary to correct this ‘silly’ view. But what happens if a recipient does not have such a thorough knowledge about Classical Athenian state burials? Plato’s diction misrepresents how generously Athens honoured her heroes and belittles both this generosity and the exceptional achievements of her citizens. An uninformed reader would accept this distorted image and get the wrong idea about Classical Athens and her citizens. Like Thucydides’ negative portrayal of the Athenians in the Peloponnesian War, Plato’s account of the funeral procession is far from presenting the admirable image of Classical Athens which Dionysius favours. Readers in the present establish an emotional relationship with the past through the texts, and Dionysius wants this relationship to be positive. Plato’s style has the opposite effect because it precludes the reader from feeling the dignity and solemnity of the past; Dionysius’ criticism corrects this distorted image and restores a positive image of Classical Athens and her citizens. This correction is acted out as a short dialogue which gives the passage an interactive character. The question points out Plato’s mistake and provides additional information as to why Plato’s version is wrong, while the affirmative makrƒ lays weight on Dionysius’ assertion. This invites the readers to position themselves in the discussion. Dionysius’ own reply to this question, ‘much more, I think’ (‚mo» m‡n dokeÿ makrƒ), demonstrates which position Dionysius expects his readers to take: could they really not agree with him after the evidence he has provided? The mËn solitarium in ‚mo» m‡n increases the pressure on the addressee to make a decision for or against Dionysius’ point of view. Stressing ‚mo–, it underscores that Dionysius has made a clear statement. The effect is similar to that of a question: ‘I made my point, how about You?’ MËn creates a blank space which is left for the readers to fill and which invites them to join Dionysius and the filÏlogoi against the Platonists – Dionysius’ ‘I’ calls for a ‘We.’ Dionysius’ concluding sentence emphasizes again that the discussion about Plato’s style is a discussion about the primacy of Isocratean or

817 On this point see above, ch. 3.2.1, pp. 141–142, and 3.3.1, pp. 192–193.

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Platonic philosophy: ‘so this addition, Plato, was unnecessary’ (oŒko‹n oŒk Çnagka–a, Plàtwn, °de ô prosj†kh, Dem. 24.5). Addressing Plato directly, 818 Dionysius blurs the distinction between the present controversy and the one in Classical times: Dionysius is arguing on behalf of the Isocratean tradition, and his quarrel with the Platonists continues, and brings to an end, what had begun in the Classical past. 819 Dionysius’ comment on Mx. 237c7–d2820 provides further illustration of how closely Plato’s style and the dignity of Classical Athens (äxion) are interrelated (Dem. 28.2–4):

Tapein† moi dokeÿ ka» äzhloc ô lËxic ka» oŒd‡n Íqousa t®c perimaq†tou pÏlewc äxion, ±c ‚mo» dokeÿ. Poÿoc gÄr ‚njàde plo‹toc Ênomàtwn; Po–a semnÏthc; Poÿon ’yoc; T» oŒ malak∏teron t®c Çx–ac; T– d+oŒk ‚ndeËsteron t®c Çlhje–ac; O’twc ‚qr®n Õp‰ Plàtwnoc e r®sjai tòn >Ajhnêc ka» Poseid¿noc Õp‡r t®c >Attik®c stàsin Írin te ka» kr–sin; O’twc t‰n Írwta Án Ísqon o… jeo» t¿n ‚n aŒt¨ tim¿n, e c fa‹lÏn ti ka» mËtrion o’tw ˚®ma Çgageÿn õn d‡ jeo» ‚p§nesan e pÏnta; This seems to me a mean passage, and one not to be imitated, for I think it contains nothing worthy of the city which the gods fought over. Does it contain any rich language? Any dignity? Any sublimity? Is it not all pitched in a lower key than it should be? Is it not all smaller than life-size? Is this the way in which the quarrel over Attica between Athene and Poseidon should have been described by Plato, as “strife and judgment?” Should he have thus reduced the desire which the gods felt for honour at her shrines to the common, ordinary phrase “which the gods praised?” 821

The sublime dignity of Classical Athens (semnÏthc; ’yoc; äxion; Çx–a; tim¿n) can be represented adequately only through a true-to-nature style

818 See Ps.-Longin. 38.2 for a similar virtual address to a Classical author, in this case Isocrates. 819 For a similar blurring of the boundaries of classical past and present cf. Ps.-Longin. 14.2, where he recommends that an orator should always imagine how Homer or Demosthenes would react to his words if they were present. 820 ‘The strife of the gods who contended over her and their judgement testify to the truth of our statement. And how should not she whom the gods praised deserve to be praised by all mankind?’ (Martureÿ d+ômÿn tƒ lÏg˙ ô t¿n Çmfisbhthsàntwn per» aŒt®c je¿n Íric 〈te ka» kr–sic〉. √Hn d‡ jeo» ‚p§nesan, p¿c oŒq Õp+Çnjr∏pwn ge sumpàntwn dika–a ‚paineÿsjai;) 821 Usher’s transl. modified.

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(Çl†jeia); only thus will the reader experience Classical dignity and adopt an attitude of admiration and veneration towards Classical Athens. Plato’s diction distorts Athens’ grandeur, it ‘belittles’ it (malak∏teron, ‚ndeËsteron), and couches the ‘sublime’ in a ‘common, ordinary phrase,’ where it should have expressed the desire of the gods for being honoured in Athens, thus making Athens’ greatness experienceable to the reader. The paradoxical effect is that Plato’s words undermine the content. Plato mentioned the strife between the gods as an argumentum a maiore: how could human beings not pay all honours to Athens if even the gods praised her (√Hn d‡ jeo» ‚p§nesan, p¿c oŒq Õp+Çnjr∏pwn ge sumpàntwn dika–a ‚paineÿsjai;)? But Plato’s ‘common, ordinary phrase,’ which describes the gods’ praise of Athens (õn d‡ jeo» ‚p§nesan), makes it impossible for the readers to feel the admiration which the content commands. Dionysius’ indignant questions, by contrast, demonstrate his veneration for Classical Athens; furthermore, Dionysius’ questions are also a particularly efficient instrument of his criticism, insofar as they denounce Plato’s stylistic failures. Criticism thus becomes an instrument to implement the critic’s veneration for the past by ensuring that Athens’ reputation and greatness remain intact. At the same time, the questions express Dionysius’ astonishment at his adversaries: their inability to see the obvious incongruity between Plato’s style and his subject matter is a further proof of their lack of competence in rhetoric: the entire discussion of the Funeral Oration would be superfluous if the Platonists were not such incompetent critics. Proper critics would not need a theoretical analysis of Plato’s stylistic shortcomings, they would simply feel them (Dem. 24.9–10, on Mx. 236d7–e1):

To‘toic ‚keÿna ‚pit–jhsin  Çn†r; LÏg˙ d‡ dò t‰n leipÏmenon kÏsmon Ì te nÏmoc prostàttei to‘toic Çpodo‹nai toÿc Çndràsi ka» qr†. t‰ ka» qrò pàlin ‚nta‹ja ke–menon ‚p» teleut®c, t–noc Èneka pare–lhptai ka» diÄ t–; PÏtera safestËran poi®sai tòn lËxin; >AllÄ ka» qwr»c t®c projËsewc ta‘thc ‚st» saf†c. E“ ge ofin o’twc e⁄qe; {LÏg˙ d‡ dò t‰n leipÏmenon kÏsmon  nÏmoc Çpodo‹nai prostàttei toÿc Çndràsi}, t–c ãn ta‘thn ‚mËmyato ±c oŒ saf®; >AllÄ to‹to °dion Çkousj®nai ka» megaloprepËsteron; Pên m‡n ofin toŒnant–on öfàniken aŒt®c t‰ semn‰n ka» lel‘mantai. Ka» to‹to oŒ lÏg˙ deÿ majeÿn Èkaston, Çll+‚k t¿n ·auto‹ gn¿nai paj¿n. Taÿc gÄr ÇlÏgoic a sj†sesin âpanta tÄ ÊqlhrÄ ka» ôdËa kr–netai, ka» oŒj‡n deÿ ta‘taic o÷te didaq®c o÷te paramuj–ac.

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After this our author writes: “It remains to pay tribute to these heroes in words, as the law ordains, and as we are bound to do.” Here again, what is the purpose of adding “as we are bound to do” at the end? Does it make the meaning clearer? It is clear without this addition. If it were written as follows: “It remains to pay tribute to these heroes in words, as the law ordains.” Who would have criticised it for obscurity? But perhaps the form that we have sounds better and is more impressive? Quite the contrary: its dignity has been removed and destroyed. It needs no word of mine to show this: every reader is aware of it through his own feelings, for it is the senses, untutored by reason, that decide in all cases what is distasteful and what is pleasant, and they need neither instruction nor persuasion in these matters.

As in the preceding quotation Dionysius criticizes Plato because his diction is at odds with the content. The purpose of a Funeral Oration is to confer ‘honour’ or ‘credit’ (kÏsmoc) 822 on the fallen soldiers, but Plato’s words fail to create the appropriate solemnity (t‰ semnÏn, megaloprepËsteron); on the contrary, they destroy it (öfàniken aŒt®c t‰ semn‰n ka» lel‘mantai) and thus also preclude the reader from feeling it. Dionysius’ metathesis 823 confronts Plato’s faulty diction with a lËxic that does represent the content appropriately. Thus Dionysius demonstrates that he, in stark contrast to Plato and the Platonists, has the aesthetic sensibility which the dignity of the subject requires, and by re-writing Plato’s sentence he corrects Plato’s mistake and renders Classical Athens the honour she deserves. The fact that it is just a small detail, the added ka» qr†, which makes the difference, demonstrates that it would have been easy to achieve the desired effect. But this requires a sense of aesthetics (älogoc a“sjhsic) which is as developed as Dionysius’. Such a sense of Classical aesthetics, as shown above in chapter 4.2, depends on the proper education in rhetoric and style. This is the education which Dionysius provides and it is also the education which the Platonists, the ‘half-educated in rhetoric,’ lack. The whole passage demonstrates this interrelation of aesthetics and knowledge.

822 LSJ, p. 985, s.v. II.2. 823 On the critical practice of metathesis see de Jonge (2008), esp. 57: Dionysius ‘intends to recover the (unchangeable) meaning that underlies a certain expression rather than giving an alternative phrasing. Dionysius’ idea seems to be that there is a fixed meaning underlying all utterances, which one can represent in different ways (more or less accurately, more or less clearly, or with different sounds and rhythms)’; on the Stoic influences behind this idea and a similar use of metathesis in Apollonius Dyscolus cf. ibid. 56–57 and his ch. 7 ‘Rewriting the classics. Dionysius and the method of metathesis.’

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On the one hand, Dionysius’ analysis of Plato’s sentence shows that its aesthetic effect can be explained rationally (lÏg˙) and can be learned through instruction (didaq®c ka» paramuj–ac), if necessary: the sentence is ruined by the added ka» qr†. Yet at the same time, it intimates that such an explanation should not be necessary (to‹to oŒ lÏg˙ deÿ majeÿn Èkaston), and it is not necessary for all those who, like Dionysius and his ideal addressees, already have internalized the rules of Classical synthesis.824 The filÏlogoi have älogoc a“sjhsic and simply feel what is wrong with Plato’s diction; for them, Dionysius’ explanations are superfluous. It is only to the filÏtimoi, whose judgment is based not on knowledge but on ambition, that Dionysius has to demonstrate that Plato’s style is an unsuitable model of political rhetoric because it distorts the image of Classical Athens and thus might do considerable damage to the dignity of the Classical past. The whole section of On Demosthenes is thus defined as a process of exclusion. Whoever needs Dionysius’ explanations (and the Platonists’ absurd claim proves that they need them) reveals their lack of both the knowledge which is indispensable for a competent assessment of Classical texts and the awareness of aesthetics which goes hand-in-hand with it. Such readers are excluded from proper critical discourse. To Dionysius’ Classicist readers, like his addressee Ammaeus, by contrast, Dionysius’ quarrel with the Platonists demonstrates that their education and their ability to feel what is good or bad style defines them as the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ and sets them apart from the Platonists. This distinction is not only acted out in the ‘theoretical part,’ t‰ jewrhtikÏn, the judgment on Plato’s style in the critical discussion; it also concerns the ‘practical part,’ t‰ pragmatikÏn, when theoretical knowledge is turned into literary production. Approving of Plato’s style disqualifies the critic, adopting Plato’s style disqualifies the speaker. Dionysius’ verdict on Plato is clear: Plato’s style is unsuitable for imitation (äzhloc), even more, it is an ‘anti-model’ (paràdeigma […] dihmarthmËnhc lËxewc, Dem. 29.2) which excludes the speaker from the group of all those who strive to speak ‘pure language’: ‘What kind of men who practise clarity of expression,’ Dionysius comments on Plato’s expression gËnesic Íphluc (Mx. 237b3–4), ‘will talk of “children of the soil” and “foreign?” ’ (poÿon Íjnoc Çnjr∏pwn kajarî lËxei qr∏menon ‚reÿ gËnesin tòn m‡n aŒtÏqjona, tòn d‡ ‚p†luda; Dem. 27.3). Shortly afterwards he adds: ‘What serious student of discourse would see fit to say that the circumstances of their ancestors’ 824 See above, ch.s 4.2.4, 4.2.5, 4.3.1.

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birth “revealed” that their descendants would be native and not immigrants into the lands in which they were born?’ (t–c d+ãn Çxi∏seie t¿n efi

dialËgesjai spoudazÏntwn e peÿn Ìti ô gËnesic ô t¿n progÏnwn toÃc ’steron genhsomËnouc Çpef†nato aŒtÏqjonac ka» mò meto–kouc e⁄nai t®c q∏rac ‚n ≠ ‚gËnonto; Dem. 27.4). The message can hardly be missed: incompetent critics make incompetent speakers. Dionysius’ sarcastic comment at Dem. 29.1 is an even more efficient warning to the reader than the preceding statement. It illustrates the fate which Dionysius envisages for intellectuals who would actually accept the Platonists’ claim and adopt a style modelled on Plato’s political passages. At the same time, it shows how powerful a criterion of distinction style is. Dionysius alludes again to the alleged statement of some Platonists that the king of gods speaks like Plato. Dionysius replies that Plato’s style may well be that of the king of gods, but then its use should be confined to heaven: ‘if any one of us earthly groundlings had said “best and noblest” [Mx. 238a1–2], how much ridicule would he have provoked!’ (e  t¿n ‚pige–wn tic ôm¿n qama» ‚rqomËnwn kàllista ka» ärista e⁄pen, Ìson ãn ‚k–nhse gËlwta;).825 Speakers who adopt the wrong model expose themselves to ridicule; their style excludes them from serious discourse as much as their judgment on the style of their model excludes them from serious criticism. At the same time, they provide a contrastive foil, an ‘out-group,’ to all those who define themselves as practitioners of ‘pure language’ and of serious criticism (ôm¿n in the preceding quotation). 826 825 Cf. Ps.-Longinus’ remark that Gorgias is being ridiculed (gelêtai) for phrases like ‘Xerxes is the Zeus of the Persians’ (XËrxhc  t¿n Pers¿n Ze‘c) and ‘vultures are living tombs’ (g‹pec Ímyuqoi tàfoi) (3.2). 826 It is important to note that only a few pages later, at Dem. 32.1, Dionysius contrasts Demosthenes’ style with Plato’s by comparing the former with ‘weapons of war’ (polemist†ria Ìpla), ‘real things’ (Çlhjina» Óyeic, literally, ‘true appearances’), and ‘bodies developed by hard work in the sunlight’ (‚n ôl–˙ d‡ ka» pÏnoic tejrammËna s∏mata), while likening the latter to weapons ‘used in ceremonial processions’ ([Ìplwn] pompeuthr–wn), mere ‘images’ (e d∏lwn), and bodies ‘that pursue a life of ease in the shade’ ([swmàtwn] t¿n skiÄc ka» ˚¯st∏nac diwkÏntwn). The stress on the physical quality of language (s∏mata; Óyeic) further illustrates the unsuitability of a style modelled on the passages of ‘political oratory’ in Plato’s works (cf. above, pp. 80–83). Moreover, the opposition of polemist†ria and pompeut†ria Ìpla foreshadows the quotation from the Iliad at Dem. 23.5 by which Dionysius defines ‘fell deeds of war’ (polem†ia Írga) as the domain of politiko» ka» ˚†torec ändrec, while equating Aphrodite’s ‘wedded love’s delights’ with Plato’s métier, Socratic philosophy (see above, pp. 331–332). Finally, the expression Çlhjina» Óyeic, as opposed to e d∏lwn, evokes the

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The Classicists’ ‘pure’ diction is thus a sign of their sound theoretical approach to the Classical texts, and the correspondence between style and content, between political theory and political practice, is the distinctive feature of Dionysius’ approach. But Dionysius also regards this close correspondence between theory and practice as the distinctive characteristic of Classical political oratory in general (Amm.I , 2.3) and of Isocrates’ ‘philosophical rhetoric’ in particular (Isoc. 4.4): 827 only his Classicist ideology provides success in both theory and practice because it is the only critical method which continues the Classical rhetorical tradition. The dialogic design of Dionysius’ essays emphasizes this point; even more, it urges the readers to choose sides: do they prefer to be members of the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ or of one of the philosophical communities, whether the Platonists, Peripatetics, or Stoics, which might be more prestigious than Dionysius’ community but whose training is highly inadequate to the requirements of the period of the rebirth of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†.

5.3 Summary Chapter 5 complemented the discussion of chapter 4. In chapter 4 I argued that Dionysius keeps his readers aware that attaining knowledge from his writings unites them in a community of elite critics on a par with the Classical authors. Chapter 5 examined how Dionysius implements the awareness of elitism in his reader through the very process of reading his essays. Dionysius’ essays are distinguished by their interactive design. The introductory passages associate his essays permanently with the controversies and debates from which they originated in the first place. The historical context of the essays thus becomes an interpretive framework which makes Dionysius’ literary analyses and aesthetic judgments inseparable from intellectual debate and competition among different assessments of the same texts or authors. Furthermore, by means of direct questions to the reader, the use of first and second person personal pronouns, the introduction of a fictus interlocutor , and verbatim quotations from the Classical authors, Dionysius opposition between Çl†jeia and dÏxa, which is central to Dionysius’ entire argument with the Platonists, with e d∏lwn containing perhaps an ironic allusion to the Platonic forms (e“dh). 827 On Amm.I see ch. 1.2, esp. pp. 41–43; on Isoc. 4.3–4 see above, pp. 334–337, and ch. 2.2.1, pp. 70–71.

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organizes his texts as virtual dialogues between himself, his addressee, his adversaries, and the Classical authors themselves. This dialogic design might even have influenced Dionysius’ choice of the generic name with which he refers to his writings: as Õpomnhmatismo–, ‘reminders,’ his works present only the most essential quotations and pieces of information (Dionysius calls this use of quotations ‘symbolic’) because Dionysius expects his addressees to be able to supplement everything else from their own knowledge. This dialogicity makes Dionysius’ essays decontextualizable: the historical controversies over the Classical works have now become the properties of Dionysius’ texts and are re-enacted every time they are read, no matter when and by whom. This conforms to the purpose of Dionysius’ writings as he states it programmatically in the preface to On the Ancient Orators, namely that his works are supposed to contribute to spreading filÏsofoc ˚htorik† over the whole oikumene and making it the universal standard of both language (lÏgoi) and way of life (proa–resic) for all time. For the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ this means that they are no longer confined to any specific time and space. They are an ‘imagined community’ (Anderson) centred on (reading) Dionysius’ works. As Çpoik–ai t¿n lÏgwn they provide the virtual space in which the ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ convene and which keeps reassuring them of their shared political, moral, and aesthetic values and, thus, of the sense of communion which unites them (chapter 5.1). The creation of the imagined community of Classicists entails the creation of ‘the Other’ from which Dionysius and his ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ distinguish their particular methods and system of beliefs: ‘in-group reading’ is inseparable from its counterpart, ‘out-group reading.’ Chapter 5.2 discussed two examples of how Dionysius couches his discussions in terms of an argument with (and defeat of) adversaries, who represent long-established and influential schools of thought, namely the Peripatetics and the Platonists. Discussing a Classical text and judging an author’s style or content is thus inextricably bound up with distinguishing oneself from other critics and proving their point of view untenable. In both controversies Dionysius seeks to demonstrate that the critical method of his adversaries is at odds with the principles of philosophical investigation established by the very philosophers whose representatives they claim to be. In order to do so, Dionysius appropriates key concepts of Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy, respectively, for his own critical method. In particular, this concerns the distinction between dÏxa and Çl†jeia. Dionysius asserts that his criticism is based on the sole con-

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cern for truth, Çl†jeia, and therefore provides an unfiltered assessment of the textual evidence; the judgment of his adversaries, by contrast, is clouded by their concern for their own reputation (dÏxa) and that of the founder of their tradition. Dionysius’ critical method thus continues the philosophical tradition and the principles of philosophical enquiry which were established by Plato and Aristotle much more than that of his adversaries. In so doing, Dionysius contests his adversaries’ authority as representatives of these renowned schools of thought, while associating himself and his criticism with Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. Moreover, when arguing with the Platonists in On Demosthenes, Dionysius associates his concern for truth with the ‘authenticity’ of Lysias’ style, and the Platonists’ critical method with Plato’s ‘distorted’ Thucydidean style: as Lysias’ style presents a true-to-nature image of Athenian democracy, Dionysius’ opinion is true to the evidence in the text, and as Plato’s style creates a distorted image of reality, also the Platonists distort the textual evidence. The different styles of critical discourse, the democratic Lysianic and the un-democratic Thucydidean style, continue the opposition between the respective styles of political oratory and imply the same attitude towards Classical Athens as the rhetorical styles: Dionysius’ ‘authentic’ criticism is a means to preserve the dignity of the Classical past by choosing only those authors and works as models for mimesis whose style is suitable to represent and preserve the greatness of the Classical past. As such, his critical method is an ‘authentic’ expression of his veneration for Athens, as Lysias’ style is an ‘authentic’ expression of Athenian democracy; the Thucydidean style, by contrast, is incompatible with the greatness of Classical Athens and belittles Athens’ authority by drawing a distorted image of the Classical past. Dionysius’ argument with the Platonists in particular grants us new insight not only into his strategies of self-definition and distinction. It also demonstrates to what extent Dionysius’ aesthetics are intermingled with his ideas of Classical Athenian democracy and its political and moral values. Lysias’ ‘authenticity’ and ‘naturalness’ are not simply aesthetic categories but encapsulate for Dionysius the very essence of Classical Athenian politics. In Dionysius’ system of thought, aesthetic and political ideas are deeply ingrained and mutually influence each other: Lysias’ style aestheticizes Classical Athenian politics and Classical Athenian politics politicize Lysianic aesthetics. The way in which criticism is acted out in Dionysius’ essays leaves no doubt that criticism is not a neutral activity: a critic’s judgment on a Classical text defines him as belonging to one community or another, and

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the interactive design of Dionysius’ texts constantly compels the reader to side with Dionysius and the principles of his criticism or (usually the less recommended option) with his adversaries and theirs. Dionysius’ essays thus create a particular reading experience: for readers who adopt Dionysius’ approach they create a feeling of togetherness, of being part of the same community, while creating a feeling of being excluded from proper, Classicist criticism for those who disagree with Dionysius. Dionysius’ essays make the reader perform criticism as an in-group/out-group reading.

6. Conclusions This book is a study in cultural difference. Ancient literature and culture is such an integral part of our own world that it is easy to forget that when we are reading and discussing Isocrates, Lysias, or Thucydides, and when Dionysius is reading and discussing Isocrates, Lysias, or Thucydides, we are not doing the same thing. The meaning of actions depends on the socialcultural environment in which they are carried out. In twenty-first century Germany being able to read (let alone write) texts in classical Greek is not a very prestigious activity and certainly has no political implications. The situation was remarkably different less than one hundred years ago, and even more so in first-century Rome, where Augustus had made classical Greece and its culture a constituent of his political programme: practising Greek oratory was an essential part of intellectual culture, and a ‘classical’ education was the prerequisite for a political career. Like every human action, reading and writing classical texts, mimesis, is symbolic, and it carried meaning for the community of Greek and Roman scholars, the ‘literary circle,’ in and for which Dionysius wrote his essays. This circle, I have argued, should be seen as one of the sub-groups, or social worlds, which constitute social life and provide their members with an ‘ideology’ (in Ricœur’s sense) that shapes their outlook on themselves and on the world. Dionysius’ writings grant us access to this ideology. They help us understand what practising Classical language meant to these intellectuals: it carried with it a conception of Classical identity, an interpretation of past and present, and a claim to intellectual as well as social elitism. Dionysius did not read Classical texts, politiko» lÏgoi, for purely aesthetic delight but because they were carriers of Classical identity. Adopting Isocrates’ conception of ‘rhetorics of identity’ (Yun-Lee Too), Dionysius regarded Classical texts as the carriers of a Classical ethos, a set of moral and political virtues (dikaios‘nh, ‚leujer–a, swfros‘nh, eŒsËbeia), which is acquired by, and expressed through, language. Mimesis is not simply reading and writing Classical texts; it is a process of self-fashioning through which the Classicist first internalizes the Classical ideal – makes it his nature

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(aŒtofu†c), as Dionysius says – and then enacts it in the present. Dionysius imagines this enactment to be of an almost physical immediacy, language being a means of the speaker’s self-presentation as important and efficient as his body and clothes. Speaking and writing Classical language is a demonstration, to the speaker himself as to others, that he has a genuinely Classical character and is living a Classical way of life (proa–resic): he is living the Classical past, thus rendering the gap separating past and present obsolete. Never would a Classicist have thought of himself as classicizing – he was no less Classical than Isocrates and Demosthenes had been (chapter 2.2). It is against the background of this Isocratean conception of Classical identity that we have to read Dionysius’ treatment of historiography. Dionysius’ discussion of Herodotus and his criticism of Thucydides, especially of the Melian Dialogue, shows that he imagined the Classical Athenians as representatives of the Isocratean conception of identity. The image of the Athenians in classical, especially Isocratean, rhetoric provided the paradigm of Dionysius’ image of the Classical past. Dealing with Classical Athenian history is therefore an emotionally charged process: the past can, and must, be felt through the texts. Classical rhetoric thus becomes a historical paradigm: truth is what conforms to the idealized image of the Athenians propagated in Isocrates’ Speeches and the Attic Funeral Oration. Therefore, for Dionysius, in stark contrast to Thucydides, truth and pleasure are two sides of the same coin: Herodotus’ History, which describes how the Greeks asserted their superiority over the Barbarians, is pleasurable because it confirms the Classicists’ self-image, their idea of the Classical which they strive to live in the present and, in particular, the notion of cultural and political superiority and elitism that is bound up with this self-image. Dionysius’ idea of historical accounts of the Classical past can be compared to a mirror which presents him with historical actors who behave and act as he wants to behave or act. The experience of history which Dionysius envisages is not far from Hernadi’s notion of the readers’ ‘ego-trip’: history has to assure the readers emotionally of their (image of the) past and their image of themselves and their role in the present which is based on it. This also explains Dionysius’ appreciation of Theopompus. He regarded the latter’s ‘moralizing’ narrative as a specimen of an ‘Isocratean’ historiography which should have the same beneficent influence on the reader’s character as Isocrates’ works (chapter 3.2.2). Dionysius’ interpretation of the Roman present, too, is based on Classical Greek rhetoric. Dionysius turns the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis into a pattern of historical interpretation which permits him to define his own

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times as the continuation of the Classical Greeks’ fight against the Barbarians. Although the fight against the Barbarization by Asianism is a symbolic one, its political implications for Dionysius are no less real: Classical rhetoric and education alone entitle to political power, and Dionysius envisages his readers re-enacting the Isocratean ideal of the statesman (and invites them to do so). Drawing on the classicizing tendencies of the moral and political culture of Augustan Rome, Dionysius defines the Romans as the Greeks’ partners in the fight against the Barbarian Other. Dionysius’ Roman contemporaries are the representatives of filÏsofoc ˚htorik†. Being dunaste‘ontec and eŒpa–deutoi pànu ka» tÄc kr–seic gennaÿoi (Orat. Vett. 3.1), they have re-established the Classical alliance of education and power. They use their power to spread Classical Greek identity and culture, filÏsofoc ˚htorik†, over the oikumene, and the art of politiko» lÏgoi is again, as in Classical times, the key to power and hegemony over the Barbarian Other, which is represented by Asianism (chapter 2.2). We have to consider Dionysius’ historical project, to write an early Roman history eŒjÃc ‚x Çrq®c, from within the framework of the interpretation of the Roman present on which his Classicist ideology is based. Dionysius’ vision of the Romans as the successors of the Classical Greek past was not universal: many Greeks saw the Romans as the Barbarians who had usurped the power to which only the Greeks were entitled. The power of Classical Athens had been justified by the centuries-long tradition of superior moral and political virtues; Rome’s power, by contrast, was not based on merit, whether political or moral, but solely on Fortune. Dionysius’ Antiquitates presents the Romans as Greeks, ethically and ethnically, from the origins of their history: Roman identity was based on the Greek values which had been made the standard of Roman conduct by the very first king, Romulus. Thus Dionysius’ work justifies Roman power in the present by rewriting Roman history along the lines of the justification of Athens’ superiority in classical literature. In so doing, he bases the interpretation of Roman power as the representative of filÏsofoc ˚htorik† in his critical writings on solid historical foundations (chapter 3.3). However, Dionysius’ vision of the Romans and Roman power should be seen neither as a crude attempt at flattery nor as the conception of a ‘Graeco-Roman’ world in which the Greek and the Roman have been integrated in a novel, symbiotic relationship. In fact, Dionysius’ image of the Roman past constantly asserts the superiority of its Greek element. Dionysius’ work claims as Greek all those spheres of Roman life that many Romans tried to define as originally Roman, most prominently Roman

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power itself and the ancestral virtues (virtutes maiorum). The Antiquitates emphasizes the Romans’ debt to the Greeks: from the beginnings of their history onwards, the Romans have depended on Greek culture, and it is to this deeply formative Greek influence that they owe their leading role in the world. The Romans’ superiority exists, and is justified, only because the Romans have made a deliberate effort to be Greek throughout their history. This, however, implies that the Romans can easily lose their current state of superiority if they neglect to maintain the Greek heritage of their ancestors, and several warning examples illustrate the catastrophic consequences of such neglect for the Roman commonwealth. Dionysius locates his work in this dialectic of Hellenization and Roman power: the Antiquitates enables its Roman readers to model their lives on their ancestors’ political and moral values, which were adopted from the Greeks and on which the preservation of Rome’s greatness depends (chapter 3.3.2). In the same way Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman power as the representative of Greek culture, which underlies his Classicism in the critical writings, reduces the role of the Romans in history to being the successors to the Classical Greek past. Their power is justified only because it is based on Classical Greek virtues (chapter 2.3.3). Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman power also allows him to invest his criticism and the role of Classical Greek language and paide–a with considerable symbolic significance: filÏsofoc ˚htorik† is the language of Roman power, and practising Classical rhetoric is the key to being part of the ruling class. The Classicists’ claim to intellectual elitism is coupled with the claim that their education entitles them to leading positions in society. Classicist rhetoric is therefore a criterion of distinction. This has deeply influenced Dionysius’ criticism: Dionysius constantly reminds his readers that the knowledge they can attain from him defines them as both the intellectual and the political leaders of their times (chapter 4.3). Moreover, through various strategies of distinction Dionysius seeks to establish a unique position for himself and his critical method both in contemporary intellectual discourse and vis-à-vis scholarly tradition (chapters 1.2; 4.2.1; 4.2.2; 4.2.3; 5.2). In fact, the traditional philosophical communities such as the Peripatetics, the Platonists, and the Stoics, play a crucial role in Dionysius’ conception of his own community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ as well as in the strategies by which he seeks to assert the equality, even superiority, of his own community over the prestigious philosophical schools of thought. On the one hand, Dionysius models the community of Classicists on the

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philosophical communities, in particular the Peripatetics; on the other hand, this entails that these philosophical schools now become his competitors, from which he has to distinguish himself. Thus just as the Peripatetics’, Stoics’, and Platonists’ authority relied on their long intellectual tradition and philosophical allegiance to their founders, Dionysius seeks to establish an intellectual tradition on which to base his claim to authority in contemporary intellectual discourse. Yet, in order not to appear as a mere appendix to one of the philosophical schools, Dionysius has to find a way to associate his critical method with a tradition at least as old and prestigious as the philosophical schools but also clearly distinguished from them. Dionysius achieves this aim by defining his critical method, and the community of intellectuals based on it, as the heirs to the tradition of Classical political oratory itself. The idea that Dionysius and his (ideal) recipients continue the Classical tradition is the core of Dionysius’ conception of the Classicist critic. Like Classical oratory, Dionysius asserts, his method is distinguished by a combination of theory and practice (chapter 1.2.2); moreover, he claims to be the first and only critic to have recovered the original, Classical rules of synthesis and thus to have rendered an ‘authentic’ experience and production of Classical texts possible for the first time since the end of the Classical period: he teaches his readers the same knowledge and techniques which the Classical authors themselves had to internalize. Moreover, since the Classical authors, too, had to internalize the rules of synthesis in a long and tiresome process, not only is the knowledge Dionysius offers his readers genuinely Classical but also the very process of learning itself (chapter 4.2.5). Furthermore, the attempt to assert the exclusivity and superiority of his Classicist ideology while distinguishing it from competing communities of intellectuals has deeply influenced the design of Dionysius’ criticism (chapter 5). His essays enact criticism as an ‘in-group/out-group reading’: various structural devices such as dialogic passages, direct questions, the use of first and second personal pronouns, the introduction of a fictus interlocutor , and long verbatim quotations from the Classical authors give Dionysius’ writings a particular interactive character. This dialogicity involves the readers in the discussions and invites them to share Dionysius’ interpretation of the Classical texts in order to define themselves as members of the community of Classicists. As a consequence, Dionysius’ Classicist community is not confined to the literary circle any longer but has become a property of the text. It is created by the process of reading and convenes in the virtual space constituted by the text. Therefore

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the community of ‘practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi’ can be defined as an ‘imagined community,’ which is based on a shared feeling of togetherness that is created by the reading process and access to which can be obtained only by following the course of Classical education which Dionysius’ essays prescribe (chapter 5.1). This ‘integrative’ element of Dionysius’ writings is complemented by a process of exclusion. Dionysius leaves no doubt that those readers who lack the knowledge which Dionysius defines as essential, pursue a different approach to the Classical texts, or refuse to adopt Dionysius’ methods and subscribe to his aesthetic judgments, are excluded from the elite community of Classicists. The same reading process that is designed to engender a feeling of togetherness in the readers who subscribe to Dionysius’ view thus also creates an image of the ‘others,’ an ‘out-group’ against which they can define themselves. At the same time, this image of the ‘others’ warns the readers of the negative consequences if they choose to subscribe to the erroneous critical method or join the wrong community of intellectuals: anyone who chose to subscribe to the Platonists’ notion of style, for example, would expose themselves to ridicule. Sometimes this ‘out-group’ remains an undefined ‘others,’ but more often Dionysius couches his critical discussions in terms of arguments with representatives of the very philosophical schools which provide both the most important model for Dionysius’ conception of the Classicist community and its most influential competitors. Dionysius has thus made this process of ‘identity through distinction’ a constitutive element of his criticism. Dionysius’ virtual arguments with the Peripatetics and the Platonists clearly reveal his ambivalent attitude towards the philosophical sects. For he does not simply reject the position of his adversaries and their methods. Instead, he seeks to undermine their affiliations with their own communities by proving their opinions and methods of inquiry to be incompatible with the principles of discourse established by the very founders of their traditions. At the same time, Dionysius appropriates key elements of Classical philosophical discourse as constituents of his own critical method, most prominently the opposition of dÏxa and Çl†jeia and the ideal of objectivity and unconditional commitment to truth as opposed to the philosophers’ concern for their own reputation or that of the founder of their schools (chapters 5.2.1; 5.2.2). From this point of view, Dionysius’ argument strategy against the Peripatetics and the Platonists is closely related to his attempt to associate his

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critical method with the tradition of Classical oratory. This close affiliation can be observed particularly well in Dionysius’ controversy with the Platonists. Dionysius here defines Çl†jeia and parrhs–a as key elements of his critical method. These terms have been shown to be determined in multiple ways: on the one hand, they refer to crucial constituents of the PlatonicSocratic elenchus and thus link Dionysius’ method with Platonic-Socratic dialectic and its professed absolute and unconditional concern for truth. On the other hand, they associate Dionysius’ method with Lysias, a major representative of Classical political rhetoric whose style Dionysius defines as the aesthetic equivalent of Classical Athenian democracy. Dionysius thus inscribes his controversy with the Platonists into the broader framework of the interrelation of rhetoric, politics, and philosophy which, in turn, evokes its archetype, the conflict between Plato and Isocrates and their different conceptions of philosophy. This invites the recipients to read the Platonists’ defeat in the controversy with Dionysius as the final conclusion to this Classical struggle (and to its aftermath in the subsequent centuries). Furthermore, the way in which Dionysius associates his controversy with the Platonists with a Classical precedent points to another aspect which should be emphasized here. It is often tacitly assumed that the contact between past and present is established solely by way of mimesis of the Classical texts. The virtual debate with the Platonists shows that Dionysius also regarded his critical practice itself as a means of connecting with and continuing the Classical past. The same can be said for his criticisms of Thucydides (chapter 3.2) and the Funeral Oration in Plato’s Menexenus (chapter 5.2.2). In both instances Dionysius blurs the distinction between criticism and history by using his criticism to implement actively his vision of the Classical past. There is no doubt that Dionysius conceives of himself, as a critic, as the representative who has been entrusted with the preservation of the dignity and greatness of the Classical past. I should also like to point out two issues related to Dionysius’ argument with the Platonists which could not be discussed in detail but deserve further investigation, namely the basis of Dionysius’ aesthetic categories and the critic’s relation to the Classical authors. Regarding the first, both Dionysius’ appreciation of Lysias’ ‘natural’ style and his rejection of Plato’s ‘theatrical’ or ‘dithyrambic’ style, which according to Dionysius ultimately goes back to Gorgias and Thucydides, were revealed to be inextricably intertwined with Dionysius’ image of the political realities of Classical Athenian democracy. Lysias’ style is ‘natural’ because it was modelled on the style of the average Athenian citizen. This, in turn, Dionysius explains as the result of the

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necessities of the Classical democratic system: otherwise communication in the assembly or the court would have been impossible. The style of Thucydides’ speeches, by contrast, is criticized by Dionysius because it would have had precisely this effect on Athenian civic and private life. If the Athenians had really spoken like this, Dionysius holds, they would have needed an interpreter. The question of an authentic representation of Classical Athenian civic life seems to be crucial in both cases: Thucydides’ representation of Athenian communication in his speeches is inaccurate because the Athenians cannot have spoken like this, while Lysias’ speeches represent a faithful image of the way of speaking of the average Athenian citizen in Classical times. Behind this lies the idea that the Classical past can be represented and experienced aesthetically through rhetorical style regardless of the content. This complements the results of our discussion of Dionysius’ conception of historiography as a means of connecting with the past emotionally (chapter 3.2.1). Regarding the second issue, Dionysius’ criticisms of Plato and Thucydides alike reveal a certain ambiguity in the relationship between critic and Classical authors. On the one hand, as Classical authors Plato and Thucydides are entitled to the utmost respect. On the other hand, Dionysius has to deal with the problem that neither their works nor their style correspond entirely to his image of the Classical Athenians and his conception of the dignity of the Classical past. This should be read alongside Dionysius’ programmatic statement in the preface to On the Ancient Orators, that the aim of his essays is to teach his reader which aspects of the Classical authors to preserve and which to avoid (Orat. Vett. 4.3) (chapter 2.3.4): ‘the classical’ is a construction of the critic and, as such, is a prescriptive, not a descriptive category. Therefore the Classicist critic’s relation to the Classical authors is not one of unconditional admiration; rather, he has to negotiate his notion of the Classical with the realities of the texts and find a way to establish his idea of the Classical without undermining the authority of the Classical authors which is the source of his legitimation and that of his competitors alike. Yet, this coexistence of different conceptions of the Classical also lies at the heart of classicism as a cultural phenomenon because it is the controversy over these different ideals which fuels the discussion among the members of the literary circle as well as between competing communities of intellectuals. And as much as we have to remember that Dionysius’ controversies are not factual descriptions of the intellectual culture of his time, they remind us that

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at least we have to be careful not to limit Greek classicism to Dionysius and his works because they are the only ones that have survived. If there is only a kernel of historical truth behind the arguments with the Peripatetic, the Stoics, or any of the nameless ‘others’ against which Dionysius defends his judgments, classicism seems to have been an incredibly multi-faceted and lively discourse in first-century BCE Rome in which representatives of many different intellectual communities and scholary traditions were involved. At any rate, we should be wary of regarding Dionysius’ Classicism as taking place in a sort of isolated ‘bubble,’ disconnected from the cultural and intellectual realities of his time. However, this study did not aim to explore the historical reality behind the debates in Dionysius’ texts but their function in the texts and his conception of literary criticism. It is my hope that maybe these observations motivate others to do what could not be done here. Summing up, Dionysius’ Classicism is a powerful model of Greek cultural identity which allowed his Greek readers to conciliate their Classical Greek heritage with the Roman present and offered his Roman readers a justification for actively pursuing their Hellenization. His interpretation of Roman power and of the role of Greek rhetoric and culture within it allowed his Greek addressees to conceive of themselves as an integral part of contemporary Roman society by pursuing their interests in Classical Greek texts and culture and by simply preserving their Classical heritage (chapters 2.2; 3.3). Moreover, Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman history and power in both his critical and his historical works stresses the Romans’ dependence on Classical Greek culture: the essence of Roman identity is the constant effort to be Greek from which stems the very basis of Roman power itself. Dionysius offers his Greek recipients a world-construct in which to view themselves as the exclusive representatives of this Classical culture and as the only ones who can provide what the Romans need. Being Classical thus always involved a consciousness of being superior to the Romans, at least intellectually.

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Indices

1. Key Notions, Persons, Places Academics 35, 37, 38, 39, 52 acculturation 222 Alexander the Great 62, 64, 85, 86, 88, 90, 98–100, 104–105, 111, 118, 120, 187 ancestors see prÏgonoi and maiores Anderson, Benedict 26, 297 anthropology 3, 4–6, 28 Antiochus of Ascalon 38–39 antiquarianism 209–210 archive of knowledge 47 Aristotle 30, 31, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42, 43, 45, 51, 54, 58, 75–76, 280, 282, 303–310, 318, 349– 350 Asia Minor 95–97, 102 Asianism 51 n. 153, 63, 64, 93–100, 103, 105, 111–116, 118, 119, 137, 228, 237, 274–275, 282, 295–296, 321 n. 781, 354 Asiarchs 95–96 Asinius Pollio, C. 212 Athens/Athenians 18, 56, 58, 59, 65–68, 85, 86, 87, 93, 95 n. 261, 102, 117, 122, 131, 132, 134, 137, 138, 139–140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 154–165, 166, 171, 187–188, 191–192, 193, 223–225, 227, 251, 270, 280–281, 310, 319–320, 323–325, 334 n. 802, 336–337, 339, 341–346, 350, 353, 354, 358–359 Atticism 15 n. 54, 63 n. 170; Roman 23 n. 83, 114 n. 328, 115 auctoritas 11 n. 40, 12–13, 16 Augustan, culture 8–18, 53, 54, 104–106, 108, 118, 210–213; pro- and anti- 8, 10, 170, 206– 213; propaganda 9, 14, 210–213; Rome 5, 7,

8–18, 25, 54, 56, 71, 78, 92–119, 165, 169, 187–188, 209–210, 225, 227, 228, 354 Augustus 8–18, 28, 53, 54, 61, 64, 99–100, 104–106, 107, 108, 170, 206–213, 352 authenticity (cf. nature/natural(ness); truth) 316, 320–326, 338–339, 350, 356, 359 authority 11 n. 40, 31, 32–40, 43, 44, 45, 52, 54, 56, 57, 83, 228, 239, 242, 244, 278, 281, 307, 308–309, 312–314, 315, 325, 330–331, 350, 356, 359 autochthony see aŒtoqjon–a Bakhtin, Michael 284 n. 699, 295 n. 719 Barbarization 221–223 Caecilius of Caleacte 24, 56 canon 37, 54, 314, 315, 331, 349 Chrysippus 238–242, 278 Cicero 15 n. 53, 30 n. 98, 56, 76, 102–103, 104, 106, 109, 172, 180–181, 182–185, 216, 217 Cincinnatus, L. Quinctius 203, 205 classical 5, 7, 8, 18, 209; vs. Classical/ (neo-)classicist 2 n. 11, 353 Classical, Dionysius’ conception of the 7, 49– 50, 51 n. 153, 112–113, 132, 148–149, 235–263, 296–297, 352; education 233–234, 235–263, 267, 270–276, 356–357; identity 55, 58, 64, 65–77, 86, 87, 117, 131, 136, 137, 145–146, 147, 148, 164, 175, 186, 227, 257–263, 270– 278, 334 n. 802, 352–353; mentality see Èxic; past, Dionysius’ image of 25, 55, 112, 117, 120–165, 223, 227, 270–272, 339–346;

388

Indices

style 270–272, 280–281, 337–338, 340–348, 350, 353, 358–359 Classicism, vs. (neo-)classicism 2 n. 11, 15, 17, 48 n. 148; as a strategy of re-appropriation 119, 223; and privileged access to the Classical past 40–44, 52, 91, 230–278, 307–309, 310–314, 338, 340–348, 356 classicism 15, 18, 360 Classicist(s) 7, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 64, 65, 73, 74, 77, 83, 92, 93, 116–117, 120, 137, 151, 204 n. 525, 223–224, 226, 227, 228, 229, 234, 235–278, 279, 280, 283–284, 293– 297, 299–300, 306–310, 316, 334, 339, 346– 348, 349, 355–357; model of history 60–65 clupeus virtutis 207 collective identity 29, 193, 285 collective memory 136 commonality see communion, feeling of communication see discursive practice communion, feeling of 19, 21, 25, 26, 30, 56, 57, 58, 104 n. 291, 229, 280, 281–297, 298, 310, 339, 349–350, 357 community 4, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 31, 36, 47–52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 82, 116, 226, 227, 228–230, 234, 239, 264–270, 276, 278, 279–348, 355–356; imagined 58, 280, 281– 297, 298, 337, 349, 350, 352, 356–357, 359 composition see synthesis Constitutio Romuli 168, 169, 172–185, 190, 198, 202, 204, 205, 207, 214, 224 contextualization 282–283, 294–295, 348 continuity 40–44, 55, 58, 65–92, 99–100, 106, 108, 117, 118, 146–147, 148, 165, 169, 170, 173, 178–180, 184–191, 193, 194–195, 197, 198–221, 225, 227, 238, 242, 246, 263, 314, 317, 319, 336–337, 348, 350, 354, 355, 356, 358, 360 controversy see struggle Crassus, M. Licinius 201, 203–204 criticism and history 122, 132, 149, 154–165, 227, 358 cross-references 45 cultural identity 8, 15, 18–29, 110, 118, 228, 360 cultural strategy 52 culture, semiotic concept of 3, 21, 22, 296, 352

democracy/democratic 58, 67, 85, 86, 87, 139, 156, 251, 270–271, 280–281, 310, 319– 329, 334 n. 802, 337, 350, 358–359 Demosthenes 15 n. 54, 30, 31, 36, 41, 43, 51, 56, 58, 63, 85, 99, 111, 139, 231, 236, 253– 257, 258, 259–262, 264–265, 266, 270–271, 278, 286, 289, 303, 309, 310, 311 n. 759, 312– 314, 316, 320, 321 n. 780, 323 n. 785, 353 dialogicity 45, 57, 58, 91 n. 252, 229, 246, 279–348, 350, 356 diction see lËxic Dinarchus 84–91, 112, 113, 117 discursive history 44–47, 53, 267 discursive practice 20, 21, 24, 25, 26, 27, 47, 53, 56, 226, 227, 228, 283 discursive tradition see discursive history distinction 33, 36, 40, 56, 57, 58, 228–230, 230– 235, 263–278, 279–348, 350–351, 355–357 dithyrambic see dij‘rambon, tÏ education (cf. paide–a) 54, 68, 70, 71, 97, 105, 167, 170, 175, 188, 205, 217, 224, 227, 229, 259–260, 262–278, 296, 338, 345–346, 351, 354, 355 elite/elitism 33, 44, 45, 48, 57, 105, 233–235, 263–278, 279, 297, 355; and knowledge 226–278, 293–294, 297–298, 338, 348, 352, 353, 357 emotional experience, of Classical texts 231– 233, 246–263, 338–348; of the past 123, 128– 129, 130–165, 223, 231–233, 338–348, 353, 359 empathy see emotional experience, of the past emplotment 115, 121, 124–127, 130 Epicureans 36, 37, 40 Epicurus 54 ethos see ™joc exclusion see distinction fictus interlocutor see dialogicity field of statements 46 Foucault, Michel 16 Funeral Oration 59, 193, 223, 310, 314, 320, 327, 328 n. 793, 337–348, 353

Key Notions, Persons, Places Gallus, C. 9, 212 n. 560 Geertz, Clifford 3, 18, 19, 22 Golden Age 54, 115, 120 Gorgias 69, 321, 328, 358 Gracchus, Sempronius 212 n. 560 Graeco-Roman 217–223, 225, 354 Greekness (cf. Hellenization; b–oc ìEllhn) 67, 93, 169, 170, 175, 185, 188–189, 205, 214, 217–218, 222, 225, 355, 360 habitus 77, 92 Hegesias of Magnesia 15 n. 54, 111, 112, 114 Hellene-Barbarian antithesis 66–67, 93–100, 103–104, 107, 110–111, 115–116, 118, 137, 147, 155–158, 187–188, 220–223, 225, 227, 353 Hellenism (cf. Greekness; Hellenization) 221, 225 Hellenization (cf. Greekness; b–oc ìEllhn) 107 n. 308, 165–225, 227, 355, 360 heritage/heir see continuity Herodotus 131, 132–149, 193, 223, 292, 353 history and memory 133–134, 192 Homer 74, 244, 293 Horace 13, 15, 16, 209, 211 iconic structuring 200–201 identity through distinction 51, 53, 239, 357 ideology 9, 15, 16, 17, 21, 24, 30, 31, 39, 40, 53, 54, 55, 64, 93, 116, 166, 167, 169, 216, 224, 226, 263, 352, 354, 356 imaginary universe 7, 8, 15, 20, 21, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 52, 56, 104, 106, 107, 111, 116, 169, 188, 225, 226, 227, 228, 278, 296, 352, 360 imitation see mimesis in-group (cf. reading, ‘in-group/out-group’ ) 20, 228, 230, 294–295 integration see communion, feeling of intellectual culture 8 intellectual history 28, 29 interactive design of Dionysius’ criticism see dialogicity interpretive framework see contextualization irony see e rwne–a Isaeus 41, 43, 236

389

Isocratean historiography 131–132, 149–154, 170, 224, 353 Isocrates 7, 15 n. 54, 34, 41, 43, 55, 64, 65–77, 86, 92, 93, 97, 111, 117, 120, 131, 132, 137, 139, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153–154, 155, 158, 161, 167, 193, 223, 224, 227, 231, 236, 240, 270, 286, 295, 310, 321, 325, 331–337, 342, 348, 352, 353, 354, 358 Klassizistischer Dreischritt see Three-period model of classicism language, and identity 55, 60–119, 145, 147, 189, 226–227, 234, 235–278, 352–353; and power 63, 64, 69, 71, 83, 92–116, 118, 189, 204 n. 525, 223, 270–276, 278, 295–296, 336, 354, 355; and time 60–92, 84–92, 114– 116, 117, 147, 189; physical quality of 80– 84, 89, 92, 117, 227, 347 n. 826, 353 Larcius Flavus (Rufus), Titus 202, 204, 205 Latin, Dionysius’ knowledge of 56 leadership 33, 34, 35, 36, 39, 45, 50, 52, 53, 228, 235, 270–276, 337, 338, 355 legitimation 44, 53, 103, 188, 225, 229, 298, 312, 359 literary circle 22–29, 53, 56, 226, 227, 280, 295–296, 352, 359 Livy 205 n. 528, 209, 210 Lysias 15 n. 54, 58, 111, 112, 113, 114, 139, 270– 271, 280, 289, 320–327, 340, 350, 352, 358 maiores 168, 170, 175–176, 183, 185, 201–205, 207, 213, 222, 225, 227, 355 Melian Dialogue 128, 132, 149, 154–165, 191– 192, 224, 227, 353 metahistory 123 metathesis 265, 345 mimesis (cf. self-fashioning; continuity; language) 2, 3, 15 n. 54, 24, 49, 55, 65–92, 117–118, 145–146, 167, 234, 245–246, 254, 277, 285, 346, 352; intratextual vs. extratextual 168–170, 198, 227, 358; intratextual 171–198; extratextual 198–221 mnemonic signs 201

390

Indices

nature/natural(ness) (cf. style, true-tonature) 58, 89, 90, 118, 183, 185, 254, 280, 285, 316, 320–326; word order 238–239, 243–246, 278, 350, 352–353, 358 network see community ‘objectiv’ vs. ‘subjective’ critic 303–310 objectivity (cf. true/truth) 306–309, 357 oikumene 61 n. 161, 67, 96, 96–100, 101, 118, 186, 189, 295, 349 Orphism 269–270, 278 out-group (cf. reading, ‘in-group/out-group’ ) 20, 228–230, 294, 297–348, 357 outlook on the world see imaginary universe Ovid 9, 13, 15, 16, 211 n. 548 Peloponnesian War 120, 122–123, 134–135, 138, 139, 143–144, 145, 147, 158, 223, 342 Peripatetic(s) 30–52, 53, 58, 226, 228, 263, 280, 282, 284, 296, 298, 300, 303–310, 315, 317– 318, 348, 349, 355–356, 357, 360 Persian Wars 66–67, 96–100, 105, 111, 118, 120, 134, 137, 139, 145, 148, 155–158, 187 Philistus 131, 149–151 Plato 3, 34, 37, 39, 54, 58, 74, 240, 280, 281, 284, 286, 298 n. 727, 301 n. 730, 302, 303, 308, 310–319, 325–348, 349–350, 358, 359 Platonists 58, 284, 296, 298, 300, 310–348, 349, 350, 355–356, 357–358 Polybius 143 n. 403, 169, 180, 182, 184, 194– 198, 216 polyphony/polyphonic space 284–285, 305 power (cf. language, and power) 9–16, 33, 53, 54, 61, 65, 92, 93, 95, 98, 99, 103, 107, 108, 110, 118, 119, 165, 169, 170, 171–223, 224– 225, 272–275, 278, 296, 315, 331, 354–355, 360 practitioners of politiko» lÏgoi see Classicists prestige 33, 38, 39, 308, 316–319, 330, 339, 350, 355–356, 357 princeps see Augustus principate see Augustus Protagoras 69, 321, 328

Quintilian 76 reading (cf. Classicism, and privileged access to the Classical past), and elitism 230–235, 263–264; and knowledge 251–263; authentic 57, 232–233, 235–263, 264, 277– 278, 279; experience 8, 29, 132–149, 192– 193, 223–224, 230–278, 286, 296, 303, 342, 348; ‘in-group/out-group’ 57, 229–230, 280, 294, 297–348, 349, 351, 356 reputation see prestige rhetoric, and historiography 123, 130, 139–140, 147–148, 157, 158–161, 163, 169, 223, 225; and initiation 267–270, 275–276, 278; and politics/power see language, and power; vs. philosophy 34, 39–40, 240, 303–348, 358 Ricœur, Paul 21, 53, 226, 352 Romans, and Greeks 56, 92–119, 165–225, 354–355; Dionysius’ interpretation of 56, 92–119, 120, 165–225, 228, 353–355, 360 Rome 17, 97, 105, 172, 177, 178, 184, 185, 187, 190, 198, 204, 205, 208, 216, 298 n. 727, 338 n. 811, 352, 354, 360 Romulus 172–185, 189, 199, 201, 204, 205, 207, 214, 216, 224, 354 self-fashioning 75, 77–92, 117, 227, 277, 307, 352 semanticization of space 96 semiological approach to history 63–64 Social Identity Theory 18–29, 53, 226, 228 social world see sub-group Socrates/Socratic 316–319, 326–327, 330, 336, 358 Sophists 34 standard see canon Stoics 36, 38, 39, 40, 58, 235, 238–242, 243– 244, 263, 266, 278, 300, 348, 355–356, 360 Strabo 16, 23 n. 83, 95–96 struggle 31, 32–40, 57, 58, 93–100, 108, 111–116, 118, 119, 228–229, 238, 239–240, 242, 263, 274–275, 278, 279–348, 349, 358, 359 style (cf. synthesis; lËxic), and authenticity 320–327, 350; and democracy 320–329; and representation of extra-textual reality 320– 325, 340–348, 350; dithyrambic (cf.

Greek Terms dij‘rambon, t‰) 281, 312–314, 358; mixed 325–327, 330; of criticism 58, 280–281, 310– 348; theatrical see jeatrikÏc; true-tonature 280–281, 321–326, 340, 343–344, 350 sub-group 19, 20, 22, 24, 28, 53, 226, 352 superiority see power; struggle; leadership Sulla, L. Cornelius 202–204 symbolic action see culture, semiotic concept of symbolon see sumbolik¿c synkrisis see s‘gkrisic synthesis 233–234, 235–263, 264–267, 273, 275–276, 277, 278, 293, 311, 340; vs. syntaxis 238–242, 356 taste 3, 312–313, 328 n. 793, 329–330 technical perfection see filoteqn–a theatrical see jeatrikÏc Theopompus 131, 149–154, 194, 224 theory and practice 41–43, 44 n. 136, 50, 53, 235–239, 245, 251, 263, 356 thick description 4, 6–7, 18, 19, 25 Three-period model of classicism (cf. language, and time) 60–65, 98–100, 114–115 Thucydides/Thucydidean 3, 55, 121, 122–123, 128–129, 130–165, 191–192, 194, 223–224,

391

227, 270–271, 272, 281, 282, 286, 325, 327– 331, 338–339, 350, 352, 353, 358–359 Timagenes of Alexandria 101–102, 211–212 togetherness see communion, feeling of tradition 31, 35, 36, 40–43, 45, 46, 51, 52, 53, 56, 58, 64, 65, 73, 78, 90, 103, 110, 117, 120, 144–146, 148–149, 169, 170, 172, 173, 185, 187, 189–192, 201, 218, 224, 228, 230, 235– 245, 263, 269, 278, 280, 284, 308–309, 315, 317–320, 333, 348, 350, 355–356, 357 truth/true (cf. objectivity; Çl†jeia; prËpon) 307–309, 313–314, 316–319, 325, 330, 334– 337, 339, 350, 353 verbatim quotations see dialogicity Virgil 13, 15, 16, 56, 170, 172, 208–209, 211, 213–216, 217 virtual controversy 58 Weber, Max 3 White, Hayden 29, 123, 124–126, 160–161 Weltanschauung see imaginary universe world view see imaginary universe Xenophon 131, 145 n. 407, 149–151, 194 Zeno 54

2. Greek Terms Çl†jeia/Çlhj†c (cf. truth; nature/ natural(ness)) 58, 306, 316–326, 340, 344, 358; vs. dÏxa 298 n. 727, 316–319, 330, 332, 339, 347 n. 826, 349–350, 357 älogoc a“sjhsic 113, 345–346 Çndre–a 67 Çpeirokal–a 313–314, 327, 328 n. 793, 330 aŒtoqjon–a 67, 93, 169, 187, 188, 225 b–oc ìEllhn see Hellenization/Greekness diàjesic 131, 140–144 dij‘rambon, tÏ 58, 312, 328 n. 793, 330 dikaios‘nh 67, 73, 117, 155, 158, 174–175, 186–187, 205 n. 528, 207, 325, 335, 336, 352

e rwne–a 298 n. 727, 316–317 Ílegqoc 301 n. 730, 358 ‚leujer–a 67, 73, 93, 117, 139, 158, 174 n. 473, 177, 186–187, 325, 352

‚nàrgeia 129, 193, 325 ‚xergas–a 141–142, 192–193 Èxic 236, 252–254, 257–263 ‚pitàfioi lÏgoi 67 eŒgËneia 67 eŒmous–a 259, 267 eŒsËbeia 67, 73, 117, 158 n. 430, 186–187, 207, 352

z†lwsic/zhlÏw (cf. mimesis) 44 n. 136

392

Indices

™joc 33, 68, 71, 75–77, 92, 106, 117, 150–151, 189, 352

jeatrikÏc 321–323, 327, 358  shgor–a 156 kalokÇgaj–a 73 kat†qhsic 91, 245, 285 krêsic 249–250 lËxic (cf. synthesis) 233, 235, 257, 262, 270– 272, 277, 340–348

m–mhsic see mimesis (mò) mnhsikakeÿn 143–144, 155 Âmoe–deia 88, 89, 117 ÂmÏnoia 73, 104, 117, 174–175 paide–a (cf. education) 93, 103, 104 n. 291, 167, 175, 273–275, 355

paràjesic see krêsic parrhs–a 315–316, 318–320, 358 politikò filosof–a 64 politiko» lÏgoi (for o… per» toÃc politikoÃc lÏgouc ‚spoudakÏtec vel. sim. see Classicists) 48, 54, 55, 61, 63, 64, 65–92, 93–100, 101, 103, 108, 110, 117, 118, 121, 161, 165, 169, 188–189, 204 n. 525, 225, 240–241, 274–276, 295–296, 330–331, 337, 348, 349, 352, 354, 355

prËpon 159–160 proa–resic 68, 71, 74, 77, 92, 117, 189, 253, 349, 353

prÏgonoi 67, 73, 93, 137, 169, 175, 186, 201– 202, 221, 224

s‘gkrisic 56, 131, 284 n. 700 sumbolik¿c/s‘mbolon 291–294, 349 s‘njesic see synthesis s‘ntaxic 238–242 suntrof–a 91, 118, 245, 285 sqolikÏn/sqolik‰c qarakt†r 291–294 swfros‘nh 67, 73, 93, 117, 174–175, 188, 205 n. 528, 207, 352

tËqnh 82–83 ÕpomnhmatismÏc 280, 290–294, 298, 349

filÏsofoc ˚htorik† see politiko» lÏgoi filoteqn–a 251–252, 262, 277 f‘sic (cf. nature/natural(ness); authenticity) 254, 320–322

qàric 111 n. 320, 112 qrÏnioc äskhsic 253, 260–262

3. Passages Discussed Aristotle Rh. (Rhetorica) 1356a1–13 . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Augustus (C. Iulius Caesar Octavianus) Res Gestae 34 . . . . . . . . 11, 12–13 Cicero, M. Tullius De or. (De oratore) 1.43 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33–34 2.43 . . . . . . . . . . . 76 n. 223 3.71 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Rep. (De re publica) 2.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 180–182 2.21 . . . . . . . . . . . 173 n. 468 2.22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 2.37 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

Tusc. (Tusculanae Disputationes) 1.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 182–183 1.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216 2.9 . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 n. 98 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Amm.I (Ad Ammaeum I ) 1.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32, 306 1.2 . . . . . . . . . . . 32, 33, 307 2.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 2.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307 2.3 . . . . . . . 40–41, 48, 306, 309 3.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 6.1 . . . . . . . . 303–304, 306, 308 8.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 305–306

Passages Discussed Comp. (De compositione verborum) 1.1–3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 1.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 1.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 3.12 . . . . . . . . . . . . 290, 293 4.14–15 . . . . . . . . . . 235–236 4.16–18 . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 4.16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240 4.20–21 . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 4.21–22 . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 5.11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 5.12–13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 14.8–9 . . . . . . . . . . 247–248 14.19–20 . . . . . . . . . 246–247 15.13 . . . . . . . . . . . 249–250 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . 248–249 18.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249 20.6–7 . . . . . . . . . . 340 n. 814 23.16–17 . . . . . . . . 260 n. 660 25.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268 25.29 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273 26.17–18 . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 Dem. (De Demosthenis dictione / De Demosthene) 2.2 . . . . . . . . . 326 n. 788, 336 5.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327 6.1–4 . . . 310–311, 313–314, 319–320, 330 10.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 285–286 13.1–3 . . . . . . . . . . . 288–289 15.2–6 . . . . . . . . . . . 270–271 21.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286 22.1–3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 22.4–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 23–30 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314 23.1–3 . . . . . . . . . . . 314–315 23.1 . . . . . . . . 319, 320, 330, 331 23.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332 23.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . 320, 330 23.4 . . . . . . . . . . 326, 330–331 23.5 . . . . . . . . . 331, 347 n. 826 23.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339 24.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 340–341 24.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341 24.4–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341 24.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343

393

24.9–10 . . . . . . . . 288, 344–345 27.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 346–347 28.2–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343 29.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347 29.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346 32.1 . . . . . . . . . . . 347 n. 826 36.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 42.1 . . . . . . . . . 290, 292–293 42.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287 46.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 290, 291 46.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 47.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 254–255 47.2–4 . . . . . . . . . . . 255–256 47.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256 48.1–5 . . . . . . . . . . . 256–257 48.9–10 . . . . . . . . . . 264–265 49.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . 258, 266 51.2–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252 51.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 51.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 52.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 253–254 53.3–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 55.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 Din. (De Dinarcho) 2.2–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 2.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 5.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87–88 6.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 7.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 7.5–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 89, 285 7.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 7.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254 8.7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Imit. (De imitatione) 1.1–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . 78–79 Is. (De Isaeo) 4.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325 11.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322 Isoc. (De Isocrate) 1.1–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 68–69 1.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 1.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 4.3–4 . . . . . . 70–71, 86–87, 334 5.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 6.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 6.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

394

Indices

7.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72–73 12.3–4 . . . . . . . . . 322–323, 324 Lys. (De Lysia) 3.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321–322 4.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322 7.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325 9.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . 323–324 Orat. Vett. (De antiquis oratoribus) 1.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 60–61 1.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 1.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338 1.3–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 94–95 1.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 1.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93, 188 1.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 1.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93, 188 1.7 . . . . . . . . . . . 93, 96, 188 2.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93, 188 2.4 . . . . . . . . . . . 93, 97, 295 3.1 . . . . . . . 60–61, 97, 296, 354 3.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 n. 491 3.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296 4.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 4.2 . . . . . . . 43, 72, 91, 135, 285 Pomp. (Epistula ad Pompeium Geminum) 3.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 3.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . 132–133 3.4–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 3.6–7 . . . . . . . . . . . 144–145 3.8–9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 3.9 . . . . . . . . . . 142–143, 149 3.9–10 . . . . . . . . . . . 138, 141 3.15 . . . . . . . . . . . . 140–141 4.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 6.1–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 151–152 6.7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 6.8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Thuc. (De Thucydide) 1.1–4 . . . . . . . . . 46–47, 48–49 1.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 14.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 15.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . 141–142 19.1 . . . . . . . . . . . 142 n. 399 19.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 157 n. 429 38.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 39.1 . . . . . . . . 155–156, 191–192

40.3 . . . . . . . . . . . 158 n. 430 41.4 . . . . . . . . . . 159, 161–162 41.5–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 41.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 156–157 41.8 . . . . . . . . . . . . 154–155 49.2–3 . . . . . 142 n. 402, 328–329 51.3 . . . . . . . . . . . 328 n. 793 Ant. (Antiquitates Romanae) 1.1.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 1.1.3 . . . . . . . . . . . 76 n. 223 1.2.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 92, 192 1.2.2–4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 1.3.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 1.3.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 1.3.3–5 . . . . . . . . . 189–190, 195 1.4.2 . . . . . . . . 93, 101, 186, 220 1.5.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 1.5.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 1.5.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 1.6.3–4 . . . . . . . . . 193 n. 499 1.6.3–5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 1.6.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 1.7.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 1.8.3 . . . . . . . . . . . 204 n. 525 1.70.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 1.89.3 . . . . . . . . . . 221 n. 583 1.90.1 . . . . . . . . . . . 190, 221 2.3.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 2.3.2–8 . . . . . . . . . . 176–177 2.3.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 176–177 2.3.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 2.3.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 2.6.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 179, 201 2.6.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 2.11.2–3 . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 2.18.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174 2.23.4–6 . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 2.27.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 179–180 2.63.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178 2.70.3–4 . . . . . . . . . . 218–219 3.22.7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 3.22.8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 3.36.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178 3.68.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 4.10.3 . . . . . . . . . . . 178–179 4.18.2 . . . . . . . . . . . 219–220

Passages Discussed 4.24.4–8 . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 5.2.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 5.71–77 . . . . . . . . . 205 n. 528 5.75.1 . . . . . . . . . . 204 n. 525 5.77.1–4 . . . . . . . . . . 202–203 5.77.4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 10.17.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 10.55.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 Isocrates 4.8–9 . . . . . . . . . . . 146 n. 409 4.50 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221–222 15.270–285 . . . . . . . . . . 335–336 Livy 1.7.3 . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 n. 469 1.8.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 n. 469 2.18 . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 n. 528 3.26.7–12 . . . . . . . . . . 205 n. 528 9.18.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100–101 Ps.-Longinus 14.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343 n. 819 18.1–2 . . . . . . . . . . . 290 n. 710

395

Polybius 1.1.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195–196 1.3.6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196–197 1.5.5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 1.14.4–5 . . . . . . . . . . . 143 n. 403 6.10.12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 6.10.13–14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 Thucydides 1.22.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159, 162 1.22.4 . . . . . . . . . . 134, 162–164 1.23.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Valerius Maximus 2.2.2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108–109 Virgil (P. Vergilius Maro) Aen. (Aeneid) 6.847–853 . . . . . . . 208, 215–216 12.820–828 . . . . . . . . 214 n. 567