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date: 18 September 2019

(p. 687) Notes

(p. 687) Notes

Chapter 1

(1.) Or even to condemn: Whitmarsh 2013, 3; and cf. chapter 2 of this volume.

Chapter 2

(1.) Barad 2007, 264.

(2.) The dates given in the title of Swain 1996.

(3.) This phrase comes from Anderson 1993.

(4.) Bowie 1970 is entitled “The Greeks and Their Past in the Second Sophistic.” This trope has been repeated innumerable times since: see, e.g., Brent 2006, 5–8 (“Language Games and Life in the Second Sophistic”). Variants include, e.g., “during the Second Sophistic” (Baumbach and Bär 2007, 8–15); “from the period of the Second Sophistic” (Elsner 2007, 135).

(5.) I attempt to account for the “wave function” (although I do not call it that) in Whitmarsh 2013.

(6.) See, e.g., Schmitz 1997; Whitmarsh 2005.

(7.) For material culture and the Second Sophistic, see Borg 2004; also Elsner 1995, 2007, and Nasrallah 2010.

(8.) Swain 1991.

(9.) Wilamowitz-Möllendorff 1900, 9–14; Brunt 1994, esp. 25–33.

(10.) PHib. 15. Of a similar period is PBerol. 9781. In general, on Hellenistic oratory, see Cuypers 2010, 323–330; Kremmydas and Tempest 2013; Russell 1983, 3–4, 16–20; Vanderspoel 2007.

(11.) Puech 2002.

(12.) For this point see especially Schmitz and Wiater 2011. Goldhill 2001b contains a chapter (by John Henderson) on Polybius.

(14.) Swain 1996, 2–3.

(15.) Goldhill 2001a, 14.

(16.) “Archaeology”: Hunter 1996.

(17.) Cameron 1995 has argued that scholarship has understated the performance context of Hellenistic poetry. Conversely, it would be misleading to suggest that rhetorical (or any other kind of) performance was the primary driver of imperial literary production: the major texts that survive are (for obvious reasons) book texts, even if performance remained absolutely crucial (see, e.g., Hall 2013). The crucial point is that in both the Hellenistic and Imperial periods we should be thinking of a complex blend of the textual and performed.

(18.) See, e.g., Bowie 1989a, 1989b, 1990; Merkelbach and Stauber 1998–2004 (for the inscriptions); Whitmarsh 2013.

(19.) Rohde 1914.

(20.) Huet 1971.

(p. 688)

(22.) Perry 1967.

(23.) Tilg 2010.

(24.) For this diachronic view of the romance as genre, see Whitmarsh 2013, 35–48.

(25.) See Luc. De Salt. 2, 54 for Metiochus and Parthenope, with Hägg and Utas 2013, 46–52. On mimes and novels, see esp. Webb 2013.

(26.) A date in the second century ce is sometimes posited on the basis of the apparent reference at 2.13.3 and 3.9.5 to the office of “keeper of the peace” (eirenarch), which is first attested epigraphically under Trajan. But as Bowie 2002, 57, and others note, there is no reason to assume that the first epigraphic attestation marks the first creation of the post (in fact, that is highly unlikely).

(27.) On these motifs see West 1974, especially 71–75.

(28.) Frr. 8a–b Lenfant 2004, Stronk 2010. Lobel dates the papyrus to the second century ce (see POxy. 2330).

(29.) Giangrande 1976 argues that the papyrus cannot be Ctesias, since it is in an Atticizing dialect and we are told that Ctesias wrote in Ionic. I agree with Bigwood 1986 that this objection is not decisive, but even so there is no way of deciding the matter given our current state of evidence.

(30.) For the novelistic motifs here, see Holzberg 1992.

(32.) Fragment 8c in Stronk 2010, Lenfant 2004.

(33.) Ctesias’s interplay of pronouns (“it was I who . . . because of you,” etc.) seems to have been imitated by the imperial authors of romances: see Char. 4.3.10 and Ach. Tat. 5.18.4–5.

(34.) See above, note 29.

(35.) For convenient summaries of views, see Humphrey 2000, 28–31; Vogel 2009, 9–15.

(36.) Selden 2010 speaks similarly of “text networks.”

(37.) Braun 1938.

(38.) On the complex relationship between the Joseph story and the Greek novel, see Whitmarsh 2007.

(39.) On the parallelism between novelistic and (Christian) martyr scenes see Chew 2003; specifically on 4 Maccabees and Achilles Tatius, see Shaw 1996.

(40.) Both are discussed with further bibliography in Whitmarsh 2013, 211–247 (where I argue for a “Jewish sophistic”). Generally, on Hellenistic Jewish literary culture, see Barclay 1996; Collins 2000; Gruen 2002.

(41.) Rajak 2009, 125–175, with further references.

(42.) E.g., Geiger 1994; Tropper 2004, 136–156. Niehoff 2012 draws parallels between the classicizing of Homer in the Greek tradition and of the Bible in the Jewish; see esp. Furstenberg’s chapter (Furstenberg 2012) on analogies between rabbinical interpretative methods and those of Second Sophistic.

(45.) By “semi-autonomous agent” I mean an individual or group whose outlook is shaped but not wholly determined by historical forces.

Chapter 4

(1.) ἀττικισμός is used in this sense (of Lysias’s language) in the epitome of Dion. Hal. De imit. F 31.5.1 (originally written in the late first century bce), but could very well be attributed to the epitomator rather than to Dionysius himself.

(p. 689)

(2.) The numerous technical writings of the period are better characterized as “intermediate prose” (Rydbeck 1967: Zwischenschichtsprosa), occupying a loosely defined area “between” the spoken vernaculars and the literary, written standard.

(3.) Dionysius’s associate and contemporary, the rhetorician Caecilius of Caleacte, must also have been involved, judging from two of his surviving titles (Κατὰ Φρυγῶν: Against the Phrygians (i.e., Asianist orators) and Τίνιδιαφέρει ὁ Ἀττικὸςζῆλοςτοῦ Ἀσιανοῦ: How the Attic style differs from the Asian). The precise nature of his involvement, however, remains unclear due to uncertainty surrounding his date and the fragmentary nature of his surviving work (see O’Sullivan 1997; Woerther 2015).

(4.) The important study of Wahlgren 1995 has shown that the language of Dionysius, Strabo, Philo, and Nicolaus of Damascus is collectively more “Attic” than that of Polybius and Diodorus, but not consistently so, suggesting that this shift in usage was not a conscious choice.

(5.) Both authors are also models of linguistic versatility: Lucian wrote two texts in Ionic (On the Syrian Goddess, On Astrology), and Arrian not only did the same (his Indica is in Ionic), but also wrote in koinê (Epictetus’s Discourses).

(6.) The mention, in the late fourth-century ce biography of Aristides attributed to Sopater, of Polemon, Herodes, and Aristides as members of a “third crop” (φορά) of orators “coming from Asia” refers to geographical, not stylistic provenance (Proleg. Aristid. 1 = Lenz 1959, 111).

(7.) It is important to remember that the use of “Asian” in rhetorical contexts from the first century bce onward does not refer to the continent of Asia, but to the Roman province Asia, established in 133 bce and encompassing the regions of Ionia, Caria, Mysia, Phrygia, and other areas of Western Anatolia.

(8.) Norden 1898, 138–147, following Cicero Brut. 326, identifies a second type of Asian style in late Hellenistic inscriptions, most notably those of Antiochus I of Commagene at Nemrud Daği, dating from the mid-first century bce (OGI 383; IGLSyr 1.1). But while the texts feature many of the same clausulae endings found in Hegesias, the style is quite different: prolix, circumlocuitous, and composed of long sentences (Dörrie 1964; Waldis 1920). This “bombastic” variety of Asian rhetoric may have been a late Hellenistic phenomenon, but we have no other evidence for it outside of inscriptions (cf. IG 5, 2.268, from Mantinea). See Kim forthcoming for further discussion of the relation between these texts and those of the Second Sophistic.

Chapter 5

(1.) Concerning the period of Fronto and Gellius, Smiley 1906, 261 calls the interest in precision of speech “almost . . . the disease of the age.”

(2.) See Fronto, Ep. 62–64; Holford-Strevens 2003 and Smiley 1906, 241–271. The scene of philological controversy as a literary set-piece would have a great literary future, on Macrobius’s Saturnalia most directly but also in the wrangles that permeate commentaries from Macrobius’s contemporary Servius down to our own.

(3.) Adams 2007, 19–20 and 28–29, describes the complex attitudes to rusticitas of speech (some approved as evidence of antiquitas but at times disapproved or even seen as comical).

(4.) The strangeness of including such comments was at times noted. Balbus in Cicero’s De Natura Deorum 2.91 disapproves that Pacuvius had put in a play “what we name caelum the Greeks call aethera.”

(p. 690)

(5.) Adams 2007, xv.

(6.) Certain authors are approved as having pure Latinity, most famously Terence, whom Caesar named “puri sermonis amator” (Suet. Poet. fr. 11; see Goldberg 1986, 179–186). Terence’s ability at creating conversational scenes is being applauded here as well as his diction. On purity as an anthropological category for understanding Roman speech, see Short 2007, iv–x and 88–115. A more typical philological activity has been to point out failures of Latinity, see Vainio 1999.

(7.) Leeman 1963, 32: “Latinitas (a ‘translation’ of ἑλληνισμός) is adherence to sermo purus, free from the vitia of soloecismus, faulty grammatical construction, and barbarismus, the use of non-Latin words.”

(8.) On contempt for grammarians, see Kaster 1988, 51–60.

(9.) The text was published by Baehrens in 1922.

(10.) Taylor 1996 demonstrates that there were not in fact opposing schools of thought but different tendencies in the scholar’s toolchest. See Cavazza 1981, 106ff., and discussion and further bibliography in Holford-Strevens 2003, 173.

(11.) Aulus Gellius provides a number of examples of overzealous schoolmen advocating forms against consuetudo, which in his case means the republican writers. See the important discussion of Holford-Strevens 2003, 174–178.

(12.) On this passage, see Cousin 1935, 47–49, with bibliography.

(13.) Sedulius Scottus, In Eutychum 100.74, citing Boethius as his authority. Cf. Isidore of Seville, Etym. 11.1.1: “Natura dicta ab eo quod nasci aliquid faciat.” See the discussion of Morin 2001, 189–191.

(14.) See Charpin 1977, 512, cited and discussed by Morin 2001, 40.

Chapter 6

(1.) Hall 1997; Richter 2001, 55–86. There are several good starting points in the modern anthropological literature, esp. Barth 1969; Eriksen 1993; Fox 1967. See also Evans-Pritchard 1951 and Lévi-Strauss 1949.

(2.) Cf. F. Nietzsche, “Beyond Good and Evil” 1.9: “You want to live according to nature? Oh, you noble Stoics, what deceit lies in these words. . . . In your pride you want to dictate your morality, your ideals to nature, incorporate them into nature, of all things you demand that nature be ‘according to the Stoics.’ ”

(3.) Plut. De Stoic. Repug. 1054e–1055a (= SVF 2.550; Long and Sedley 1987–1989, 29d).

(4.) See Diog. Laert. 7.135 (= SVF 2.580).

(5.) Chrysippus is said to have used the metaphor of a cup of wine being poured into the ocean and becoming coextensive with it (Diog. Laert. 7.551; Plut. Comm. not. 1078e).

(6.) Alex. Aphr. De Mixt. 225.

(7.) This account follows Origen’s report of what Inwood takes to be Chrysippus’s formulation. Origen, de Principiis (= SVF 2.998); cf. Inwood 1985, 21.

(8.) Pol. 1252a–b.

(9.) Lact. Div. inst. 3.25.

(10.) Stob. Ecl. 2.244.10–11. Cf. Philodemus de Pietate col. 5.8–10. On this passage, see Schofield 1991, 43.

(11.) Cf. Singer 1997, 1, who has argued that “distance and nationality make no moral difference.” Cf. Singer 2002.

(p. 691)

(12.) Anon. In Plat. Theaet. 5.18–6.31.

(13.) Hierocles (apud Stobaeus 4.671.7–673.11) = Long and Sedley 1987–1989, 57g. For text, commentary, and facing Italian translation, see Bastianani and Long 1992, 245–268; with Long 1996. See also Ramelli and Konstan, 2009.

(14.) The term was originally used in Ackerman 1994. Appiah has taken up the idea more recently (2005).

(15.) Diog. Laert. 7.32–34.

(16.) Diog. Laert. 7.34.

(17.) Diog. Laert. 7.32–34; 7.187–189. Cf. Sextus Empiricus Pyr. 3.245–249, M II.189–196.

(18.) Isoc. Paneg. 3.

(19.) Isoc. Paneg. 25.

(20.) Menex. 237c.

(21.) Panath. 225.

(22.) Livy Ab Urbe 1.9.

(23.) Tac. Ann. 11.24. On the varieties of Roman formulations of identity, see Dench 1995 and 2005.

(24.) Aristid. Or. 63.

(25.) Eur. Med. 645–653.

(26.) Cf. Plut. De Exil. 600e.

(27.) As Whitmarsh points out (2001, 270–271), the fact that these three philosopher-sophists make use of these ideas in remarkably similar language ought not to be surprising, given the fact that Dio was Musonius’s student and Favorinus Dio’s.

(28.) The evidence for the historicity of these exiles is discussed by Whitmarsh 2001 with bibliography. Plutarch’s friend seems to have been fairly wealthy and the subject of relegatio, a relatively lenient form of exile which allowed the Sardian to settle anywhere in the empire other than Sardis (cf. 604b). Plutarch recommends certain of the Aegean islands (602c–d).

(29.) ᾗ χρώμεθαπάντες ἄνθρωποιφύσειπρὸςπάντας ἀνθρώπους ὥσπερπολίτας. The repetition of the word ἄνθρωποι recalls Cato’s formulation of Stoic oikeiôsis in the De Finibus.

(30.) Plutarch dedicated De Primo Frigido to Favorinus.

(31.) This text is not very easily found. For the Greek text and an account of its relatively recent reappearance, see Barigazzi 1966. For an English translation, see Whitmarsh 2001, appendix I.

Chapter 7

(1.) See, in brief, Whitmarsh 2005, 6–10.

(2.) Dench 2005, esp. 306, 353.

(3.) For proto-globalization, see, e.g., Hingley 2005, Hitchner 2008, Witcher 2000; for the idea of empire as a single system, see the discussions of, e.g., Ando 2000, Woolf 1990; for networks and microworlds, see, e.g., Constantakopoulou 2007; Horden and Purcell 2000; Malkin 2011; Malkin, Constantakopoulou, and Panagopoulou 2009; Whitmarsh 2010.

(4.) For Second Sophistic as a habitus, see, e.g., Borg 2004, Schmitz 1997.

(5.) LSJ s.v. kaltios; the mistranslation is discussed in Jones 1971, appendix II, citing earlier scholarship, but is still widespread.

(6.) Sitting in judgment as iconic feature of Roman rule: Meyer 2006; Schäfer 1989; cf. Plutarch, Precepts of Statecraft 824e, 813e–f for the particular punishments that might be expected for stepping out of line: exile, banishment, or humiliation by edict of the proconsul; for the Roman occupation of Judaea, see Cotton 2007.

(7.) Compare Bowie 1970 and Whitmarsh 2005, 12, cf. 14; cf. De Blois 2004

(8.) For the extreme and countercultural oddness of Plutarch’s idealized political life in this piece, see Trapp 2004.

(10.) Hall 1989, chap. 4.

(11.) Ptolemaic cultural capital: Erskine 1995; tax registers and dual identities: Clarysse and Thompson 2006; Moyer 2011, 29–32; Thompson 1997.

(12.) Atticism: Kim 2010; Kim, chapter 4 in this volume; Roman appropriation of Greek: Dubuisson 1981, Rochette 2010.

(13.) Polybius 26.1.5–7 = Athen. 5.193d; Diodorus 29.32; cf. Livy 41.20; Suet. Aug. 98; for the significance of dressing up stories such as these, see Dench 2005, 295–296; Wallace-Hadrill 1998.

(14.) Hallett 2005, 208–217; Kleiner 1983. Cf. Gleason 2010 for Herodes Atticus’s monumentalization of his own bicultural identity and that of his family.

(15.) Smith 1998.

(16.) E.g., 798f; 800e; 804c, f; 805a, c, e–f; 806a–b, d–e; 808e; 809e; 810a–c.

(17.) Cyrene Edicts: Oliver 1989, 8, 10, 11; Hadrian to Aphrodisias: SEG 50.1096; cf. Jones 2010, 111; the fiscus Iudaicus is an extreme example of Roman administrative appropriation.

(18.) For imperial reassignments, see Ando 2010; but cf. Strabo 12.4.6, C565 for a historical perspective that reflects on the change and loss involved; cf. also Spawforth 1999 for questions about the degree of enthusiasm with which imperial initiatives, e.g., the Panhellenion, were taken up at a local level.

(19.) QFr. 1.1; Plin. Ep. 10.40.2; cf. Woolf 1994.

(21.) Slaughter of Romans and Italians: App. Mithr. 22; Cic. Leg. Man. 5.11, 3.7; Dio Cass. fr. 101.1; Tac. Ann. 4.14; Plin. HN 2.209; Artemidorus, Oneirocritica 1, 35, 4.72, with Bowersock 2004.

(22.) Yildirim 2004; cf. Jones 2004, 2010; cf. Wallace-Hadrill 2008, chap. 3 for triangulation of identities in Hellenistic Italy.

(24.) Despite new challenges to social constructionism, especially around gender and sexuality (cf. Davidson 2007, 163–204, for an interesting historical perspective on the postwar period), our commitment to identity as performance shows no sign of abating as we live our lives on Facebook, Twitter, and reality TV: see, e.g., Zhao, Grasmuch, and Martin 2008.

(25.) For Favorinus, see, e.g., Gleason 1995; Whitmarsh 2001, 90–130.

(27.) Cf. Späth 2005.

(28.) See, e.g., Harrison 2013 on George Rawlinson.

(29.) E.g., Hall 1989; Hartog 1980; Hodder 1982. It is interesting that these two conversations took place in parallel, with little or no cross-fertilization.

(30.) Banton 1977; Dench 2005, 222–297; cf. Krebs 2011 for shifting interpretations of Tacitus’s Germania; cf. Leonard 2005, 58 for the entangled ancient and modern discourses of structuralism.

(31.) Hall 1989, esp. ix and 172–181; contrast Isaac 2004 and Eliav-Feldon, Isaac, and Ziegler 2009 for fuzzier boundaries of race and racism.

(32.) Hall 1997, 2002.

(p. 693)

(33.) For the notion of Athens as the paideusis of Greece, see Most 2006; for fifth- to fourth-century Athenian ideology, see Dench 2005, 240–245.

(34.) Lape 2010; Ogden 1996, chap. 1.

(35.) The question of the level at which such genealogical claims were believed is an extremely interesting and complex one: see Veyne 1988 for a classic discussion of questions of belief in Greek myth more generally.

(36.) Kinship in general: Curty 1995, Jones 1999; kinship with Rome or Hellenistic kings: Battistoni 2010; Erskine 2001; rights of asylum: Rigsby 1996; intercity and intercommunity networks: e.g. Spawforth and Walker 1986; the potential kudos of “barbarian” origins: e.g. Spawforth 2001; Yildirim 2004; Jones 2004, 2010.

(37.) Swain 2007, 2009.

(38.) Richter 2011, chap. 3.

(39.) Whitmarsh 2001, 116–121, 167–180.

(40.) Reynolds 1978, 117–121 = SEG 28.1566.8–12, with rereading of the inscription by Jones 1996; cf. Boatwright 2000, 182; Romeo 2002, 26–27; Spawforth 2012, 252–255.

(41.) Spawforth 1999; Spawforth and Walker 1985, 1986.

(44.) Genos in the fourth century: Jones 1999, 15; “virtual heredity” in Rome: Dench 2005, 114–117, 253–254

(45.) E.g., Livy 1.8.5–7; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.15.3–4, with Dench 2005, 96–117.

(46.) Dench 2005, 136–143.

(47.) Dench 2005, 273–279.

(48.) Buell 2005; cf. Eshleman 2012; we might usefully compare and contrast the kind of essentialism to which Perpetua appeals when she likens the impossibility of calling herself anything other than Christian to the impossibility of calling a vase by any other name (Passio SS. Perpetuae et Felicitatis 3.1–2 (van Beek): identity as profession is linked here to older, philosophical discourse about the relationship between names and things (cf. Heffernan 2012, 156–157).

(49.) The scope of traits that might be associated more narrowly with the first to third centuries ce self-defining Greek world is brought out well in Goldhill 2001.

(51.) Internal and authorial arbitration: Eshleman 2012, esp. 125–139.

(52.) For the state of the question about “Gordian,” see Civiletti 2002 on VS 479.

(53.) Cf. VS 555 for Herodes laughing at his brother-in-law’s boasts of eugeneia (“nobility”).

(54.) The instability of group boundaries is a major theme of modern ethnographical studies: see, e.g., Ferguson 1999, Valentine 2007.

(55.) For different assessments how easy or difficult it is to distinguish philosophers from sophists, see, e.g., Bowersock 1969, 11–15; Flinterman 2004; Sidebottom 2009.

(56.) See especially Bowersock 1969, a fundamental study.

(57.) E.g., Zanker 1995, esp. chap. 5; Borg 2004.

(58.) Eshleman 2012, chap. 4.

(59.) Eshleman 2012, 139–148; Whitmarsh 2005, 18–19.

(60.) For the plurality of Christianity and Judaism: Beard, North, and Price 1998, 236, 248, 284–285, 304, 307–308.

(61.) E.g., for questions about the targeted audience of the ancient novel, see Martzavou 2012; cf. Swain 2009 for the possibility of ideological factions; cf. Johnson 2010 for reading communities more generally.

(p. 694) Chapter 8

(1.) Many thanks to the editors, and to Thomas McGinn and Mario Telò for their help. For theoretical problems in writing the history of sexuality and an overview of the field as a whole, see Richlin 2013.

(2.) The word “retrosexuality” already exists to denote masculinity as it was before feminism; I will here be developing an alternate sense. On life in quotation marks, see Erik Gunderson on Gellius’s Attic Nights, for example on Gellius quoting Antonius Julianus: “What one wishes to say about a topic is, frequently, precisely the already-said about the topic, or, further, the already-said about the already-said about the topic” (2009, 258, cf. 268). Similarly, James Davidson on Athenaeus’s dinner party as a feast of words (2000).

(3.) Previous discussions: Holford-Strevens 2003, 22–23, 66–67, 219, 233–234, on the circulation of such Greek and Latin poetry in this period; Vardi 2000.

(4.) Richlin 2006b, 69, 147. On Apuleius as the author of this poem, see Holford-Strevens 2003, 22–26; Courtney 1993, 395–397; Holford-Strevens 2003, 22–26.

(5.) Space precludes discussion of astrology, dream analysis, and physiognomy, all of which concerned themselves with sexual issues; see Brooten 1996, 115–142, 175–187; Foucault 1986, 3–36; Gleason 1995, 55–81; Winkler 1990, 17–44. On love magic, attested by contemporary texts and by less datable material evidence, see Brooten 1996, 73–114; Winkler 1990, 71–98.

(6.) On this Sulpicia (not to be confused with the Augustan elegist), see Hallett 1992; Parker 1992a; Richlin 2014, 110–29; Stevenson 2005, 44–48, with discussion of contemporary women writers. On women’s desire in the ancient novel, see Morales 2008.

(7.) On emperors’ wives in this period, see essays in Kolb 2010; Keltanen 2002. On the relation between public portrayal of these women and of Regilla, wife of Herodes Atticus, see Gleason 2010.

(8.) For Pantheia mourning by the tomb “of her lord” in Marcus’s Meditations (8.37), editors have read “of Verus” instead of “of her lord”; the next set of mourners sits by Hadrian’s tomb. On Xenophon in the Second Sophistic, see Goldhill 2009a, 109; on Pantheia, Vout 2007, 213–239.

(9.) Jokes: 1.74, 5.75, 6.7, 6.22, 6.45, 6.91. On this law, see McGinn 1998a.

(10.) Plut. Mor. 140b, 144c, 144d (other women); 138f, 139c, 139e, 140c, 143d–e, 144f (sex between husbands and wives); 139a (love charms). See Pomeroy 1999.

(11.) Gilhuly 2006 sees Lucian’s creation of lesbian characters in Dial. Meret. 5 as a manifestation of his own hybrid status within the Second Sophistic; cf. Morales’ discussion (2006) of the female-female romance in Iamblichus’s Babylonian Affairs in the context of Antonine imperialism.

(12.) On lamppost problems, see Richlin 2014, 5. Grateful for details, I myself have generalized on the basis of material from the 100s ce (esp. at Richlin 1992, 35, 37, on Strato—who is now suspected of belonging to the Flavian or even Neronian period, Floridi 2007, 1–13).

(13.) On Fronto and Marcus, see Richlin 2006a, 2006b; Taoka 2013a, 2013b; with close attention to the language of Roman friendship, Williams 2012, 240–258; for doubts, Laes 2009.

(14.) For the date of Rufinus relative to Strato, see Cameron 1982; Floridi 2007, 1–13; Höschele 2006, 58–61. On epigram in the time of Fronto, see Bowie 1990, 55–56; Cameron 1993, 16, 84–90, on the anthology of Diogenian under Pius; Holford-Strevens 2012, 129. On Severan epigram, see Nisbet 2007.

(15.) The eroticism in these odd poems is disputed; see Asso 2010; Newlands 2011 ad loc.

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(16.) For a full overview of pederastic epigrams in the Greek Anthology and in Martial, see Richlin 1992, 34–44, 55–56, 275–276; on Strato, Floridi 2007. See Williams 2004 for an annotated text of Martial Epigrams 2.

(17.) On the anomalous antipederasty position of Musonius Rufus, see Williams 2010, 269–277, and in general Goldhill 1995, 133–143; for the putative Severan effort, see McGinn 1998b, 270–274.

(18.) On stories about this law in later histories, see Grelle 1980; on exoleti, Williams 2010, 90–93.

(19.) Sources at Newlands 2002, 112n85; on Earinus, see also Vout 2007, 167–212. On Earinus and the sexual use of child slaves in Martial, Statius, and Philostratus, see Richlin 2015, 358, 363–366.

(20.) For full discussion, see Gunderson 2000, 149–186, on Lucian, especially on the Rhetoric Teacher; on Roman texts, see Gunderson 2005; Jope 2009; Walters 1998; and Williams 2010, 177–245, with further bibliography.

(21.) On Sotades and kinaidologoi, see Bettini 1982; Cameron 1995, 18–20. For the tombstone of a kinaidologos, see Van Nijf 2001, 330.

(22.) Many thanks to Mario Telò for elucidating this passage.

Chapter 9

(1.) See, in particular, Schmitz 1997; Whitmarsh 2001, 90–130.

(2.) On the epigraphic evidence, see Puech 2002, and on the papyri, see Cribiore 2001 and Morgan 1998.

(3.) Philostratus alludes to similar practices among teachers of rhetoric: Damianus waived fees for students in financial difficulty (VS 606), but only for those who had traveled from other cities and were thus cannot have been poor by general standards.

(4.) Children could be taught in religious buildings, private houses (Aelius Aristides claims to have taught from his sick-bed), even in tombs (Cribiore 2001, 23–34; Aristid. Sacred Tales 1.64; Philostr. VS 618–619).

(5.) The letter from a student to his father in POxy. 2190 (late first, early second century ce) notes the lack of good teachers in Alexandria.

(6.) On arithmetic, see Cribiore 2001, 180–183.

(7.) Alexander of Cotiaion served as tutor to the young Marcus Aurelius (Med. 1.10). See also Philostratus VS 599–600 on Apollonius of Naucratis and Lucian, On Salaried Posts.

(8.) On history, see Gibson 2004. On a third-century teacher of geometry, see Kleijwegt 1991, 90. Girls do not seem to have attended formal schools and would have received training in grammar and rhetoric only through private tuition. They were not, however, totally cut off from the world of the schools attended by male relatives: Aelius Aristides’s funeral oration for his pupil Eteoneus depicts the boy’s mother as taking an active part in his education. On girls’ education in general, see Cribiore 2001, 83–101, and on the evidence for educated women, see Bowie 1994.

(9.) The age of pupils at the different stages is difficult to determine.

(10.) See Cribiore 2001, 179 and 132–137, and Morgan 1998, 39–49.

(11.) On the use of poetry in rhetorical training, see Cribiore 2007, 159–165, and Webb 2011. It is true that poetry gained greater prominence in Late Antique education but there is no need to assume that second-century practice was dramatically different. See also, below, on Herodes Atticus’s Clepsydrion fellowship.

(p. 696)

(12.) Sextus Empiricus Against the Grammarians, 277–320.

(13.) According to Suet. Gram. et rhet. 25.4 and Quint. Inst. 1.9, Roman grammarians taught all or some of the Progymnasmata.

(14.) Aelius Aristides notes that Alexander of Cotiaion wrote a treatise on Aesop, suggesting that this author featured in the grammarian’s schools.

(15.) Theon Prog. 74.24–75.16.

(16.) Theon Prog. 78.16–21.

(17.) On the rhetorical uses of ekphrasis in particular, see Webb 2009.

(18.) Lib. Prog. 5.2 and 6.3.

(19.) On the date, see Theon Progymnasmata: Patillon and Bolognesi 1997, cxxxvi–clii.

(20.) Theon Prog. 13.

(21.) Theon Prog. 72.4–7. On Quintilian, see Bloomer 2011.

(22.) On the imagery of wax and impressions see Morgan 1998, 259–260, and Chiron 2013.

(23.) Lucian, Somn. 2. On modeling as a metaphor for Lucian’s activity, see Romm 1990.

(24.) Lib. Prog. 8.4.

(25.) This type of use was not restricted to authors of the hyperelite: the text of the Charition mime, an example of popular theater, makes use of literary hypotexts. See Hall 2013, 119–128.

(26.) It is hard to know how many years were devoted to each stage of training. Libanius speaks of boys spending only two years at his school; see Cribiore 2007, 323–327.

(27.) Hermog. On Issues, 33.

(28.) For examples, see Heath 1995, 189–191, 209–211, 223–230.

(29.) Ps.-Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Mistakes in Declamation (Dion. Hal. Rhet. 359–374).

(30.) Philostr. VS 604. The term neoi is used by Theon of the students of the elementary stages of rhetorical training and by Plutarch of the young readers of poetry. See Lalanne 2006, 71, on the difficulty of assigning ages to these terms.

(31.) On the importance of studying with the “right” teacher, see Lucian, The Ignorant Book Collector, 3, with the analysis of Johnson 2010, 161–163.

(32.) See also Bloomer 2011, 122–124, on anxieties about pederasty in Quintilian’s discussion of education.

Chapter 10

(1.) For good discussion, see Pritchard 2003, e.g., 302: “physical education manifestly remained an established element of the normative and traditional paideia . . . of young Athenians throughout the classical period,” with references in n61.

(2.) For Plato’s views on athletic training, see among others Jüthner 1909, 37–43; Kyle 1987, 137–140; Meinburg 1975.

(3.) For overviews, with numerous examples of all the phenomena mentioned below, see Delorme 1960, 316–336; Forbes 1945, 33–37; Gauthier 2010, 93–94; König 2005, 49–51 and 65; Scholz 2004.

(4.) See Newby 2005, 243 (with further references, and plan at fig. 8.4, p. 237).

(5.) See Scholz 2004, 125–128.

(6.) See Kennell 2010, 177–178 for the point that the decline in inscriptional evidence for the ephebeia in the Roman period is not a sign of a decline in the importance of the institution itself.

(p. 697)

(7.) IG XII.9.234 = SIG3 II 714, lines 8–12; and see Scholz 2004, 110 for brief discussion.

(8.) IG II2.2119.126–134; and see Newby 2005, 178, noting also that the inscription refers to exhortatory speeches (logoi protreptikoi) given at the beginning of the contests (the logos protreptikos delivered to athletes is one of the standard categories of speech making discussed in Ps-Dionysius’s Ars Rhetorica [speech 7] = Russell and Wilson 1981, 377–381); and cf. 198 for another example from IG II2.2291, where the speaker is an ephebe (who is also acting by virtue of his wealth as agonothete—i.e., benefactor—for the festival at which he performs).

(9.) For examples see, among many others, König 2005, 127–131; van Nijf 2004, 214.

(10.) See Newby 2005, 230–246 (and note also 243 for statues of the Muses in gymnasia); also Themelis 2001 for several examples from Messene.

(11.) See Newby 2005, 188–192, setting that argument in the context of other ephebic celebrations of Athens’s military past.

(12.) See Newby 2005, 192–200, noting other links between the ephebes and the story of Theseus in addition; cf. Themelis (2001) 124.

(13.) See Ewald 2004, 244–247.

(14.) See König 2005 305–315 for a survey of the social status and educational level of ancient trainers: the evidence suggests quite a wide spectrum.

(15.) See Newby 2005, 174; in one of her examples (Fig. 6.4, p. 176, IG II2.2208) the cosmêtês has a pile of bookrolls at his feet—presumably a sign of his intellectual accomplishment.

(16.) E.g., see van Nijf 1997, 42n54 and 59n144 on I. Smyrna 246.

(17.) See König 2005, 313–314.

(18.) See Pl. Resp. 406a.

(19.) See König 2005, 309–312.

(20.) Cf. Galen, Thrasyboulos 43, K5.888.

(21.) POxy. 3.466; for translation, see Miller 2004, 32, no. 36; and Poliakoff 1986, 161–163, with commentary at 165–171.

(22.) E.g., see Rogers 1991 on ephebic involvement in the festival founded by Vibius Salutaris in Ephesus in the first century ce (I. Eph. 27).

(23.) See Potter 1999, 258–283; van Nijf 2007.

(24.) See Hall and Milner 1994, 8–30 (section B); also van Nijf 2004, esp. 203–204; Newby 2005, 252.

(25.) Cf. Ael VH 4.9 for a story about the philosopher Plato attending the games at Olympia: even if we accept that the story is unlikely to be true, it still illustrates nicely the widespread assumption that philosophical and athletic interests could stand side by side.

(26.) See König 2005, 158–204.

(27.) For a good example, see the opening lines of IG XIV.1102 (translated by Miller 2004, 171–172, no. 213).

(28.) See Schmitz 1997, 63–66 for that argument in relation to the sophists.

(29.) See König 2014; also Tell 2007 for the classical tradition.

(30.) See Philostr. VS 2.1, 550 and Pausanias 1.19.6 (with König 2009a, 84–85); and cf. Pausanias 2.1.7–8 for his benefactions at Isthmia; and Lucian, Peregrinus 19 for Olympia.

(31.) See Philostr. VS 2.1, 565–566 for Herodes’s funeral; also 2.1, 550 for his ephebic benefactions (with further discussion by Newby 2005, 192–200; also on honors given by the ephebeia to Herodes in return).

(32.) See Whitmarsh 2001, 188–190; and on athletic metaphors for other areas of intellectual accomplishment, see König 2005, 132–139 (on philosophical training) and 2010, 282–283.

(p. 698)

(33.) See König 2005, 15–16.

(34.) Key passages include Xenophanes fr. 2 (IE 2.186–187 = Miller 2004 182–183, no. 229); Eur. Autol. fr. 282 (TGF pp. 441–442 = Miller 2004, 183, no. 230); Isocrates, Panegyricus 1–2; and see König 2005, 57–58 for overview; also Galen, Protrepticus 10, K1.23–25 for an example of an imperial author quoting classical views (in this case the Euripides fragment) in support of his own views.

(35.) E.g., see Gymnasticus 1–2 and König 2007.

(36.) Cf. Jüthner 1909, 94–97.

(37.) Cf. Van Hoof 2010, 238–239.

(38.) See esp. Quaest. conv. 2.1.

(39.) E.g., see Thrasyboulos 46, K5.894–896.

(40.) See Van Hoof 2010, 211–213 for brief introductory discussion of the relationship between philosophy and medicine, and between Galen and Plutarch; and 214–218 for analysis of this opening section and its implications for understanding Plutarch’s relationship with medicine.

(41.) See Van Hoof 2010, 232–234 for brief discussion.

(42.) See esp. Protrepticus 13, K 1.32–37; Thrasyboulos 46, K5.894.

(43.) Cf. von Staden 2000, esp. 359–360 on the therapeutic uses of reading aloud in the medical writing of Celsus.

Chapter 11

(1.) There is an excellent collection and commentary of these inscriptions in Puech 2002.

(2.) There is some debate whether the dedicatee was Gordian I or Gordian III, but the chronological difference between these two is only slight; see Jones 2002.

(3.) On Philostratus, see Anderson 1986, Bowie and Elsner 2009.

(4.) On this anecdote, see Eshleman 2012, 40–41, 125; Korenjak 2000, 140–141; Whitmarsh 2005, 30–32. Text and translation of Philostratus’s Lives of the Sophists are quoted from Wright 1921; occasionally, I have slightly modified his translation.

(5.) The exact date is difficult to determine; see the discussions of his career in Avotins 1975 and Puech 2002, 309–310.

(6.) See Eshleman 2012, 132: he must have been an eminent teacher and speaker, though not much is known about him, and Philostratus does not provide a biography of him.

(7.) Quintilian 11.3.137–49 gives elaborate rules about the proper dress code for a public speaker—a clear indication that this was considered important both by performers and their audience.

(8.) Lucian, The Professor of Public Speaking 15. Cribiore 2007 is right to remind us that the ironical stance of this satire is more difficult to define than many critics have seen; see also Zweimüller 2008. Cf. Antoninus’s disapproval of the sophist Alexander as “the fellow who is always arranging his hair, cleaning his teeth, and polishing his nails, and always smells of perfume”; and see Gleason 1995, 74–76.

(9.) Korenjak 2000, 27–33; cf. Eshleman 2012, 25–28.

(10.) Aristid. Or. 51.31–34; cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 32.2, 20 or Lib. Or. 1.87.

(11.) See Korenjak 2000, 42–46.

(12.) For details see Webb, chapter 9 in this volume.

(p. 699)

(13.) Philostratus’s florid language and/or our lack of familiarity with the details of everyday school life prevent us from getting a clear picture of just what is involved. Philostratus says that Megistias talked to Hippodromus διακωδωνίσας . . . τὰ μειράκια. These words have puzzled commentators; they may mean “after having dismissed his students” or “after having examined his students”; cf. Rothe 1989, 239.

(14.) See Rothe 1989, 23.

(15.) Many details remain unknown; see the discussions in Avotins 1975; Rothe 1989, 19–27, 39–40. If Puech 2002, 456–457 is right in her interpretation of an inscription from Ephesus (I. Ephesos 1548), cities were competing for the services of famous sophists not unlike modern universities compete for academic stars.

(16.) See, e.g., Nicagoras’s proud declaration of being a “sophist on the chair” (epi tēs kathedras sophistēs) in IG II2.3814 and the interpretation in Puech 2002, 358–359.

(17.) Cf. VS 1.21, 521: Scopelian receives the equally impressive amount of 180,000 from Herodes Atticus and his father Atticus for an extempore declamation.

(18.) The same negative attitude toward wage earning can be seen, e.g., in Lucian’s On Hired Academics, see Eshleman 2012, 79–83.

(19.) See, e.g., VS 1.12, 514; 2.25, 608; 2.32, 625; cf. 2.23, 605.

(20.) The literature on the relation between philosophy and (second) sophistic is vast. Recently, Kasulke 2005, esp. 49–187, has tried to show that there was no real opposition between these two, but his arguments fail to convince; against, see Lauwers 2014, Schmitz 2013, and Sidebottom 2009.

(21.) See, e.g., VS praef., 479; 1.9, 492; 1.24, 528; 2.9, 525; 2.27, 616.

(22.) Eshleman 2010, 125–148 gives a very good overview; lots of valuable information can be found in Naechster 1908.

(23.) Russell 1983, 26n38 rightly points out that magic is common in Greek literature during the first centuries ce (Lucian and the novel), but relatively rare in declamation; however, cf. Philostr. VS 2.10, 590; Ps.-Hermogenes, Inv. 3.10: “A magician asks for a girl’s hand in marriage. When her father refuses, she falls in love with a ghost; the magician is accused of poisoning her.”

(24.) As Rothe 1989, 242–243 and Korenjak 2000, 75 think.

(25.) On this aspect of Philostratus’s Lives of the Sophists, see Schmitz 2009.

(26.) See, e.g., VS 2.5, 572: “[Alexander] made a further wonderful display of his marvellous powers in what now took place. For the sentiments that he had so brilliantly expressed before Herodes came he now recast in his presence, but with such different words and different rhythms, that those who were hearing them for the second time could not feel that he was repeating himself.” Cf. Russell 1983, 84–86.

(27.) On the depiction of competition in Philostratus, see König 2011.

(28.) Anderson 1993, 124.

(29.) See Van Hoof 2010, 234–235.

(30.) On competitiveness and ambition in imperial Greek culture, see Fisher and van Wees 2011; Roskam, De Pourcq, and Van der Stockt 2012.

(31.) On euergetism, see Veyne 1990, Zuiderhoek 2009.

(32.) See, e.g., I. Smyrna 2.635 for the sophist Lollianus. As Puech 2002, 333n1 points out, the hyperbolic and illogical monos kai prôtos had already been satitirized by Lucian.

(33.) Advice about Keeping Well 133 E; cf. Van Hoof 2010, 237–240.

(34.) Eshleman 2012, 7–10 provides a very perceptive reading of this passage.

(35.) On physiognomy in the Second Sophistic, see the brilliant remarks of Gleason 1995, 55–81.

(p. 700)

(36.) See Rothe 1989, 83–4.

(37.) See Castelli 2001.

(38.) VS 1.21, 518 and 2.1, 565.

(39.) On him, see Schmitz 1997, 190–193; Swain 1996, 80–83.

(40.) Cf. Puech 2002, 29–31; Schmitz 1997, 136–146.

(41.) VS 2.1, 564; what is meant is he that he is one of the canonical classical orators.

(42.) See Bowie 1970, which is still relevant.

Chapter 12

(1.) For the date, see Harrison 2000, 123.

(2.) “Wer sich das prunkvolle Auftreten der Rhetoren und Sophisten des 2. und 3. Jahrhunderts n. Chr., wie es in den Lebensbeschreibungen des Philostrat geschildert ist, vergegenwärtigt und sich dazu erinnert, dass der neugefundene Vortagssaal ebenso wie die Exedra aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach von dem berühmten ephesischen Sophisten Flavius Damianus erbaut worden ist, der wird verstehen, dass beim Bau des Auditoriums ein so prächtiger Rahmen für die Person des Vortragenden vorgesehen wurde.”

(3.) Oliver 1953 suggests that the speech was delivered in the Athenaeum, but writes on the assumption that this complex was on the Palatine and well before its actual location was rediscovered; cf. also Jarratt 2016, 218, who imagines a grand urban setting, but notes, with Pernot 2008, 188, that Aristides gives no hint of this architecture in his speech.

Chapter 13

(1.) Cf. the epigraphic material collected by Robert 1948, 29–34, on the men who were able to plead for their province dia tên en logois aretên kai tên peri tou nomou empeirian.

(2.) On the two forms of declamation, cf. Russell 1983, chaps. 5 and 6.

(3.) Puech 2002.

(5.) Cf. Pernot 2010a on Callinicus and 2010b on Philodemus, cited later.

Chapter 14

(1.) The philosopher mentioned at Or. 31.122 is often taken to be Musonius Rufus, but this is not conclusive. Whitmarsh 2001, 137n16 presents a balanced summary of the evidence.

(2.) Compare with Philostratus’s account of the “Heracles of Herodes” (called Sostratus in Lucian’s Demonax 1), who claims that he received the best education from the interior of Attica, as it preserves the purest strain of Hellenism in contrast to the more diluted versions found in Athens, which has been corrupted by the presence of barbarian foreigners (VS 552–554).

(3.) A useful parallel here is Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe, in which the naive perspectives of the rustic protagonists are contrasted with those of the more knowing audience. See Whitmarsh 2001, 101–105, with further references.

(p. 701)

(4.) For example, Lucian’s On the Syrian Goddess, which defamiliarizes the audience’s sense of foreign and familiar through unsettling the author’s (and their own) cultural positioning between Syrian and Greek (Elsner 2001; Goldhill 2002, 78–82). Similarly, Apuleius describes himself as a foreign, inexperienced Latin speaker in the prologue of the Metamorphoses (1.1.5), but when addressing his North African countrymen at his trial, he claims his real crime is being educated in Latin and Greek (Apology 4.1).

Chapter 16

(1.) Ramírez de Verger, 1973, 115–126, uses three topics to show the proximity between Fronto and the Second Sophistic: the use of adoxography, the affinity for fabulous stories, and archaic terminology. I would like to thank warmly K. Coghlan for his help in the translation of this paper.

(2.) The letters on the trial of Herodes (Ad Marcum 3.2–3.6) are quite mutilated: thus, it is hard to know what was the point of contention; on the trial, cf. Fleury 2003, 86–97; 2006a, 136–139; Van den Hout 1999, 94–97. On the consolation Fronto wrote for Herodes, Ad Marcum 2.1, cf. Fleury 2006b, 77–81.

(3.) “Who pray prevents us from painting-in much colour from the paint-box of our friend Favorinus?” (Haines 1919–1920, 1:49). All translations are those of Haines 1919–1920; the titles of the letters are from Van den Hout 1988. Van den Hout 1999, 496 sees this Favorinus as an owner of a beauty parlour. It is more likely that Fronto speaks of the sophist, cf. Barigazzi 1966, 140; Pernot 1993, 535.

(4.) In another letter (Ad Marcum 2.11), Marcus Aurelius recalls his audition of Greek orators in the theater in Naples. The letter is full of innuendos, but the same negative attitude is discernible. On those judgments, cf. Fleury 2012.

(5.) The young Polemon had ceased intemperance and debauchery the day when, still tipsy, he stepped in the classroom of Xenocrates while the philosopher was talking about temperance. We can find the same story in Diogenes Laertius 4.16; Lucian, Bis accusatus 16; and August. Ep. 104.2. On the way Fronto uses this fable, cf. Fleury 2006a.

(6.) Boulanger 1968, 87–94, after studying the two speeches that we have by Polemon, concludes that Marcus Aurelius has wandered in his judgment. Favreau Linder 2004 rightly nuances Boulanger’s conclusions by arguing that Polemon’s declamations use sobriety and passion and can therefore match Marcus Aurelius’s remarks.

(7.) Peratticus seems to be the translation for ὑπεραττικός. Atticism is mentioned only three times in the Frontonian corpus: once, in a marginal note to Ad Antoninum 3.2.5, and once, it comes under Marcus Aurelius’s pen, Additamentum Epistularum 7.2, the last occurrence is in a letter written by Fronto, Ad Marcum 2.3.5. If we look at occurrences of the word in contemporary literature (Lucian, Lexiphanes 25; Demon. 26; Philostr. V A 1.17), it is always seen as a negative feature of authors or philosophers; cf. Swain 1996, 82–83. On Atticism and style, see chapter 4 in this volume.

(8.) Except for this occurrence, the word is used just one more time (De eloquentia 4.10), likewise in a letter that compares philosophy and rhetoric: “contemni denique et nullo honore esse rhetora uideas; obseruari autem et omnibus officiis coli dialecticos” (“In a word, you could see that the rhetorician is despised and of no account, while the dialecticians are courted and treated with every respect”; Haines 1919–1920, 2:79).

(p. 702)

(9.) Ad Marcum 2.2.4, 4.3.3; Ad Antoninum 1.2.6, 3.8.2; cf. Cugusi 1983, 262; Portalupi 1961, 39f.; Schwierczina 1925; Zetzel 1974. It is nevertheless clear that, in the structure of Ad Marcum 2.2, the remark made in paragraph 4 on Marcus Aurelius’s ability in writing letters, where Fronto mentions relaxed and Ciceronian conversation, is the loose logical link that leads to the Ciceronian rhetor Polemon.

(10.) NA 2.26, 13.29, 19.8, 19.10, 19.13. On the relations of Fronto and Aulus Gellius, cf. Baldwin 1973, Pellini 1912, and more recently, Garcea and Lomanto 2004 and Sacerdoti 2003.

(11.) Indeed, in all the chapters where Fronto is a character, the answer to lexical problems is found in pre-Ciceronian writers.

(12.) On the vindictive nature of the sophists in Philostratus, see, inter alia, Bowersock 1969, 89–100; Whitmarsh 2005, 37–40. On Polemon, see Ad Marcum 2.2.5 and 2.10.

(13.) Although we may think that some letters were written for a larger audience than the imperial family, such as the treatises in epistolary form (De eloquentia, De orationibus), the small diffusion of the letters in antiquity seems to show that the publication was not Fronto’s doing, nor that of Marcus Aurelius, and that the edition of the letters must have been posterior to the death of both correspondents. Cova 2004 has put forward the attractive hypothesis of an editor, Fronto’s descendant, who would have put the corpus together to rehabilitate the family after Victorinus’s forced suicide. This type of rehabilitation can also be seen in one more occasion, see Mathieu 1994.

(14.) Pflaum 1964, 547, 560: Pflaum considers that Fronto himself was the publisher of his letters and that is why he tries to demonstrate the equilibrium in the two books of the letters to friends between powerful men and men of knowledge. This conclusion is still valid if we think of an editor aiming for rehabilitation of the family.

(15.) According to Demougin 2001, 221, there is a clear distinction between relations and friends who shared contubernium with Fronto. On the intellectual activities that took place in this circle, cf. Johnson 2012, 141–148.

(16.) The studies that analyse both cultural worlds are increasingly numerous, cf. Harrison 2000, Kemezis 2010, and Keulen 2009.

(17.) On Anacharsis in the authors of the second century, cf. Richter 2011, 167f.

(18.) Fronto, like most of the writers of his century, evolves in a bilingual world, where the knowledge of both languages, especially for a Latin speaker, is indispensable. On this topic, see Bowie 1970, 4. Russell, 1990, 14, thinks that Fronto, in this letter, associates Greek and primary education and rejects Greek for the adult orator.

(19.) Cf. Swain 2004.

(20.) Same conclusions in Claassen 2009. For a more historical study, cf. Méthy 1983.

Chapter 17

(1.) Behr 1994, 1163–1177. Aristides used the term “sophist” to denigrate the “Asianists” (Against Those Who Burlesque the Mysteries [of Oratory], Or. 34) or personal rivals (e.g., Or. 33.29). But he also used it in the neutral sense of “teacher,” and in particular “public teacher” (Puech 2002, 10–15).

(2.) See Pernot 2003, 128–133.

(3.) Most of the biographical information about Aristides that is to be found in the present text comes from his own work (and in particular the Sacred Tales; Or. 47–52), Philostratus, 2.9.581–585, Sopatros’s Prolegomena (ed. F. W. Lenz, 1959), the Suda and various epigraphic sources. Behr (1968, 1994) gives a version which, though detailed, is sometimes conjectural. See also Bowie 1996.

(4.) Behr 1981–1986 is the source for all the quotations from Aristides’s works.

(5.) See also Franco 2005.

(7.) Puech 2002, 140–145.

(8.) Vix 2010, 373–389.

(9.) See, for example, Vix 2010, 314–397, and his bibliography; and Kim, chapter 4 in this volume.

(10.) Or. 32, taking the form of a letter to the magistrates of Cotiaeum.

(11.) The hymns (Or. 37–46), among others, were written down before being presented orally, and were later reworked. In other words, they were aimed firstly at listeners, then at readers.

(12.) Philostr. VS 581.

(13.) See, for example, Or. 46, The Isthmian Oration: Regarding Poseidon.

(14.) Quet 1993, 213; 2001.

(15.) The Sacred Tales contain many references to the esteem in which he is held, e.g., Or. 48, 82; Or. 50, 48, 91, 95, 102; Or. 51, 29.

(16.) Puech 2002, 140–145; Quet 1992.

(17.) Quet 2006.

(18.) He gives a detailed account of his requests to the proconsul of Asia not to serve as an eirenarch in Adriani. And the emperors apparently sent a letter to the authorities in Smyrna confirming his fiscal exemption. Each time, he won his point, and was heaped with honors and excuses (Or. 50, 72–108). See Bowersock 1969, 36–41; Puech 2002, 27; Sartre 1991, 144–147.

(19.) Philostr. VS 583.

(20.) Philostr. VS 583.

(21.) Philostr. VS 583.

(22.) Philostr. VS 585.

(23.) Pernot 1997, 171–183.

(24.) See Bowie 1996 for a classification: the “epideictic” orations (in praise of cities: Or. 1 [Panathenaikos], Or. 18 and 21 [Smyrna], Or. 22 [Eleusis], Or. 26 [Rome], Or. 27 [Cyzicus], Or. 46 [Corinth], and those that commemorate a funeral [Or. 31 and 32] or a birthday [Or. 30]); the “deliberative,” or “polemical,” orations, which are either political (Or. 23 and 24) or related to Aristides’s career in rhetoric (the Platonic discourses, Or. 2–4); Or. 28, 29, 33, and 34; the Sacred Tales (Or. 47–52); the “declamations” (Or. 5–16); and the “hymns in prose” (Or. 37–46). There is also an essay on the source of the Nile, Or. 36.

(25.) See also the funeral orations that he composed for his student Eteoneus (Or. 31) and his master Alexander (Or. 32); also Vix 2010, 113–141.

(26.) See also Or. 28.6, 47.16, and 50.15.

(27.) Or. 5 and 6, the “Sicilian orations,” for and against sending reinforcements to Sicily; Or. 7 and 8, the “orations for peace.”

(28.) Or. 9 and 10, “orations on the alliance with the Thebans”; Or. 11–15, the “Leuctran orations.”

(29.) See, for example, Swain 1996, 260–274.

(30.) See Pernot 2002, 373–374.

(31.) It is essentially in Or. 50 and 51 that Asclepius is spoken of as providing Aristides with methods for developing his rhetorical talents.

(p. 704)

(32.) Philostr VS 581. On Asclepius’s actions in different domains, see, in particular, Or. 42.

(34.) See, in particular, Quet 1993.

(35.) Pernot 2002, and in particular 371.

(36.) Whitmarsh 2005, 83–85.

(37.) Quet 1993, 221. On the structure of the Sacred Tales, see Behr 1968, 116–119; Gigli 1977; Pearcy 1988.

(38.) See, for example, Or. 51.56, where Aristides goes from a psychological assessment of middle life to an expression of his spiritual fulfilment.

(39.) Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 122–124. Recent research has relocated the Sacred Tales within the study of religion and culture in the second century (Nicosia 1979, 1988). Anthropological approaches have also been developed recently; see chapters by Holmes, Downie, and Petsalis-Diomidis in Harris and Holmes 2008.

(40.) Pernot 2002, 382–383.

(41.) Or. 2 (To Plato: In Defense of Oratory) and Or. 3 (To Plato: In Defense of the Four). There is also a brief work, Or. 4 (To Capito), in which Aristides replies to the criticisms of a contemporary philosopher. See Milazzo 2002.

(42.) Or. 50.57, 51.57–66, gives a significant dream in which Plato is quoted favourably (Or. 51.58), and is placed above Demosthenes and Homer (Or. 51.63).

(43.) Pernot 1993b, 323.

(45.) Flintermann 2002b, 199–200; Karadimas, 1996, 240.

(46.) Or. 2.52.

(47.) See Or. 3.672, for a contrasted portrait.

(48.) Pl. Ap. 31 c–d.

(49.) See also Or. 33.19; Flintermann 2002b.

(50.) See Wissmann 1999.

(51.) Or. 2.393–399; also Saïd 2008, 65–67, 66 (quotation).

(52.) Miletti 2011.

(54.) Quet 2001, 215.

(55.) Quet 2001.

(56.) In this passage, Aristides rejoins the spirit of the Gorgias (503a), which he also draws on for his definition of eloquence.

(57.) There was already a tradition of prose hymns, and Aristides did not claim to be innovating in this area (see Or. 40.1, 44.1), though it is true that references in Greek sources are rare. He himself also composed hymns in verse (Bowie 1989; Goeken 2012, 66–69). His use of prose was thus a deliberate choice.

(58.) This was one of his first works, dating from 142 or 143. See Goeken 2012, 76–77.

(59.) Goeken 2012, 81.

(60.) Pernot 2007.

(61.) Pernot 1997, 163–170.

(62.) See the subtitles given by J. H. Oliver to the annotated translation of these two orations: “The Ruling Power” (1953) and “The Civilizing Power” (1968).

(63.) Pernot 1993a, 323–328.

(64.) Oudot 2006a, 2006b.

(65.) Swain 1996, 274–276.

(p. 705)

(66.) Pernot 2008.

(67.) See, however, Or. 51.56, where Aristides regrets that, given his poor health, he has not been able to visit as many cities as he would have liked.

(68.) On urban development, see also Or. 26.97.

(69.) Regarding the orations on Smyrna (Or. 17–21), see Franco 2005.

(70.) See Jones 2008; Robert 2009.

(71.) Fragment 50.12, ed. Patillon-Brisson.

(73.) Or. 18, 23, 24, 26, 27, and 34.

(74.) Robert 2009, 154–160.

Chapter 18

(1.) The fullest study of the problems of authorship and attribution remains De Lannoy 1997.

(2.) As Solmsen 1940 already saw. See also Grossardt 2006, 14–16.

(3.) For some Motivparallelen, see Grossardt 2006, 21–23.

(4.) On this text: Whitmarsh 1999.

(5.) There is almost no modern discussion. On the second Dialexis, see Swain 2009 and on the nature and transmission of these texts Miles 2017.

(6.) Bowie 2009 examines the available evidence for Philostratus’s life and career.

(7.) On the “circle” of Julia Domna, see the appropriately wary analysis of Whitmarsh 2007, 32–38 with further bibliography.

(9.) Grossardt 2006, 14–17; Solmsen 1940.

(10.) For instance, “A Protean corpus”: Elsner 2009a.

(11.) Billault 2000, 5.

(13.) For instance, Maclean and Aitken 2001; Mantero 1966.

(14.) Space does not permit discussion of the Letters, Gymnasticus, Dialexis, and Nero. Letters: Goldhill 2009a, and Hodkinson, chapter 32 in this volume. Gymnasticus: König 2005, 301–344. Nero: Whitmarsh 1999. Dialexis: Swain 2009.

(15.) For example, Apollonius writes to the sophist Scopelian (1.23–24), who also appears in the Lives of the Sophists (514–521), and Dio Chrysostom features in both texts. Some other points of contact: Kemezis 2011, 22n54.

(16.) Rhetoric: Billault 1992 and 1993. Theios Sophistes is the apt title of Demoen and Praet 2009.

(17.) Whitmarsh 2005, 1–10.

(18.) See Johnson and Richter, chapter 1 in this volume.

(19.) On Atticism, see Kim, chapter 4 in this volume, and Kim 2010a.

(20.) On the composite portrait of “the sophist” in the Lives, see Côté 2006, 23, and Anderson 1989 and 1993.

(21.) Côté 2006, 19, with further bibliography.

(22.) Swain 1991.

(23.) Anderson 1986, 83.

(24.) Eshleman 2008; Kemezis 2011 on geography.

(25.) On the identity of this Gordian, see Barnes 1968, and Jones 2002.

(p. 706)

(26.) Eshleman 2008 on these omissions. Herodes as conduit for the Ionian sophists: Kemezis 2011, 8–9. For the wider picture of Greek oratory in this period which emerges from the epigraphic evidence, see Puech 2002.

(27.) Eshleman 2008, 396.

(29.) See Bowie 1978; Dzielska 1986; Meyer 1917; Weisser 1980 on the Arabic tradition; Penella 1979 on the Letters.

(30.) Francis 1995, 126–130.

(31.) On Apollonius’s Pythagoreanism: Flinterman 2009. On other aspects of this school, Burkert 1972; O’Meara 1991; Zhmud 2012.

(32.) Swain 1995 proves conclusively that the supposed Sanskrit evidence for Apollonius’s visit is a nineteenth-century forgery. It was already regarded as suspect by Bhattacharya 1943, vi c–d.

(33.) Elsner 1997. Further on geography, see Abraham 2014.

(35.) See also Richter 2011, 199–206; Belousov 2014.

(36.) Swain 1995, 254.

(37.) Koskenniemi 1991, 1998; Petzke 1970.

(38.) Edwards 2007.

(39.) On the probability that this text was not by Eusebius of Caesarea, see Hägg 1992.

(40.) Elsner 2009b. On Philostratus’s possible response to Christianity, see Swain 2009.

(41.) Bowie 1978, 1663. Meyer 1917 already doubted the existence of Damis.

(42.) Flinterman 1995, 85, for this possibility.

(43.) Francis 1998.

(44.) Schirren 2009, 177. The case is made at greater length in Schirren 2005.

(45.) Gyselinck and Demoen 2009, 126–127.

(46.) Whitmarsh 2004a, 2004b.

(47.) Bowie 1994, 190–193; Miles 2017a.

(49.) For instance: V A 1.22, 2.22. See Miles 2009 and 2017b, and on the production of multiple interpretations in the Gymnasticus, König 2005, 325–337.

(50.) On the interest in visuality in these dialogues, see Platt 2009.

(51.) On the conversion from skepticism to belief, see Kim 2010b, 201–202; Whitmarsh 2004a, 249. On the setting and Plato’s Phaedrus: Hodkinson 2011.

(52.) On the relationship of the Schwindelliteratur to the Heroicus, see Grossardt 2006, 55–74; Kim 2010b, 175–215.

(53.) Also visualized at Imag. 2.2.

(54.) Discussed more fully in Miles 2004.

(55.) For instance, Mantero 1966.

(56.) Anderson 1986, 241–258.

(57.) Grossardt 2006, 127–130.

(58.) Hodkinson 2011, 58 takes a similar point of view, as does Kim 2010b. König 2005, 334 makes some related observations regarding the Gymnasticus.

(59.) Webb 2009, 188 observes the “several levels of time involved” in the Imagines.

(60.) Limitation of space prevents discussion of these second Imagines here.

(61.) Newby 2009.

(p. 707)

(62.) “Rhodogoune” (2.5) is again a fine example. I discuss these aspects of the Imagines further in Miles 2017.

(63.) Lehmann-Hartleben 1941. See the response of Bryson 1994.

(64.) Goethe 1818. On the resistance to a final structure, see Baumann 2011.

(65.) Billault 2000, 49.

(66.) Somewhat similar observations have been made regarding Heliodorus: Morgan 1994.

Chapter 20

(1.) On the presence of historians’ writings in grammar school curricula, see Marrou 1966, 230, and more extensively Nicolai 1992, 186–233; regarding declamations of historical subjects in rhetoric schools, see the concise Bowie 1970, 4–5, and more extensively Nicolai 1992, 215–233. For an especially interesting testimony to these declamations, see Plutarch himself in the Praecepta gerendae rei publicae (Mor. 814c), about which see Desideri 2012c (= 1998a), 62ff.

(2.) See Desideri 1997 and 2001 (for Plutarch’s role, 174–177).

(3.) On this cultural phenomenon, see Bowersock 1969. For a concise survey of authors and themes, as listed by Philostratus, see Desideri 1992a, 59–60; and remember that it was Philostratus who defined the activity of these sophists as dedicated to developing themes “belonging to history” (VS 481). Schmitz 2014’s description of the relationships between Plutarch and the Second Sophistic is not interested in my main point, i.e., Plutarch’s and sophists’ common interest for history.

(4.) Here I am thinking, first, of the History of Memnon of Heraclea, regarding whose writings I refer to my older works from the previous century (Desideri 1967 and 1970–1971), and the more recent Desideri 2007; but for a more exhaustive survey of these entire literature, see Bowie 1970, 19–22.

(7.) As shall be seen clearly later in this work, I do not share the idea of a sharp contrast between biography and history: I limit my argument on this subject to referring to Desideri 2012a (= 1992c), 247–249; 2012f (= 1995), and now 2015, sect. 6d (but see the previous work by Gentili and Cerri 1983, 65–90; Mazzarino 1983, 3, 136–138; Pelling 1990; and more recently Schepens 2007, 341ff).

(8.) Duff 1999, 3–5; regarding Late Antiquity, also see Jones 1971, 81n1.

(9.) Only the first pair, Epaminondas and Scipio, was lost.

(10.) For a general bibliography on biography, see now Desideri 2015, sect. 5.

(11.) For a list (from the Catalog, but also from Plutarch’s self-references) of the individual Lives that were lost (not many, truthfully), among which the Life of a politician and captain such as the great Scipio Africanus; see Ziegler 1965, 307ff.

(12.) See Desideri 2015, sect. 6e (and the earlier Jones 1982, 968). Here the main reference is naturally Cornelius Nepos, on whose relations with Plutarch see Ramón Palerm 2009, 42–46.

(13.) See Jones 1971, 104ff: “P. appears to have added one pair after another haphazardly . . . ; lack of plan . . . ; random accumulation of instances.”

(14.) On the technical and rhetorical aspects of Plutarch’s biographical writings, see Ramón Palerm 2009, 48ff.

(p. 708)

(15.) Its theme was in fact “The Unity of Plutarch’s Work” (for the Proceedings, see Nikolaidis 2008); for the history of the composition of the two great and distinct corpora of the Byzantine era, see therein Geiger 2008.

(16.) See Desideri 2012h (= 2012g); I later dealt with this theme again in Desideri 2016.

(17.) Dario Del Corno (1983, 12) spoke of “afflatus of anguish” (see Desideri 2011, 100ff)

(18.) All of Plutarch’s life and works demonstrate the strength of this conviction of his: see especially Stadter 2002, 5–6.

(19.) Mor. 422b (this translation of Plutarch, like all the others in this chapter, comes from the Loeb volumes).

(20.) Mor. 422bc (καὶ περὶ αὐτὰ τοῦ αἰῶνος ὄντοςοἷον ἀπορροὴν ἐπὶ τοὺςκόσμουςφέρεσθαιτὸνχρόνον).

(21.) Mor. 432ab

(22.) Mor. 432b.

(23.) Mor. 387b.

(24.) Mor. 408bc; the same idea, in terms which are just as covertly ironic, is expressed in the Praecepta rei publicae gerendae (Mor. 824c).

(25.) This was apparently a widespread opinion (Mor. 408d): see Desideri 2012h (= 2012g), 363ff.

(26.) The dating in particular of the De E has been a subject of much debate: see Stadter 2002, 12; in any case, its attribution to the age of Hadrian cannot be proven (Jones 1966, 63–65).

(27.) Jones 1966, 70 (perhaps in 99 ce, year of the first consulate of his friend Sosius Senecio, whom the work addresses); 1971, 31; Stadter 2002, 6.

(28.) The pair Aemilius Paullus and Timoleon could be positioned at the eleventh (Nikolaidis 2005, 296), or thirteenth to fourteenth place (Jones 1966, 67) in the series of the Parallel Lives.

(29.) Aem. 1. For further analysis of this proem, see Desideri 2012j (= 1989), 201–202.

(30.) Mor. 84d ff.; the image of the mirror also appears in the above-mentioned proem of Aemilius Paullus (see Desideri 2012b [= 1992b], 232).

(31.) Per. 2.4 (see Desideri 2012j [= 1989], 202–203 and 2013, 24).

(32.) For a more in-depth analysis of the reasons why the biographical model of historical writing emerged in the imperial age, see Desideri 2001, 176; 2015, sect. 6e; Swain 1997.

(33.) On the relationship between the two passages, see Giua 1985.

(34.) Pelling 1997b, 118ff; 2006, 258.

(35.) Jones 1982, 968. Bowersock 1998 supports the Plutarchan originality of the plan and attributes the writing of these Lives to the age of Domitian (see, previously, Jones 1966, 71; 1971, 27 and 72–73); Geiger 2002, 93ff. reaffirms his preference for the age of Nerva. On these Lives, see now Georgiadou 2014.

(36.) Desideri 2015, 14.

(37.) For a stimulating approach to the Parallel Lives—one both comprehensive and concise—see now Geiger 2014.

(38.) But we cannot rule out the joint publication of several pairs: Mewaldt 1907 (see Jones 1966, 66–67; Nikolaidis 2005, 296ff).

(39.) Thes. 1.2; Cim. 2.2; Dem. 3.1; Dio 2.7.

(40.) For example, see Cim. 3; Rom. 1.4–5. On Plutarchan parallelism, see still Hirzel 1912, chapter 7 (“Der Historiker”); and later Desideri 2012b (= 1992b); 233ff; Duff 1999, 287–309; Pelling 2010; Tatum 2010; and in general the collected works in Humble 2010.

(41.) Desideri 2012d (= 1998b), 38ff; previously Jones 1971, 107ff. had observed that “the Parallel Lives do not reveal a cleavage between Greeks and Romans, but rather their unity.”

(p. 709)

(42.) Desideri 2012d (= 1998b), 33ff.

(43.) Jones 1966, 67; Nikolaidis 2005, 299; Ziegler 1965, 308.

(44.) I maintain my position (Desideri 2012b [= 1992b], 240–245); for a different perspective, Geiger 2014, 298; Van der Stockt 2014, 323.

(45.) Stadter 1965, 9–11. See the later Jones 1982, 964 (though previously, he had claimed that “the primary purpose . . . is artistic,” and that, as in Nepos, “his aim was delectation and not demonstration,” despite admitting an ethical intention as well; Jones 1971, 105–106); Desideri 2012a (= 1992c), 234; Tatum 2010, 4ff.

(46.) This difficulty has now been explored very well by Tatum 2010.

(47.) Pelling 2010.

(48.) As we know, Plutarch sometimes refers to Lives which will never actually be written.

(49.) For the group of Late Republic Lives in particular, see Pelling 1979; Stadter 2010 thinks that the pairs included in these six Lives actually form a larger unit, in which Plutarch may have focused on certain specific themes.

(50.) The problem of the work’s internal timeline has been discussed most in depth in Jones 1966 and Nikolaidis 2005; but also see Piccirilli 1977, 999–1003.

(51.) Nikolaidis 2005 made a noteworthy attempt at reconstructing the order of the themed explorations connected to the order in which the individual pairs were published over time.

(52.) See Desideri 2012e (= 2005), 142.

(53.) Comp. Arist./Cato 1.2–3 (see Desideri 2012b (= 1992b), 236).

(54.) Phoc. 3.1–3 (see Desideri 2012b (= 1992b), 235–236).

(55.) I recall, for example, the beginning of the Comparison between Solon and Publicola (1.1), in which Plutarch writes of the “very particular aspect” of this comparison, consisting of the fact that the “latter figure imitated the former, and the former proved the value of the latter.”

(56.) Desideri 2012d (= 1998b), 35–38.

(57.) On the centrality of the theme of freedom in Philopoemen (and in Flamininus), see Pelling 1997a, 137–153; 300ff.

(58.) Cic. 24.6.

(59.) Plutarch explicity declares (Dem. 3.1–2) that it is not his intention (nor is he able) to compare the two in terms of their oratorical skills.

(60.) Nic. 1.5.

(61.) Nietzsche 2010, 41–42. I discussed the connection between Plutarch and Nietzsche in Desideri 2016.

(62.) It is interesting to note that a great Greek contemporary intellectual, such as the orator Dio Chrysostom, who shared Plutarch’s constant use of the Greek past for argumentative purposes, displays a nearly complete ignorance of the Roman past.

(63.) See Desideri 2012c (= 1998a), 63–68.

Chapter 21

(1.) On the reception of Lucian in general, see Baumbach 2002 and Robinson 1979.

(2.) LUKINOS: The Lapiths; Essays in Portraiture; Essays in Portraiture Defended; The Dance; Lexiphanes; The Eunuch; Hesiod; Hermotimus; The Ship; The Cynic. LUKIANOS: Verae Historiae; Peregrinus Proteus; The Solecist (probably inauthentic); Affairs of the Heart. LUKIUS: The Ass. THE SYRIAN: Dead Come to Life; Bis Accusatus; Adversus Indoctum; De Syria Dea; Mistaken Critic.

(3.) I use the word “Lucian” in this chapter to refer to both the author of the texts and the authorial persona within the text.

(4.) E.g., Dead Come to Life 19; Dionysus 5; Heracles; Zeus the Tragedian 8; Mistaken Critic 14–29; Twice Accused 33; Ignorant Book Collector 19; Dream 8; Anacharsis 16; How to Write History 24; Dipsads; Herodotus 1; Zeuxis 12; Scythian 9; You are a Prometheus in Words 4.

(5.) Cf. Twice Accused 31 for a brilliant reworking of the preface of Dionysius of Halicarnassus’s Lives of the Orators. See below.

(6.) The Anacharsis of Lucian’s Anacharsis hews more closely to the Herodotean and Hellenistic models.

(7.) Cf. the remark of Apollonius of Tyana to his companion Damis about the absolute ethical behavior of the wise man whether or not he is among the Hellenes: “for the wise man, Hellas is everywhere” [VA 1.35].

(8.) See the excellent analyses of both Kim 2010, 140–174, and Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 206–260.

(9.) Lucian speaks often of the importance of teachers: for good philosophical training, see: Nigrinus, Demonax—bad philosophical training is satirized in Runaways. For various perspectives on good and bad rhetorical training, see Teacher of Public Speaking, Lexiphanes, The Dream, The Mistaken Critic, Twice Accused.

(10.) See the critique of Helm in McCarthy 1934.

(11.) I’ve borrowed the Loeb’s evocative translation of these excessively archaic terms.

(12.) Jones 1986, 41, accepts Lucianic authorship but sees no satirical intent.

(13.) See Kim’s chapter 4, in this volume, about the tendency of Atticizers to distinguish their own diction from the “learned koinê” of the Hellenistic and early Imperial periods.

(14.) E.g., Gell NA 12.11: Philosophum nomine Peregrinum, cui postea cognomentum Proteus factum est, virum gravem atque constantem, vidimus, cum Athenis essemus, deversantem in quodam tugurio extra urbem. Cumque ad eum frequenter ventitaremus, multa hercle dicere eum utiliter et honeste audivimus.

(15.) non uideo quid mihi sit in ea re pudendum, haud minus quam Cyro maiori, quod genere mixto fuit Semimedus ac Semipersa. non enim ubi prognatus, sed ut moratus quisque sit spectandum, nec qua regione, sed qua ratione uitam uiuere inierit, considerandum est.

Chapter 23

(1.) Athenaeus: Hutton 2005, 254n49; Lucian: Lightfoot 2003, 218; Pollux: Hanell 1938, 1560; Philostratus: Dickey 1997, 11–20; Athenagoras: Snodgrass 2003.

(2.) I would like to thank the editors of this volume for their many constructive suggestions for improvements to this chapter.

Chapter 24

(1.) On this point see Schöne 1917 and Richardson 1992, s.v. gymnasium Neronis.

(2.) Pausanias called a “sophist”: De anat. Admin. 3.1 (2.343K), De loc. aff. 3.14 (8.213K). Galen mentions Aristides in In Plat. Tim. comm. 33 Schröder. Note that Aristides refers to Galen’s teacher Satyrus as a “sophist of no humble birth” (Orat. 49.8).

(p. 711)

(3.) Thessalus is attacked throughout Galen’s work but especially in the first book of On the Method of Healing. A commentary is available in Hankinson 1991 and a new translation of all of Meth. Med. in Johnston and Horsley 2011.

(4.) Home-schooling: De libr. propr. 14 (19.39–40K); De an. aff. dign. et cur. 8 (5.41–43K). Proper Greek: De puls. differ. 2.5 (8.587K); De ord. libr. suor. 4 (19.59K).

(5.) De an. aff. dign. et cur. 8.3 (5.41–43K); De libr. propr. 14 (19.43K).

(6.) Nicon’s dreams: De ord. libr. suor. 4 (19.59K); De meth. med. 9.4 (10.609K); and De praecogn. 2 (14.608K).

(7.) For a recent, sympathetic history of Methodism, Nutton 2004, chap. 13. Galen mentions Soranus several times, and one of his most entertaining stories recounts his own humiliation of Attalus, a student of Soranus: De meth. med. 13.15 (10.910K).

(8.) De anat. admin. 14.1, 230–233 Simon; In Hipp. Nat. Hom. comment. 2.6, 15.136K.

(9.) For the story of the demonstration, De libr. propr. 2 (19.20–23K); also De anat. admin. 4.10 (2.469–70K).

(10.) The authenticity of Ther. Pis. is defended by Swain 1996, appendix D, and Nutton 1997, but doubted by Strohmeier 2007. Recent editors Leigh 2015, 19-60, and Boudon-Millot 2016, chap. 4, make thorough and convincing arguments against authenticity.

(11.) De praecogn. 1 (14.599–605K), 2 (14.620–624K); cf. De opt. med. cogn. 1 (46 Iskandar).

Chapter 25

(1.) Perry 1967, 108–124, and, for example, the standard English introductions: Hägg 1983, 34, and Holzberg 1995.

(2.) P. Michaelidae 1 in Crawford 1955, 1–4.

(4.) Pers.1.134, on which see Tilg 2010, 69–78. Persius is a notoriously opaque author, but the logic of the passage suggests to me that his Callirhoe is a slapstick comedy.

(5.) Philostr. VS 521–526. The connection is made by Jones 1992; Bowie 2002 and Tilg 2010, 44–46, are unduly skeptical.

(6.) 5.6.1–10. See Doulamis 2011 for full analysis.

(7.) Philostr. Ep.66.

(8.) This is how the narrative begins: “The Syracusan general Hermocrates, the man who defeated the Athenians, had a daughter called Callirhoe” (1.1.2, trans. Reardon)

(9.) On the “historical” setting see Hunter 1994; Reardon 1996, 325–330; and on Callirhoe as historical novel, see Hägg 1987.

(10.) 1.1.1: “My name is Chariton, of Aphrodisias, and I am clerk to the attorney Athenagoras. I am going to tell you the story of a love affair that took place in Syracuse.”

(11.) On the construction of the narrator, see Morgan 2004.

(12.) Callirhoe is not an isolated case in this respect. The fragmentary novel known as Metiochus and Parthenope (translated in Reardon 1989, 813–815) seems to have been engaged in a similar romantic elaboration of bare historical fact, this time based around the daughter of the tyrant Polycrates of Samos and the son of the Athenian general Miltiades.

(13.) Athens figures only in an episode where tomb robbers decide not to sell the heroine there because it is a city of busybodies and informers (1.11.4–7).

(14.) Morgan 2007, and now, indispensably, Whitmarsh 2011, esp. 50–58.

(p. 712)

(15.) For full discussion of paideia in the novels as a marker of elite masculinity, see Jones 2012, 20–91.

(16.) Tilg 2010, 24–36, provides information on Aphrodisias; and 240–297 argues for Chariton’s acquaintance with the Aeneid.

(17.) On this and the novel’s intertextuality in general, see Morgan 2008.

(18.) For the argument that the hearing reflects Roman legal practice, see Schwartz 2003.

(19.) So, for example, Xenophon of Ephesus is included in Hansen 1998.

(20.) The oralist case is argued forcefully by O’Sullivan 1995.

(21.) Argued at length by Tagliabue 2013.

(22.) See Capra 2009 for development of this idea.

(23.) Particularly striking are the sequences where the heroine is wrongly believed dead, buried, revives in the tomb, and is taken by tomb robbers.

(24.) For example, Doulamis 2007; De Temmerman 2014, 118–123.

(25.) Details in Rife 2002.

(26.) The people of Tyre are characterized as “barbarians” who have never seen beauty such as that of the protagonists (2.2.4).

(27.) Achilles Tatius’s protagonist is a Greek-speaking Tyrian. From the time of Alexander, the city could not really be described as “barbarian.” Antioch, of course, was a Seleucid foundation, and Xenophon’s description of Manto’s husband as a “Syrian from Antioch” suggests that he is using racial categories loosely.

(28.) The text is uncertain at this point.

Chapter 26

(1.) Morgan 2004, 1–2.

(2.) See, e.g., Plepelits 1980.

(3.) A convenient summary of the evidence in Bowie and Harrison 1993, 160–161

(4.) For a different view, see Morgan, chapter 25 of this volume.

(5.) See especially Goldhill 1995.

(6.) (a) Cleitophon, in love with Leucippe, is betrothed to Calligone, his half-sister. She is mistakenly abducted by Callisthenes, thinking she is Leucippe; (b) Cleitophon, pledged to Leucippe, is “courted” by the Ephesian “widow” Melite in Alexandria and marries her after Leucippe “dies” the second and seemingly final time at sea, but does not initially consummate the union. (c) Thersandros (villain) married to Melite, but presumed dead in a shipwreck, “courts” Leucippe, now a slave on his estate, when both he and she separately reappear alive in Ephesus.

(7.) Alvares 2006. There are some inevitable overlaps between his essay and mine, but essentially, we go in quite different directions.

(9.) See Martin 2002, and Zeitlin 1990 and 2012.

(10.) On the Phaedrus in second-century literature, see Trapp 1990 and more specifically, see Hunter 1997, Martin 2002, and Morgan 2004.

(11.) The wily slave, Satyros, also gives timely advice to Cleitophon to further his seduction of Leucippe.

(12.) For Longus, see especially Chalk 1960 on Eros; also Morgan 2004, 8–10 on both divinities. Morgan supports the idea of a higher spiritual level to the story but rightly rejects Merkelbach’s 1988 insistence that D&C “is a cultic text, encoding initiation rituals of the Dionysiac religion.” For Achilles Tatius, see Segal 1984 on the differing roles of Aphrodite and Artemis, and Bouffartigue 2001 on the differences between Aphrodite and Eros in the text; for the parodistic language of the mysteries as a means of seduction, see Zeitlin 2008.

(13.) The couple fall in love in the spring, learn about Eros from Philetas in the autumn. Winter enforces a long separation, broken by a single reunion, but the next spring brings about Daphnis’ education in sex from the city woman, Lycaenion, followed by a second summer, and, coinciding with the vintage of the second autumn, the novel reaches its climax in the final dénouement.

(14.) Note that the primary coup de foudre is not shared by both partners. In both works the visual sight of beauty is the initial stimulus to erotic longing, although the genders are reversed. In Longus, it is Chloe who first feels the pangs of desire for Daphnis when she sees him as he bathes; Cleitophon, on the other hand, is the one smitten with an instant passion in Achilles Tatius at his first glimpse of Leucippe, and who then immediately sets out to woo her.

(15.) See Konstan 1994 on this distinction.

(16.) Morgan 2004, 3.

(17.) Rohde 1914, 549; translated from the German.

(18.) Notably, Euripides’s Iphigenia in Tauris at 8.1–2 and Aristophanes at 8.9.

(19.) For the numerous other references to narrative as muthos in the last book of Achilles Tatius and their import, see Núñez 2008, 331n41.

(20.) See e.g., Briand 2006 for further discussion.

(21.) Brethes 2007.

(22.) Morgan 1996, 179.

(23.) Whitmarsh 2011, 97.

(24.) Whitmarsh 2003, 214.

(25.) Graphê means both “writing” and “painting.”

(26.) Zeitlin 1990, 435.

(27.) Zeitlin 1990, 435–436.

(28.) Zeitlin 2012, 110.

(29.) It was their father who demanded this marriage. Cleitophon had already fallen in love with Leucippe and was faced with a bitter choice between his beloved and the demands of filial piety. Half-siblings of a different mother were allowed to wed.

(30.) Morgan 1996, 186.

(31.) Whitmarsh 2011, 8.

(32.) Notably, Foucault 1988 and Konstan 1994.

(33.) Whitmarsh 2011, 11, and for a convenient discussion of the diverse opinions, see 6–10, as well as introduction in Swain 1999, 12–35.

(34.) Perkins 1995, 54.

(35.) See especially Lalanne 2006 and Bierl 2009.

(36.) See Pecere and Stramaglia 1996, who argue for a “literature of consumption” produced for people sufficiently literate to enjoy entertainment, as quoted in Johnson and Parker 2009, 355.

(37.) E.g., Konstan 1994, 226–229.

(38.) Whitmarsh 2011, 255.

(39.) See most recently, Zeitlin 2016.

(p. 714) Chapter 27

(1.) I have discussed the problematics of the term “ancient novel” in Selden 1994; see further Goldhill 2008; Whitmarsh 2005a. Here, I use the terms “novel” and “romance” interchangeably in the sense of роман as Mikhail Bakhtin defines it in Bakhtin 1975, 408–446 (“Iz predistorii romannogo slova”).

(2.) Anderson 1993, 25.

(3.) See in primis López Martínez 1998.

(4.) Cf. Anderson 1993, 156–170.

(5.) See Shklovskii 1983.

(6.) For a brief overview, see also Whitmarsh 2005b, 86–89.

(8.) On súnkrisis/sunkrίnein, see Focke 1923.

(9.) Philostratus, VS 486–488.

(10.) For a general overview, see Jones 1978.

(11.) See Fein 1994.

(12.) Cohoon and Lamar 1932–1951, 1:2–4. See Moles 1990.

(13.) See Blass, Kühner, and Gerth 1890–1904, 2:264–281.

(15.) Anderson 1993, 51.

(16.) Derrida 1967, 1972.

(17.) Hall 1989, 5. Perhaps an overstatement: consider, in this period alone, Coptic, Hebrew, and Arabic.

(18.) Bologna 1978, 305.

(20.) For a comprehensive overview, see Swain 1998. See also Bowie 1970; Romeo 2002; Whitmarsh 2001a.

(21.) Euripides, IA 1400. See Beekes 2010, 1:408; Chantraine 1968, 1:336–337.

(22.) Aristotle, Pol. 1252b9.

(23.) For an overview, see Christidis 2007, 383–518; Colvin 2007; Horrocks 2014, 7–42; Schmitt 1977.

(24.) See Anson 2009, 10–11.

(25.) See Hall 2005.

(26.) Aristid., Or. 1.15 (Lenz-Behr).

(27.) Aristid., Or. 1.327–328; trans. Anderson 1993, 86, condensed and modified. Cf. Whitmarsh 2004a, 144–146.

(28.) For details regarding Atticism and its place in Imperial Greek culture, see Kim, chapter 4 in this volume.

(29.) See IG2 236.

(30.) Bakhtin 1981, 336, et passim.

(31.) On the accidence and syntax of Greek dialects, see Bonino 1898.

(32.) Ach. 100; see Willi 2004.

(33.) See Ach. 719–954 (Megarian, Boeotian); Lys. 82ff. (Laconian). See Colvin 1995, 1999, 2000.

(34.) Jakobson 1987, 41: “The dominant may be defined as the focusing component of the work of art: it rules, determines, and transforms the remaining components. It is the dominant which guarantees the integrity of the structure.”

(35.) Callim. fr. 203.18 (Pfeiffer).

(p. 715)

(36.) See Hawkins 2012.

(37.) Cf. Acosta-Hughes 2002, 60–103; Hunter 1997; Kerkhecker 1999, 250–270; Selden 1998.

(38.) See Carney 2013, 100–101. See Gow 1952, 2:290 on πλατειάσδοισαι.

(39.) On Hellenistic Doric, see Horrocks 2014, 87–89.

(40.) Bakhtin 1986, 60–102.

(41.) Carey 1986; Hawkins 2008. Cf. Anth. Pal. 7.351.

(43.) See West 1967.

(44.) Cf. Hes., Cat. fr. 4; Hdt. 1.6.

(45.) Asper 2011.

(47.) On the invention of “Greece,” see Whitmarsh 2004a, 161–176.

(48.) Pace Whitmarsh 2004a, 106–158.

(49.) On metalepsis in classical literature, see Eisen and von Möllendorff 2013.

(50.) On Dio’s displaced politics, see Salmeri 2000. See also Pernot 1997.

(51.) Canfora 2013.

(52.) Freud 1915 and 1919. Cf. Billig 1999; Bloom 1980.

(53.) So Aelius Aristides Keil 2, 99. At its height, the Haxāmanišiyan Empire covered 3.08 million square miles.

(55.) On the various recensions of the Alexander Romance, see Jouanno 2002; Merkelbach 1977.

(56.) See Manetho, fr. 74 (Waddell).

(57.) Cf. Pyramid Texts, Utterance 220: jw=f ḫr=t_ wr.t ḥkȝ.w.

(58.) See Assmann 2006.

(59.) See Karenga 2004

(60.) See Ritner 1997; cf. Meyer and Mirecki 1995, 29–60.

(61.) Coffin Texts, Spell 261. Abridged.

(62.) Parker 2005, 122.

(63.) See Selden 1994. Cf. Stephens 2003. Within Egypt, it is not possible to correlate ethnicity with language use; see Goudriaan 1988. In fact, just as Hellenes accepted as Greek anyone who could speak Greek and adopted Greek customs, so too the Egyptians counted as Egyptian anyone who could speak their language and adopted Egyptian customs.

(64.) On classical Greek views of Egyptians, see Froidefond 1971; Vasunia 2001.

(65.) Stoneman 2007, 124–126.

(66.) See Whitmarsh 2001a; the viewpoint goes back to the early Ptolemaic period—see Thalmann 2011, 53–75.

(67.) It is possible that the entire passage comes from a demotic Egyptian source; see Jasnow 1997. Cf. Rutherford 1997.

(68.) See Riggs 2012, 493–596.

(69.) See, for example, Selden 2014a, 2014b.

(71.) See Dieleman 2005; Riggs 2012, 493–596.

(72.) Whitmarsh 2005b, 43.

(73.) Bubenik 2007, 633.

(p. 716)

(77.) For example, the Egyptian doctrine of Kȝ-mw.t=f; see Redford 2002, s.v. Kamutef; Brunner 1986.

(78.) See Hunter 1996a, 167–195.

(79.) Cf. Selden 2010a.

(80.) Whitmarsh 2005b, 43.

(81.) See Johnson 1992.

(83.) For a concise overview, see Torallas Tovar 2010. See also the other papers in Papaconstantinou 2010.

(84.) Jasnow 1997.

(86.) See Hoffmeier 1999, 199–222.

(87.) See Bohak 2008.

(88.) See Layton 1987; Segal 2002.

(89.) Bakhtin 1986, 60–102.

(90.) See Stephens 2003, 64–73.

(91.) On this theme in general, see Doniger 2000. On Indo-European notions of fatherhood vs. paternity, see Benveniste 1969, 1:205.

(92.) Anderson 1993, 53: “Alexander is a symbolic figure for the Sophistic.”

(93.) See Bourdieu 1983.

(94.) Stoneman 2007, 303–307.

(95.) Aristid. Or. 1.9 (Lenz-Behr).

(96.) Thiel 1974, 40

(97.) Plut. Vit. Caes. 61.

(98.) See Selden 2012, 31–32. Cf. Whitmarsh 2010.

(99.) See Dem. Olynthiacs 3.24, which characterizes Macedonians as barbaroi.

(100.) Stoneman 2007, 144–146.

(101.) Cf. Deleuze 1968.

(102.) On “representational space,” see Lefebvre 1974.

(103.) Text: Braccini 2004.

(104.) The translation of the choliambs, much condensed, follows Stoneman 1991, 81–82.

(105.) For the rationale of saving Pindar, see Dio 2.33.

(106.) Cf. Od. book 9.

(108.) Zeitlin 1992, 144–145.

(109.) Cf. Freud 1914.

(110.) See Demand 1983.

(112.) See, for example, Philostr. VS 488 on Dio of Prusa.

(113.) E.g., eklόkheuma, apokuéō, neognόs, tephrόō.

(114.) Anderson 1993, 55–68.

(115.) See Bakhtin 1975, 447–483 (“Ĕpos i roman”).

(116.) Bakhtin 1975, 408–446 (“Iz predistorii romannogo slova”).

(117.) Cf. Rochette 1997.

(119.) See Bakhtin 1975, 72–233 (“Slovo v romane”).

(120.) Bakhtin 1981, 270–272.

(p. 717)

(121.) See Swain 1998.

(122.) Perry 1964, 70.

(123.) Austin 1975.

(124.) Valesio 1980, 59–60.

(125.) Demetr. Eloc. 103, 264; Plut. Quaest. Plat. 1009e; Hermog. Id. 2.7; Lausberg 1998, §887–889.

(126.) See Gleason 1995.

(127.) On Hadrian’s relationship to the Second Sophistic, see Whitmarsh 2004b.

(128.) See Men. Rhet. §368–377.30 (ed. Russell and Wilson); Lib., Oratio 59.

(129.) See, for example, Cass. Dio, Roman History 68.4

(130.) Cf. Proverbs 27:1: Μὴ καυχῶ τὰ εἰςαὔριον, οὐ γὰργινώσκειςτί τέξεται ἡ ἐπιοῦσα.

(131.) Perry 1964, 108–160; Cf. Heide 2014.

(132.) Cf. Qoheleth 3:1–9: Letter of Aristeas 187ff. Lambert 1960; Simpson 2003, 125–243.

(133.) See Papademetriou 1978.

(134.) See Gains 1974; Mason 1994.

(135.) Text: Burchard 2003.

(136.) Philonenko 1968, 1–52; for dating, see Kraemer 1998.

(138.) See Kraemer 2008.

(139.) Ward 1982, no. 850.

(140.) The elder son died earlier in the course of trying to rape Aseneth.

(141.) Iser 1976. Genesis 41:45: καὶ ἐκάλεσενΦαραωτὸ ὄνομαΙωσηφΨονθομφανηχ· καὶ ἔδωκεναὐτῷ τὴνΑσεννεθθυγατέραΠετεφρη ἱερέως Ἡλίουπόλεωςαὐτῷ γυναῖκα.

(142.) Fried 2011.

(143.) Weber 1956, 2/2: 300.

(146.) Cavafy 1990, 35; translation: Dalven 1959, 19.

(148.) See Selden 1998.

(149.) Wyrick 2005.

Chapter 28

(1.) It might go back to the sophist Hippias, who wrote a work entitled Συναγωγή (DK 86B6), probably a kind of miscellany or anthology (also characterized as an “encyclopaedia”: see K. A. Morgan 2004, 95–96.

(2.) Frs. 32–93 Barigazzi.

(3.) Philostr. VS 1.489–492 (Favorinus); 2.624–625 (Aelian).

(5.) Fr. 179 Sandbach. The work is considered spurious.

(6.) NA pref. 6–10. See Holford-Strevens 2003, 30–47; Vardi 2004, 159–165.

(7.) Vardi 2004, 179–186.

(8.) Jacob 2001 and 2013, 31–39, 95–107; Lukinovich and Morand 2004, xxi–xxv; Wilkins 2000.

(p. 718)

(9.) Mittell 2001, 7.

(10.) On the reading culture of the high Roman Empire, see Johnson 2010.

(12.) Gellius’s Attic Nights is the only miscellany that includes a table of contents (see pref. 25). Cf. Doody 2010, 1–10, 92–131, on Pliny the Elder.

(13.) Phot. Bibl. Cod. 175, 119b, ll. 31–33.

(14.) Smith 2014, 47–66.

(15.) Lennox 2010; Louis 1964, xx–xxxiii.

(16.) On Pliny’s structure, see Murphy 2004, 29–48. On the not so clear-cut boundaries between miscellanies and encyclopedias, see König and Woolf 2013, 52–58.

(17.) VS 1.496, 528; 2.573, 590.

(18.) Fairweather 1981, 125–126.

(19.) 1. pref. 1.

(20.) All translations from ancient texts in this chapter are my own, but the Loeb translations were consulted throughout. On Gellius’s preface, see Holford-Strevens 2003, 30–36; Vardi 2004, 165–179.

(21.) On the different roles assumed by “Plutarch” (the narrator) within the Quaest. conv., see König 2011.

(22.) Heusch 2011, 49–301; Jacob 2000 and 2013, 75–83; Johnson 2010, 118–120; König 2012, 30–120; Oikonomopoulou 2011; Too 2000.

(23.) See Deip. 10.411b and 10.459c, with the notes in Olson (2006–2012), respectively.

(24.) Lukinovich 1990. On the (tense) relationship between food and conversation within the work, see Romeri 2000 and 2002, 253–290.

(25.) Maisonneuve 2007, 402–403.

(26.) On the work’s narrative structure, see Jacob 2013, 9–12, 27–30; Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 2000.

(27.) Jacob 2000 and 2013, 55–69; Too 2000.

(28.) Romeri 2000 and 2002, 253–290.

(29.) Jacob 2000 and 2013, 71–83; Thompson 2000.

(30.) Cf. Quaest. conv. 5.7, 680C–D.

(31.) See Quaest. conv. 8.10, 734C–E, and Oikonomopoulou 2011, 108–112.

(32.) Cf. Quaest. conv. 5.3, 676C–F. See Eshleman 2013; Frazier 2000; Horster 2008.

(33.) Vardi 2001.

(34.) NA pref. 11. See also 9.4, 14.6.

(35.) Beall 2004, 214–215; Heusch 2011, 372–373; Keulen 2004, 236–239.

(36.) Beall 2004, 206–215.

(37.) Holford-Strevens 2003, 36–47.

(38.) Smith 2014, 11–13.

(39.) Smith 2014, 13–16.

(40.) 3.83b (Juba); 7.324b (Archestratus of Gela); 3.126b (Nicander of Colophon); 13.565a (Chrysippus); 9.398e, 11.505c, 15.692b, 15.696a (Aristotle).

(41.) See, e.g., Gellius, 11.17, and also Johnson 2009 and 2010, 120–130, on social occasions where the reading of texts takes place in Gellius.

(42.) Smith 2014. Cf. Murphy 2004, 6–11.

(43.) On Roman imperial cosmopolitanism, see Edwards and Woolf 2003; Richter 2011, 7–9, 135–206.

(44.) König 2012, 26–27.

(p. 719)

(45.) See König 2012, 103–119, and also 52–59 (on the Bakhtinian concept of polyphony, and its applicability to the texts of Plutarch and, especially, Athenaeus). See also Oikonomopoulou 2013b.

(46.) Smith 2014, 67–99.

(47.) See note 2 above. Also, Holford-Strevens 2003, 98–130 (on the role of Favorinus in the Attic Nights).

(48.) Cf. Meier 2004.

Chapter 29

(1.) Cameron 2004, 27–32 contains a relatively full list of systematic mythographical works from the early imperial period.

(2.) For the text see the recent editions of Cuartero I Iborra 2010–2012 and Papathomopoulos 2010 (the latter not, however, rendering Wagner 1926 obsolete).

(3.) The closest example is Hyginus, whose first-century ceFabulae as we currently possess them are a rather degraded and incomplete reworking of an original collection called the Genealogiae made at least two centuries later. There is no indication, however, despite his title, that Hyginus produced as complete or as coherently connected a mythical narrative as that which we find in the Bibliotheca. Though a Latin work, the Fabulae will occasionally be adduced in the following discussion as an example of “typical” mythography.

(4.) This is the widely accepted date for the allegorist, but it is by no means secure.

(5.) In the same way I would normally suppress the fact that I used Google to remind myself of the date of Dio’s Olympicus.

Chapter 30

(1.) This chapter does not distinguish between more “philosophical” strains of rhetoric (like Plutarch and Dio) and those of sophists like Lucian and Aristides, a distinction that may be meaningful in other contexts. My focus, as will become clear, is on texts that announce themselves as part of the historical, truth-telling tradition as opposed to those that do not.

(2.) In Bowie 1974, which continues to be the main starting-point for discussing this body of literature.

(4.) Declamation was not precisely a “background” to written texts except in the sense that it would have been part of each sophists’ pedagogical training; the writings of Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch, Lucian, and Aristides, for example, seem to present a mixture of speeches that were performed and those that were not, but we cannot even be sure that any “performance” text we possess was delivered in the form in which we have received it (Russell 1983, 15).

(5.) I further explain my use of the word “hybrid” in section 30.2, “Greek”/“Roman,” below.

(6.) What Bubenik (2007, 345) calls the final stage in the development of koinê: the “nativized.”

(7.) A variety of other figures who write in Greek could also fit into this broader defnition of Second Sophistic: for example, Galen, who rejects Greek while wanting to show competence in it (Swain 1996, 60), and the Flavian Josephus, whose Atticism has long been recognized (Mason 2005, 75–76; see also Redondo 2000), and who has been included in Second Sophistic scholarship, e.g., Gleason 2001. Then there are native Italian writers like Aelian and the lost Asinius Quadratus (BNJ 97), who write in Attic Greek.

(8.) According to Aulus Gellius NA 5.18, Verrius Flaccus thought that ἱστορία in Greek referred to knowledge of current events (and thus was to be distinguished from annales), which suited Cassius Dio and Herodian at any rate.

(9.) ἱστορία: App. Preface 1; Cass. Dio 37.17; Herodian 1.1.3. συγγράφω and συγγραφή: Arr. Anab. Preface infra; Indika 17 (with additional references to the Alexander-history as συγγραφή at Indika 19, 21, 23, 26 and 40); Cass. Dio Preface. Arrian’s other main model, Xenophon, uses neither ἱστορία nor συγγραφή to describe his own work.

(10.) Schmitz 2011, 305–306 notes the proliferation of inscriptions and coins that celebrated men of the elite explicitly as sophistai and rhetores, and sarcophogi emphasizing their paideia, as well as Atticist lexica and rhetorical handbooks that “demonstrate the growing pressure for all members of the upper classes to acquire and display competence in linguistic classicism.” See also Borg 2004.

(11.) Momigliano 1978, 1. See especially Woodman 1988, 70–116 for Cicero’s theory on historiography and its subsumption into rhetoric. This need not imply a lack of regard for truth, however: as Laird 2009, 199–200 points out, Cicero says in De Legibus 1.5 that in history “everything is directed towards truth” (ad veritatem <omnia> referantur).

(12.) A historiography “modeled after Newtonian physics, mechanistic, deterministic, prognostic, and deduced from the laws of human nature,” which was further claimed by “scientistic strands of Marxism . . . claiming that Marx was the Newton of historiography, who founded a deterministic prognostic science of historiography deducible from the economic laws of dialectical materialism” (Tucker 2004, 210–211).

(13.) Pioneered by Hayden White in the early 1970s. For a recent assessment of White’s thought and impact see Doran 2013.

(14.) Ameling 1997, 2476; Momigliano 1978, 9.

(15.) Murray 1897, 186.

(16.) For Thucydides’s use in imperial rhetorical education, see Iglesias-Zoido 2012.

(17.) For another interpretation of the Abdera scene, see Möllendorff 2001.

(18.) For discussion on the possible existence or nonexistence of each named author, see now the commentaries on Antiochianos (BNJ 207), Crepereius Calpurnianus (BNJ 208), Demetrios of Sagalassos (BNJ 209), and Kallimorphos (BNJ 210).

(19.) On Lucian’s parody of the “rhetoric of numbers,” see Greenwood 2006, 121–124 with discussion of Catherine Rubincam’s fundamental work on the rhetoric of numbers in antiquity (1979; 1991; 2003).

(20.) Translations of Lucian, Arrian, Appian, Cassius Dio, and Herodian are modified from Loeb.

(21.) Appian does not connect truthfulness and rhetoric in an explicit way. In Preface 12 he creates an impression of truthfulness through labor, explaining the way he worked on different “national” stories before bringing it all together: “Being interested in it, and desiring to compare the Roman prowess carefully with that of every other nation, my history has often led me from Carthage to Spain . . . at last I have brought the parts together.” But certainly a rhetorical force is contained in the overall structure of the preface, which over the course of eight Loeb pages’ worth of Greek overwhelms the reader with a “mini-periegesis” (Woolf 2011, 97) of the Mediterranean and the history of Rome’s conquests.

(22.) On Herodian and Thucydides, see Stein 1957.

(p. 721)

(23.) This is also reflected literally in Lucian’s final image of the Pharos lighthouse, whose architect wrote his name on the base, covered it with gypsum on which the name of the reigning king was inscribed, and only later gained fame when water washed away the king’s name to reveal his own.

(24.) Price 2015 highlights Appian’s truth-claim about the Roman empire: it was uniquely able to overcome the stasis that normally destroyed a state.

(25.) Josephus (J.A. 1 pr.) is more explicit than our Antonine and Severan authors on the importance of truth-telling to historiography. He gives four reasons that people undertake history-writing. Some wish to show their rhetorical skill; others wish top gratify those about whom they are writing; Josephus counts himself among the third and fourth types who are driven to write history out of concern for the facts and for the sake of bringing such facts out into the open for the purpose of public edification. (Noted by Price 2015, 45 in connection with Appian.)

(26.) Habinek 2005, 50, for example, stresses the “limitless possibilities of language” found in handbook treatments of rhetorical style.

(27.) “It is not that the rhetorician has carte blanche to lie. Rather, society grants him a licence to create. The truth he speaks is not the truth of empirical science but the truth of art. His goal is not to reflect but to create, and to create something socially significant” (Habinek 2005, 53).

(28.) Also, our historians’ chariness concerning their future reputations has not been wholly justified by their fates: the Byzantines, for example, saw Polybius and Herodian as their models, not Thucydides, and Arrian is still considered the most reliable of the Alexander-historians.

(29.) Whitmarsh 2007, 29–30.

(30.) Mehl 2001.

(31.) See Eshleman 2008.

(32.) Acknowledging that there is no stable definition or way to characterize this “movement” of the Second Sophistic, Schmitz 2011, 305 provides the following limiting definition of the Second Sophistic as “a cultural movement that gained particular prominence in the second and third centuries ad, and that was characterized by linguistic classicism, improvised declamations on historical and judicial topics, and professional performers who would often come from the highest echelons of society in the eastern half of the Roman Empire.”

(33.) Swain 1996, 33–42; the subtitle of Whitmarsh’s 2001 monograph Greek Literature and Roman Empire.

(34.) Lost are a History of Affairs after Alexander, a History of Parthia, and a History of Bithynia. Lucian also mocks Arrian for writing a biography of the brigand Tillobarus, but this may refer to something contained in the Bithynica itself. See J. Radicke’s commentary on FGrH 1069 F 52 (Lucian, Alexander 2).

(35.) Bosworth 1993, 272.

(36.) Bosworth 1980, 35–36. For Thucydides’s influence in Arrian, see Tonnet 1988; for Herodotus’s, see Grundmann 1885.

(37.) Bosworth 1993, 226.

(38.) See especially Stadter 1981.

(39.) For the reception of Homer in the Second Sophistic, see Kim 2010.

(40.) Bosworth 1980, 25.

(p. 722)

(41.) Note that the distinction between an “Ionic” Indika and an “Attic” Anabasis, which itself shows a heavy Ionic strain, can be overplayed (see, for example, Brunt 1976, xiv).

(42.) This can go beyond literary references: see Müller 2014 on Arrian’s eagerness to show his knowledge of Greek visual arts in the Periplus and the Anabasis.

(43.) As I have argued elsewhere, e.g., in Asirvatham 2005 and 2008, 113–114. By “Roman interest” I am referring to the imitatio Alexandri of Roman strongmen, not Latin writers, who were largely negative toward Alexander (see especially Spencer 2009).

(44.) Leon-Ruíz 2012, 179. Bosworth 1980, 8–11 argues for an early date based on Arrian’s apparent unfamiliarity in the Anabasis with, for example, Cappadocia (where he was legate in 131/132), with which he shows familiarity elsewhere. For partial support of Bosworth’s evidence and a dating in around the 120s, as well as a general discussion of the problem of dating the Anabasis, see Leon 2012, appendix 1. Appian’s borrowings from Arrian have been used to help date the latter, but as Brodersen 1988, 461 notes, we do not need Appian for Arrian’s dating.

(46.) Brunt 1976, ix.

(47.) Bucher 2000 is excellent on the program and structure of Appian’s work. The structure appears to have been as follows: the initial preface and book 1 deal with the Roman era of the kings, after which there are twenty-three books, each dealing with a chapter of Rome’s conquest of the known world (book 2: central Italy; book 3: Samnites; book 4: Gauls; book 5: Sicilians; book 6: Iberians; book 7: Hannibal (Second Punic War); book 8: Carthaginians, with an appendix on the Numidians; book 9: Macedonians, with an appendix on the Illyrians; book 10; Greece and Ionia; book 11: Seleucids, with an appendix on the Parthian Wars; book 12: Mithridates; books 13–17: Civil Wars; books 18–21: Egyptian Wars). Photius calls book 22 “the hundred years”; book 23 the Dacian book, and book 24 the Arabian book, with the implication that the last two were about Trajan. We have books 1–5 only in fragmentary form, and 18–24 are lost; extant are the preface, books 6–9 (without the book 8 appendix on the Numidians; book 9 on the Macedonians is fragmentary), and books 11–17 (without the book 11 appendix on the Parthians, which may have been unfinished).

(48.) Most have at any rate affirmed some degree of borrowing from Arrian (see, e.g., Brodersen 1988; Reuss, 1899).

(49.) Strebel 1935; see also Pitcher 2011, 759–760.

(50.) Woolf 2011, 95–98.

(51.) Gowing 1992, 279.

(52.) Bucher 2000 argues that Appian was writing for an Alexandrian audience who knew little of Roman history, which explains his penchant for treating Roman customs as foreign ones.

(53.) Hering 1935. Norden (1898) does not include Appian in the category of “free” Atticism alongside Arrian and Cassius Dio (1:344–407); the alternative category is “strict” Atticism, which belongs to writers like Aristides; for the Latin/Greek bilingualism of Appian and other sophists, see 1:363.

(54.) Richter 2011, 148–151. On Syrians and Rome in general, see Andrade 2013.

(55.) The evidence suggests that he wrote his work under Antoninus Pius (138–161) and Marcus Aurelius (161–180). Fronto’s letter to Antoninus Pius recommending Appian for a procuratorship provides the terminus post quem, since Appian mentions it in his preface. Appian states in book 13.38 (the first book of the Civil Wars) that Hadrian’s policy of having some parts of Italy ruled by a proconsul did not last long, but he does not mention that it was reinstated by Marcus Aurelius, which means he wrote this section in 166 at the latest). See Bucher 2000, 415–416.

(56.) The distinction between Antonine (avoiding contemporary history) and Severan historiography has been argued most strongly by Kemezis 2010.

(57.) Millar 1964, 39–40.

(58.) For a survey of Severan literature, see Whitmarsh 2007.

(59.) Bibliotheca 71. On the influence of Thucydides on Dio, see Litsch 1893 and Kyhnitzsch 1894.

(60.) More Roman than Greek: Gabba 1959, 378; (more subtly) Kemezis 2014, 27–28; Palm 1959, 81–82. Culturally Greek, politically Roman: Millar 1964, 191; Swain 1996, 404–405.

(61.) Kemezis 2014, 18.

(62.) Cass. Dio Roman History 55.12.

(63.) Cass. Dio Roman History 72.35.

(64.) This is not to say that these comments do not reflect the reality of the emperors’ educations; the contrast I am interested in between Cassius Dio and writers like Plutarch and Dio Chrysostom, for whom paideia is definitively Greek, and who only on the basis of its Greekness appreciate an emperor’s paideia.

(65.) Philostratus said that Aelian spoke Attic like a native: VS 2.31.

(66.) Initially by Alföldy 1971a, 430; also Kolb 1972, 161. Cf. Bowersock 1975, who describes Herodian’s treatment of Elagabalus as more sober than Dio’s.

(67.) On the relationship between encomium and Herodian (and others before him), see Zimmerman 1999.

Chapter 32

(1.) I am grateful to Aldo Tagliabue for helpful comments on a draft of this chapter.

(2.) See Casevitz 2002, 248: epistolography in the second century ce has become “un genre à la mode.” More specifically, Schmitz 2004, 87: “Fictional letters were one of the favorite genres of the first centuries ce; about thirty such collections have been transmitted to us.” Cf. Rosenmeyer 2006, 7, 29–30. Hercher’s huge edition (1873) contains most Greek letters surviving by literary transmission from all of antiquity.

(3.) On M. Aurelius’s correspondence with Fronto, see chapter 16 in this volume.

(4.) See Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013, 1–3 on the history and reasons for this.

(5.) Holzberg 1994b, 51; cf. Hodkinson 2012, 51–53 for a further example (Alciphron).

(6.) Holzberg 1994a; Rosenmeyer 1994; 2001, 234–252. On letters as/and biography, see Trapp 2006; Gibson 2012, 2013, with note 46 below; on letter collections as narratives or epistolary novels, Morrison 2014.

(8.) See Hodkinson 2007a, 283–288; Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013, 27–30.

(9.) See, e.g., Smith 1990, 35–41 in detail on the transmission of [Hippocrates’s] Epp. through epistolary collections as well as attached to the Hippocratic corpus from at least the first century ce.

(10.) On the Latin (and some Greek) letters between Fronto and M. Aurelius, see chapter 16 in this volume.

(11.) For a survey of Greek and Latin epistolography on erotic themes, including some comparison between the two traditions, see now Hodkinson 2014.

(p. 724)

(12.) On the Heroides in connection with Greek (but not Second Sophistic) epistolography, see Rosenmeyer 1996; in general, see especially Lindheim 2003; Rosenmeyer 1997; Spentzou 2003.

(13.) On these aspects of Pliny’s letters, see especially Marchesi 2008; Gibson and Morello 2012.

(14.) On “letter books” as units of composition as opposed to the usual, indiscriminately applied “collections,” see Hodkinson 2007a, 283–288.

(15.) On this question in general, see Rochette 1997, arguing very plausibly for more influence of Latin on Greek authors than is usually accepted. When it comes to the late antique (fifth century ce?) fictional epistolographer Aristaenetus, scholars are more ready to see allusions to Ovid: see Drago 2007, 36–77 and index locorum for passages of Ovid discussed in commentary. There is a slowly growing trend in scholarship on imperial Greek literature to be more willing to see Greek authors alluding to Roman ones (a very convincing case is Hubbard 2011), but this has yet to be explored in any detail in relation to Greek epistolary literature of the Second Sophistic.

(17.) Cf. Alciphron 3.24.2, 2.34.1, with Schmitz 2004, 98–101 for (somewhat less overt) self-consciousness, including about the “surprisingly” good Attic of his lowly characters. On Aelian’s Atticism, see Schmid 1887–1897, vol. 3.

(18.) Summarized by Hunter 1983, 6–15; Anderson 1997, 2194–2199; the most recent contribution to the debate, Drago 2013b, is more cautious on the connections between Ael. and Alciphr.

(19.) See Benner and Fobes 1949, 344–345.

(20.) Hodkinson 2013a; Smith 2014 (still arguing for an early date, but not thereby dismissing the Epp.).

(21.) Anderson 1997, 2203 describes Alciphron’s Epp. as “miniature meletai”; cf. Schmitz 2004, 90–91; Malosse 2005; see now Ureña Bracero 2013 and Vox 2013b.

(22.) Schmitz 2004, 90; cf. 98–104 on their self-consciousness.

(24.) See Whitmarsh 2005, 54–56, 87–89.

(25.) See Schmitz 2004, 89–93, 100–102 for Atticism and the classical period; Biraud 2010, Hodkinson 2012 on pastoral; cf. Drago 2013a on pastoral in Aelian. Note here also another common tendency of the Second Sophistic employed by both Alciphron and Aelian: turning poetic genres to prose forms. Benner and Fobes’s (1949) notes on the texts of Alciphron and Aelian throughout indicate metrical clausulae which might indicate lines appropriated from New Comedy, but also are a feature of artistic prose in the Second Sophistic; cf. in general Norden 1898; Biraud 2010, 2012 for a new approach to Alciphron’s “prose poems” using stress accent instead of quantity-based rhythms.

(27.) See Thyresson 1964 on the source; Hodkinson 2007a, 293–297 on the particularly epistolary adaptation. On New Comedy in imperial Greek epistolography, see now Drago 2014, and Funke 2016, Marshall 2016.

(28.) Hodkinson 2012, 51–52. The order of letters and arrangement into books is not certainly by Alciphron, but both have their logic (see Schmitz 2004, 88–89; Hodkinson 2012, n.49); Epp. 4.18–19 anyway stand out in length compared to the remainder.

(29.) See Schmitz 2004, 89.

(30.) See McClure’s (2003) study of Athenaeus 13, with her index, s.v. Alciphron, for extensive points of comparison between the two.

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(31.) Rosenmeyer 2001, 298–307.

(32.) On Philostratus’s major works, see chapter 18 in this volume.

(33.) E.g., Anderson 1986, 273–277; Goldhill 2009. On Philostratus’s Atticism, see Schmid 1887–1897, vol. 4.

(34.) See Jones 2006, 2–7 and in more detail Penella 1979a, 23–29.

(35.) 2006, 3–4.

(36.) See note 34 above.

(37.) See Kasprzyk 2013 for a detailed study.

(38.) There is however little evidence for her “circle”; for the arguments cf. Bowersock 1969, 101–109.

(39.) See Penella 1979b on Ep. 73; Hodkinson 2011, 110–111 compares its strategy for validating Philostratus’s new sophistic with that of Heroicus and Vitae Sophistarum. Cf. Miles 2004 on the continued presence of figures from the past in Epp. 66, 72, 73.

(40.) As a collection of ornate literary miniatures, they can be compared with the same author’s Imagines.

(41.) See Anderson 1986, 274–277; Rosenmeyer 2001, 322–338; Gallé Cejudo 2013, Goldhill 2009 for general studies.

(42.) See Hodkinson 2014, 469–470.

(43.) See Walker 1992.

(44.) Benner and Fobes 1949, 393; cf. Rosenmeyer 2001, 332–333; Goldhill 2009, 295–296; and see now Gallé Cejudo 2013.

(45.) See Hodkinson 2014.

(46.) On these impulses to epistolography in general, Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013, 3–10. On the Paul-Seneca correspondence, probably fourth century ce, Kurfess 1965. Gibson 2012 and 2013 show that far more work is needed on the arrangement of ancient letter collections (not least in Greek), and that assumptions about biographical narrative as their main purpose are not always supported by the nonchronological order in which many evidently circulated in antiquity.

(47.) Reference to several discussions of this dating conveniently collected at Hodkinson 2013b, 323n1.

(48.) Düring 1951, 22–24.

(49.) Capelle 1896, 51–54.

(50.) Gösswein 1975, 29.

(51.) Russell 1988, 96–97: from second century Byzantium.

(52.) Köhler 1928, 5: Epp. 8–35, i.e., not those (1–7) attributed to Socrates.

(53.) Penwill 1978. For letters attributed to Epicurus, not discussed here, see chapter 34 in this volume, and Gordon 2013.

(54.) See, e.g., Poltera 2013 on Euripides and Costa’s commentary (2001) on Chion for engagement with the “Platonic” epistles in those texts; Morrison 2013 on the Platonic epistles themselves.

(55.) Goldstein 1968, 78; 265–266.

(56.) See Hanink 2010 on Euripides.

(57.) See Hodkinson 2007a, 283–288 for summary of the tradition.

(58.) See above, note 14.

(59.) Penwill 1978 argues well that this text deserves the label, although it forms two parallel narratives rather than a single one.

(60.) Holzberg 1994a; cf. Rosenmeyer 1994 and 2001, 234–252, focusing on Chion; Konstan and Mitsis 1990.

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(61.) See notes 47–53 above for references on epistolographers’ dates.

(62.) Reardon 1989.

(63.) Morales 2011.

(64.) I discuss these aspects of Themistocles in a collection of studies of (other) ancient novels: Hodkinson 2007b.

(65.) See Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013, 18–20; Whitmarsh 2013a, 169–170, 176; references at note 23 above.

(66.) See Harrison 1998, esp. 61–64; Bowie forthcoming.

(67.) Morgan 2013 (Phlegon), especially 314–319 on connections with the Greek novel; Hodkinson 2013b (Aeschines), especially 337–344 on connections with the Greek novel.

(68.) As I argue at Hodkinson 2013b, 339–340.

(69.) As argued in detail and very convincingly by Morgan 2013, 315–317.

(70.) Létoublon 2003, Robiano 2007, Repath 2013, and Rosenmeyer 2001, 133–168 and 1994.

(71.) See above on V A. Rosenmeyer 2001, 169–192; Whitmarsh 2013a and 2013b on the Alexander Romance’s letters.

(72.) On letters in Josephus, see Olson 2010 and 2013.

(73.) On this letter, see Bär 2013, Ní Mheallaigh 2008, and Rosenmeyer 2013, 66–68.

(74.) See Bowie 2013, 71–72; Ceccarelli 2013, 183–264; Rosenmeyer 2001, 39–44 and 61–97; Rosenmeyer 2013.

(75.) See Bowie 2013; Gera 2013; Ceccarelli 2013, 101–180; Rosenmeyer 2001, 45–60.

(76.) See Ní Mheallaigh 2012 and especially Ní Mheallaigh 2008 on the authenticating functions of the letters in Dictys Cretensis and Antonius Diogenes; also Merkle 1994 and 1996 on Dictys and Dares, Morgan 1985 and 2009 on Antonius Diogenes. Summary of Antonius Diogenes in Reardon 1989.

Chapter 33

(1.) On the association between rhetoric and sorcery, see also Gorgias fr. 11.10 DK, Whitmarsh 2001, 241–242.

(2.) For an introduction to Seneca’s philosophical writings, cf. Inwood 2005; to Musonius, Rufus, cf. Van Geytenbeek 1963; and to Marcus Aurelius, cf. Hadot 1998 and Van Ackeren 2012. For Epictetus, see below.

(3.) Hence my approach here differs from that of Whitmarsh 2001, esp. 141–180 and chap. 4, which focuses on the similarities.

(4.) This chapter is partly based on an earlier publication, Reydams-Schils 2011.

(5.) For a general overview of Epictetus’s teachings, see Bonhöffer 1890, 1894; Hadot 1998; Long 2002.

(6.) As in Epictetus Diss. 4.1.132–143, 4.5.37, 4.12.12; cf. also 1.29.34–35, 2.9.15–16, 2.10.29–30, 2.16.2, 3.3.17, 3.20.18. On this topic, cf. the excellent analysis by Colardeau 2004 (reprint of 1903), 165–195 and Bénatouïl 2009, 134–155.

(7.) As in Diss. 1.16.20, 1.2.35, 3.1.36, 3.7.1, 3.8.7; on this aspect of Epictetus, cf. Long 2002, 121–125 and Bénatouïl 2009, especially 134–155.

(8.) Or. 1.50; 61–62; 3.13–16; 12 (see below); 13; 19.1–2; 45.1; 50.8. Some sources claim that Dio wore a lion skin, like Heracles; Phot. Bibl. cod. 209, followed by Sudas s.v.

(9.) On this topic, see Schofield 2007, 71–86, pace Billerbeck 1978.

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(10.) As in Epictetus Diss. 3.12.16, 3.14.4, 3.23, 4.8.15–16, 4.11; cf. also Musonius Rufus 16 Lutz/Hense. Epicurus shared this criticism, cf. GVE 54.

(11.) Cf. Hahn 1989 and Zanker 1995; on Dio specifically, cf. Nesselrath 2009.

(12.) Cf. also Diss. 3.21.22, 24.80, 26.13; Plutarch also uses this topos, as in De prof. virt. 80e–81d, but he focuses on the need to combat pride.

(13.) In the conflict with Suillius Rufus, cf. Tac. Ann. 13.42–43, 14.52; Cass. Dio 61.10.1–6, 62.2.1.

(14.) Cf. Frede 1997.

(15.) On the contrast between Epictetus and Dio, cf. also Long 2002, 121–125. One could also examine more closely in this context Apuleius and Maximus of Tyre. On this topic, see Trapp 2007.

(16.) Cf. Rutherford 1989, 181–188.

Chapter 35

(1.) The details of Philo’s philosophical development are complex and controversial; but this much would be generally agreed. See Brittain 2001, Lévy 2010.

(2.) The thought of Antiochus, too, is difficult to interpret beyond this very general level; for a variety of perspectives, see Sedley 2012.

(3.) See Hankinson 2010, Schofield 2007, and, in opposition to these on a number of points, Bett 2000, chap. 4. Again, there is general agreement on this basic description, but considerable disagreement on the specifics.

(4.) Swain 1997, 178–179.

(5.) For details, and defense of both the text and Gellius’s credibility, see Holford-Strevens 1997, 213n96.

(7.) I have discussed this in Bett 2013.

(8.) See Fish 2011 for a valuable corrective.

(9.) See Smith 1993; for the reference to his age, see 150, 368.

(10.) House 1980, 238. See also Floridi 2002, 3–7.

(11.) David Sedley has argued that this is a much broader phenomenon; see Sedley 2003. He cites several other authors besides Sextus—Diogenes Laertius, Seneca, Plutarch, Diogenes of Oenoanda, and Philodemus—who also treat the history of philosophy as ending in the early first century bce, and he connects this with the demise of Athens as the center of philosophy, and the related dispersal of school libraries to other parts of the Greco-Roman world. After this, he argues, philosophy—at least, as viewed by its practitioners at the time—becomes largely a matter of “recovering and understanding the wisdom of the ancients” (36). While I find Sedley’s argument generally cogent, I do not think it sufficient to explain Sextus’s silence about his own time. For Pyrrhonism, as Sedley himself notes, was never an Athenian school; besides, whatever may be true of the other authors Sedley cites, Sextus clearly saw himself as a participant in an ongoing philosophy, which was a rival to other philosophies, rather than as a preserver of ancient wisdom. While the character of his summaries of the views of other schools may very well be due to the phenomenon to which Sedley draws attention—he is drawing on sources that themselves treat those schools as not continuing to innovate beyond the early first century bce—this does not eliminate the mystery of his apparent lack of interest in what was going on around him, philosophically speaking. Nor does it explain his similar lack of knowledge of and interest in the recent history of rhetoric, to which I turn in the next paragraph; for Athens did not have the same kind of monopoly on rhetorical teaching and theory, prior to the early first century, as it had on philosophy.

(12.) Aristotle actually speaks of this part as directed to praise or blame (Rh. 1.9). But by far the greater portion of his attention is given to the former.

(13.) I thank the editors for raising this point and encouraging me to reformulate my presentation in light of it.

(14.) The best example from Philostratus’s Lives of the Sophists is perhaps his story of Alexander “Clay Plato” and Herodes Atticus giving successive speeches to audiences including each other, and exquisitely adapting their presentations so as to impress each other (VS 572–574). But Philostratus makes frequent reference to individual sophists’ skill at extemporaneous speaking; see, e.g., VS 519 (Scopelian), 527 (Lollianus of Ephesus), 612 (Hermocrates).

(15.) This is not the only place in Sextus where a connection is suggested between Aenesidemus and Heraclitus. For recent discussions of this perplexing topic, see Hankinson 2010, Polito 2004, Schofield 2007.

(16.) On this relations between Pyrrhonism and the medical schools, see most recently Allen 2010.

(17.) Annas and Barnes (1994) 2000, 54n221, say that Diogenes Laertius 9.72 ascribes to the skeptics themselves the view that skepticism and the philosophy of Democritus are similar. This is a mistake. The autous, “them,” of 9.72 has the same reference as the enioi, “some people,” of 9.71; Diogenes, like Sextus, attributes this claim of similarity to an unnamed group.

Chapter 36

(1.) Cf. Anderson 1993, 173; Boys-Stones 2001, 149; de Lacy 1974; and Fowler 2010 and forthcoming; Trapp 1990.

(2.) Cf. Maximus 11.8. Cf. Gal. On the Doctrines of Hippocrates 9.5, where Phdr. 265c–265e is quoted.

(3.) Cf. Lucian: A Literary Prometheus 5–6; cf. also The Parasite, The Parasitic Art, and A Feast of Lapithae (and not just Lucian, of course; for the dialogue in Late Antiquity, primarily in a Christian setting in Greek, cf. e.g., Cameron 2014, 3: “Sometimes these elements derive from Platonic models, especially the Republic and the Symposium, in an exercise of imitation, or rather of intertextuality. In general, though with some exceptions, the Platonizing elements are literary/rhetorical rather than philosophical.”) Cf. Aelius Aristides To Plato: In Defense of Oratory (Behr’s 1986 title).

(4.) Cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 36. Cf. Fronto: e.g., the so-called Erôtikos logos (Add. 8 van den Hout 1954).

(5.) Cf. Lucian, A Slip of the Tongue in Salutation 4. Cf. Hermogenes, On Types of Style (Wooten’s 1987 title) 2.10, Rabe 395. First- and second-century lexicographers and rhetoricians, such as Diogenianus (Hesychius of Alexandria’s [fifth- or sixth-century ce] source), and Aelius Dionysius and Pausanius (both early second century ce); for discussion, cf. Dickey 2007, 46–49, 88–90, and 99.

(6.) For example, Clement’s Exhortation to the Greeks 6, where Plato is lauded for (sometimes) hitting on the truth.

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(7.) Glucker 1978, 110–111.

(8.) E.g., Plutarch’s Ammonius in Athens, Albinus in Smyrna, Ammonius Saccas in Alexandria. Later in this time period (in the 170s ce), Marcus Aurelius established four chairs of philosophy in Athens, including a Platonic chair; these were added on to Vespasian’s Greek and Latin chairs of rhetoric in Rome.

(9.) For the various uses of the term Πλατωνικός in the second century, cf. Glucker 1978, 206–225; cf. also Gerson 2013, 4, where he notes that at Cicero ND 1.73, the interlocutor Velleius refers to a pupil of Plato as Platonicus.

(10.) Cf. Plut. Quaest. Plat. 1001b–c, De Animae 1013c–1024c; cf. Ti. 30a, 52d–53b.

(11.) Dillon 1977, 60 and 232–233.

(12.) Ammonius is thought not to be associated with the Platonic Academy; cf. Jones 1966, 211 and 213n35; Glucker 1978, 124–128.

(13.) How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend 70e and Table-Talk 719f; on the term, cf. Glucker 1978, 124–128.

(14.) Cf. Stover 2016 for a newly published work that is argued to be the missing third book of On Plato. Not all agree on that attribution; cf. Moreschini 2017.

(15.) For Apuleius’s Platonism, cf. Fletcher 2014.

(16.) On the Diagnosis of the Soul’s Passions (8 = V.40–41 Kühn). I take the διά phrase as an explanation as to why the time was short with the Platonic student lecturer, not why Gaius himself, presumably a recognizable name to Galen’s audience, wasn’t the instructor; cf. the translation of Harkins 1963 for the latter interpretation.

(17.) On My Own Books 19.16 K.

(18.) In Albinus (chap. 4), the instructional dialogues are divided into: physics (Timaeus), logic (Cratylus, Sophist, Statesman, Parmenides), politics (Republic, Critias, Minos, Laws, Epinomis, and ethics (Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus, Symposium, Letters, Menexenus, Cleitophon, and Philebus).

(19.) In the Cod. Par. gr. 1962, f.146v is recorded a Notes of Gaius’ Lectures in seven books (now lost). Albinus and Gaius are sometimes paired together: Proclus’s commentary on the Timaeus refers to the opinions of “Albinus and Gaius” (in that order), Proclus’s commentary on the Republic (2.96.10–15) refers to the Πλατωνικοί Albinus and Gaius (in that order).

(20.) Cf. Ioppolo 1993.

(21.) AN 4.1.14 and 18; 20.21.1 and the reply to 21 by the responder who mentions isti disputationum vestrarum iacademici; citations from Ioppolo 1993, 183.

(22.) Cf. Ioppolo 1993, 192; on Favorinus, cf. also Opsomer 1998 and Holford-Strevens 2003, 98–130.

(23.) De Lacy 1978–1984.

(24.) E.g., against his being thought of as a Platonist, cf. Chiaradonna 2009, 252; for the designation, cf. Finamore 2007, 15–16.

(25.) In particular from Eusebius Preparation for the Gospel, Calcidius’s commentary on the Timaeus, and Origen C. Cels. There are a number of references in much later Platonists, principally Proclus in his commentaries on the Cratylus (85), Republic (2.96 and 128), and the Timaeus.

(26.) Dillon 1977, 363; fragments include Eusebius Preparation for the Gospel 11.10, 18, 22.

(27.) Cf. Eusebius, Migne, PG 11.22 (Numenius): “But Plato represented these things as true differently in different places; for in the Timaeus specifically he wrote the common inscription on the Demiurge, saying, ‘He was good’; but in the Republic he called the good the idea of Good, meaning that the idea of the Creator was the Good, because to us he is manifested as good by participation (μετουσίᾳ) in the First and only [Good].”

(28.) Cf. Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, i. 22; Eusebius, Praep, evang. 11.10; Suda, s.v. Numenius.

(29.) Cf. Migne, PG 9.7, 14.5; also cf. Boys-Stones 2001, 140.

(30.) Cf. Migne, PG 11.10.

(31.) Cf. Tarrant 2007, 452.

(32.) Cf. Dillon 1977, 264 for translation and discussion.

(33.) Göransson 1995 for discussion.

(34.) Cf. Tarrant 2010, 80.

(35.) Cf. Dillon 1993, xiv, and 2010, 81.

(36.) Cf. 36.1.

(37.) Migne, PG 14.5.

(38.) Cf. Opsomer 1998.

(39.) Simplicius commentary on the Categories 30.16ff., 32.19ff.; cf. Dillon 1977, 251.

(40.) Proclus commentary on the Republic (2.96, 11 = fr. 35); Porphyry On the Cave of the Nymphs (10 = frr. 30–33).

(41.) Timaeus: commentary on the Timaeus (1.276.31ff.; 381.26ff.; 431.14ff. etc.); Phaedrus: commentary on the Timaeus (3.247.15).

(42.) Cf. Galen On My Own Books (13, SM 2:122.13). For fragments of the Timaeus synopsis: Kraus and Walzer 1951; for fragments of the Timaeus commentary: Schröder 1934.

(43.) Cf. Mansfeld 1983.

(44.) Dillon 1977, 262–264, for discussion.

(46.) Opsomer 1998, 35–36.

(48.) Cf. Ramelli 2009; for the view that there were two different Origens: cf. Smith 2012.

(49.) Plot. 20 (quoting Longinus): “For those that have not written, there are among the Platonists Ammonius and Origen, two teachers whose lectures I myself attended during a long period, men greatly surpassing their contemporaries in mental power; and there are the Platonic Successors at Athens, Theodotus and Eubulus.”

(50.) Cf. Boys-Stones 2001, 151; regarding Platonism, cf. Dillon 2010, 99; for variations of early Christianity, cf., e.g., Brakke 2010.

(51.) In fact, Philo Byblius, Eusebius tells us, “on seeing the disagreement among the Greeks,” carefully composed three books bearing the title Paradoxical History. On this topic, cf. Boys-Stones 2001, 151–175.

Chapter 37

(1.) With Sharples 2010a, viii, I try to avoid the ambiguity inherent in “Aristotelian” and use “Peripatetic” as the label for self-declared followers of Aristotle and the views they express. “Aristotelian” will be used for Aristotle’s doctrines, even if adopted by non-Peripatetics (see also section 37.3, “An Aristotelianizing Author in the Second Sophistic,” below).

(2.) Of these commentaries, several survive today. See section 37.2, “Peripatetics in the Second Sophistic: Aspasius, Adrastus, Alexander,” and Sharples 1987.

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(3.) Sharples in Sharples and Sorabji 2007, 2:503–504; Falcon 2012. In the Appendix I list the names Sharples identifies—some names added from Schorn 2003 and by myself.

(4.) Sharples 1987, 1179.

(5.) E.g., Simpl. in Phys. 707.33, 1170.13. Whether this was an honorific title (a view accepted by many) or not (Barnes, Bozien, Flannery, and Ierodiakonou 1991), it clearly was a shorthand which was well understood and thus singles him out from other commentators.

(6.) This broad characterization should not be generalized without qualification. For some helpful cautionary notes, see Gottschalk 1987, Sharples 2010b.

(7.) The best known Peripatetic compendium is the De mundo, a cosmological work, which became listed among Aristotle’s works, but is now generally considered spurious.

(8.) Gottschalk 1987, 1122–1125. An edition of the first five books is in Drossaart Lulofs 1969.

(9.) Bowie 1982, 41–42.

(10.) Ammonius, On Aristotle’s De interpr. 5.28–29. But this tradition is regarded as suspect, because it clashes with another comment in the same source (Ammonius, In APr. 31.12–13) and the exact count of scholarchs is difficult to align with our evidence, since there is a gap between no. 4 (Lyco, ca. 274–225 bce) and no. 8 (Critolaus, ca. 155 bce, a date established by counting back from Andronicus) before Diodorus (?) and Andronicus. See Baltussen 2013.

(11.) Falcon, SEP 2009, referring to Porphyry’s comment in his Life of Plotinus 24. For a skeptical look at the question to what extent it was an edition, see Barnes 1997.

(12.) A useful case study of Alexandrian scholarship is Niehoff 2011. See also Reynolds and Wilson 1991, 5–31 and Dickey 2007, 43–51.

(13.) Moraux 1973, 65n22 disagrees with Düring Biographical Tradition 416 that Ammonius’s text presents the criteria which Andronicus used to discuss problems of authenticity.

(14.) This method of discussing features of the text to establish authorship would certainly be a part of the later commentary tradition; see Mansfeld 1994.

(15.) Its development from occasional and sporadic comments to running commentary has not yet been fully charted, but see Baltussen 2007 for a first attempt to capture the evolution of exegesis.

(16.) For a fuller treatment of terminology related to exegesis, ranging from marginal annotation (paratithesthai) to clarifying notes (scholia) and commentaries (hypomnêmata) see Baltussen 2007 and Mansfeld 1994.

(17.) Michael Trapp has argued persuasively that the difference between Platonist and Aristotelian views in ethics became harder to determine, because the ongoing debates caused their views to converge: Trapp 2007, 76.

(18.) See Van der Eijk 2009, 261–262 for a succinct summary of Galen’s criticisms of Aristotle, and 262ff. for the overlaps between the two, some of which are discussed below (section 37.3, “An Aristotelianizing Author in the Second Sophistic”). On Xenarchus, see Falcon 2012.

(19.) See Appendix for details.

(20.) Barnes (1999, 10) notes that Aspasius is mentioned some twenty-eight times in Simplicius’s commentaries. See Barnes 1999, 1 for the question whether he was the teacher of Galen (an morb. 6.41–42 K).

(21.) My guide is Barnes 1999 here, though in one case it is possible to supplement his judgment, because he did not yet have the newly found edition of Galen’s On My Own Books available (Boudon-Millot 2007a). His comment (Barnes 1999, 8) that “the text of Galen’s work . . . is in a desperate state” need no longer trouble us. Boudon has confirmed the reading for the phrase “exegetical work such as those of Adrastus or of Aspasius.”

(22.) Barnes 1999, 5–8. A good general account of Galen now in Mattern 2013.

(23.) Ierodiakonou 1999, 147–148. The question of the unity of virtues is already found in Plato’s Protagoras.

(24.) Konstan 2001, 5.

(25.) On its economic prosperity, see Hebert 2009.

(26.) in Harmon. Ptol. p. 270, cf. Barker 1984, 210.

(27.) Fortenbaugh 2011, 237 with n. 11 and 749 (five books on History and Style in the On Dispositions of Theophrastus, see fr. 437 FHSG).

(28.) Aristotle: Galen περὶ ἐθῶν, Scr. Min. 2, 11.4–5 Müller. Herminus and Sosigenes: Simplicius in Cael. 430.32–33. See Sharples 1987, 1178.

(29.) Dedication: De fato 1.164.1–3 (= Sharples 2010a, chap. 1, text Ab).

(30.) Inscription found in Karacasu and dated to ca. 200 ce: see Chaniotis 2004, 388–389 and Sharples 2005.

(31.) What follows relies heavily on Baltussen 2008, chap. 4.2, Moraux 1984, and Sharples 1987.

(32.) Baltussen 2008, 114.

(33.) On his influence see note 53 below. On the lack of a secure chronology of his works see Sharples 1987, 1181.

(34.) See Sharples 2010a, 140 for literature. A full list of known works (incl. spurious and lost ones) in Sharples 1987, 1182–1199. His lost commentary on De caelo is quoted in Simpl. in Cael. 297 ff.

(35.) Mansfeld 1994, 2; Whitmarsh 2005, 1. On expansive commentary justified by the claim of unclearness, see Whitmarsh 2005, 8.

(36.) This section draws heavily on Sharples 1987, 1199ff.

(37.) Sharples 2010a, 246.

(38.) Sharples 1987, 1206–1209.

(39.) Sharples 1987, 1178, 1180 (i.e., his interest is “not primarily a historical one”).

(40.) Translation by Sharples 2010a, 213 (= text 23H).

(41.) Sharples 2010a, 230.

(42.) E.g., Thales on the magnet, ap. Arist. De an. 405a19, 411a7; the Pythagoreans ap. Arist. De an. 404a20–21; Pl. Phdr. 245c–e. Cf. Sharples 1987, 1202–1204, 1215.

(43.) For his influence on Simplicius, see Baltussen 2008, chap. 4.

(44.) Hankinson 1992, 3508; cf. Van der Eijk 2009, 271n42.

(45.) See Galen, On the Futility of Grieving 58–59 (Boudon-Millot 2007b, 117).

(46.) To which he turned after his father claimed to have had a dream: see Nutton 1973.

(47.) De optimo medico 69.15–23. On this passage see also Mansfeld 1994, 168.

(48.) For a fuller account we have to turn to a propaedeutic work, entitled To Patrophilus on the Constitution of the Medical Art 6.1.244–245 K. See also Swain 1996, 57ff. (cf. 366–367); Mansfeld 1994, 167.

(49.) It is mentioned briefly in Van der Eijk’s fragment edition of Diocles of Carystus (Van der Eijk 2001: fr. 6, 1:9 [text] and 2:11–12 [commentary]).

(50.) On the importance of medicine for him as a model of method, see Jaeger 1957, 59–60.

(51.) A useful discussion of the label “Peripatetic” in Schorn 2003. On criticism and allegiance, see Falcon 2012, 2–6 (Xenarchus).

(52.) See above note 30.

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(53.) Platonists: Plotinus (ca. 204/5–270 ce), Porphyry (ca. 234–305 ce), Simplicius (480–560 ce); Arabic thinkers: Averroes/Ibn Rush (1126–1198 ce); Christian thinkers: Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274 ce).

Chapter 38

(1.) Price 1984, 101–132 on city rivalry connected to festivals of the Imperial cult; Mitchell 1990, 190 with the second-century examples of a festival-competition within the Lycian cities Oinoanda and Balboura.

(2.) E.g., Pl. Hp. mi. 363c; Philostr. VS 493, 496, 505 for the fifth and fourth centuries bce; 607, 617 for the second century ce. Dio Chrys. Or. 12 is still extant.

(3.) See Pirenne-Delforge 2008 on the function of narrative on the past, on the praxis of sacrifices, on mystery cults, etc.; Frateantonio 2009 on the political context of his attitude toward religion, the hierarchy of cults; Juul 2010 with a focus on oracular “tales”; and Porter 2001, who focuses on the selectivity of both, Pausanias and Longinus, and their “time travel through culture(s)” (63) contrasting “ideals and ruins.”

(4.) For an opposing view, see the arguments of Whitmarsh 2009. For parallels between Jewish, Christian, and Second Sophistic authors, see Anderson 1993, 203–215, and Goeken 2012, 318–334 (on Aelius Aristides). On the intellectual habitus of Christian authors, see, e.g., Eshleman 2012, 102–114, 199–202.

(5.) According to Dio Cassius (Xiphilinus) 72.31.1, the senate introduced this new ritual in honour of Marcus Aurelius and Faustina the Younger for the city of Rome; the decretum decurionum from Ostia refers to Antoninus Pius and diva Faustina (the Elder), CIL 14.5326.

(6.) Cf. Dio Chr. Or. 28–41 (On Concord in civic life), cf. Jones 1978, 83–94.

(7.) Cf. Vout 2007, 108–121, and the list of written sources in Kuhlmann 2002, 197–239.

(8.) Boatwright 2000, 110–112, 127–143; cf. Mitchell 1987.

(9.) Schol. Lucian Icarom. 24 and more; cf. Winter 1996, 90.

(10.) McCabe, Teos 76; cf. Boatwright 2000, 130–131.

(11.) IvPergamon 2.364, 367–374 with C. Habicht’s introduction to IvPergamon vol. 3, p. 10.

(12.) Less trustworthy are the imperial temple-building reports for Syrian Antioch by the sixth-century author Malalas, cf. Horster 1997, 81–92.

(13.) For Hadrian’s engagement for the tombs of Hector and Aias in Ilium, of Epaminondas in Mantineia, of Alcibiades in Melissa, Archilochus in Paros and Pompeius in Egypt, see Boatwright 2000, 140–142.

(14.) Philostr. V A 4.15, cf. Gyselinck and Demoen 2006, 116; Her.: thus Rutherford 2009, but see Whitmarsh 2009.

(15.) Neokoros: since the mid-first century ce, the title designated a city in one of the eastern provinces that had a provincial temple of the imperial cult; see, e.g., Burrell 2004, 17–269, with a list of cities with one and more neokoroi-titles.

(16.) Decisions by Octavian/Augustus (in Rome): Suet. Aug. 93; cf. Dio Cass. 51.4.1; by Marcus (in Pannonia): SEG 29.127, cf. Oliver 1989, 366–388, no. 184.

(17.) IGRom. 4.1431, see the commentary of G. Petzl at I. Smyrna 697, cf. also Philostr. VS 530.

(18.) BMC Ionia, 278, no. 339–341; cf. Puech 2002, 399 with note 2.

(19.) See Bowersock 1969; Bowie 1982; Hahn 1989, 33–53; Schmitz 1997, 39–63. Puech 2002, 23–35 gives a short overview of the current discussion. Three or perhaps five “sophists” had been members of the Roman senate, and others had been equestrian procurators or secretaries in the imperial service. Attested are the following sophists as high priests: Aurelius Annianus (IGR 4.1226, third century), Aurelius Septimius Apollonius (SEG 17.200, third century), Aurelius Athenaios of Thyateira (IGR 4.1233–1234, second century), probably also his namesake of Ephesus (I. Ephesos 3057, second century), Ti. Claudius Frontonianus (of Melos, IG XII 3.1119, second century), L. Flavius Hermokrates (IvPergamon 3.34, early third century); Pomponius Cornelius Lollianus Hedianus (IGR 4.1424, third cent.), the father and homonymous son T. Flavii Menandri (I. Ephesos 3062, second century), Ti. Claudius Pardalas of Aizanoi (MAMA 9.18–19), probably a valued friend of Aelius Aristides (cf. S. Mitchell at MAMA). Only few rhetors are attested as high priests of eastern provinces other than Asia, e.g., T. Cominius Claudianus Hermaphilos, pontiarch in Moesia Superior (IGR I 632–633, second to third centuries), and L. Iulius Vestinus, high priest of Egypt and Alexandria and director (epistates) of the Museum (IGR 1.136).

(20.) G. E. Bean and T. B. Mitford, Journeys in Rough Cilicia 1965, 34n36

(21.) Eshleman 2012, 125–148 on the “construction” of the Second Sophistic in Philostratus’s Lives of the Sophists through the narratives of “self-presentation and negotiation for status” (125).

(22.) Augustus and the early empire: e.g., the renewal of the once neglected sacrifices for Zeus Soter in Milesian Didyma, I. Didyma 199 lines 6–7 and the renewal of the festival of Zeus Labraundos at Mylasa, I. Labraunda 54a. lines 5–6. See Chaniotis 2003 with examples of neglected cult traditions and the revival of rituals in the second century ad.

(23.) IG II² 2090, Philostr. VS 550, cf. Tobin 1997, 200–209, and Strauss 1993, 120.

(24.) E.g., the hymn cited as a delicacy for the listener in Hel. 3.2.4; cf. Galli 2001, 47–48, with references.

(25.) Criticism concerned: gladiatorial shows as part of a festival, Dio Chr. Or. 31.121; Philostr. V A 4.22 and comedies; Ael. Arist. Or. 29.4; those who lack the power of persuasion and use gifts of money, banquets, or gladiatorial shows to please the common people, Plut. Mor. 802 D; cf. as well Mor. 821 D, 477 D, and a more general critic of the pursuits of glory, Dio Chr. Or. 66, and popularity, Dio Chr. Or. 66.8, 11 via spending on festivals, as well as Lucian Anach. 39 and Demonax 46, where the protagonists ridicule the famous Lacedaimonian cult rituals.

(26.) E.g., the changing monotheistic attitudes of Aelius Aristides (Sarapis, Asclepius both assimilated to Zeus); cf. Anderson 1993, 200–215; Chaniotis 2010. See also above and Oudot, chapter 17 in this volume.

(27.) See especially section VI, chapters 33–37, and VII, chapters 40–43.

(28.) Telling are the topics in Van der Stockt, Titchener, Ingenkamp, and Jiménez 2010: single myths, dreams, demonology, wandering souls, solar eclipses, etc. But see Van Nuffelen 2011, 48–71, and the structured and in-depth discussion by Brenk 1987. On p. 255 he lists Plutarch’s works on fate (tyche), those with a “general interest in religious topics,” and those with “strong eschatological overtones.”

(29.) Digressions in the Moralia: the E at Delphi is presented as a learned discussion during a literary promenade in the sanctuary, the Oracles at Delphi tells stories of important persons who had asked for an oracle, the Obsolescence of oracles discusses inter alia the function of demigods (daimones). Short passages concerning aspects of the working of the cult and the duty of the priests are also integrated into other parts of Plutarch’s work, e.g., Mor. 437a–b which concerns the preliminary sacrifice by the priests, and Mor. 437d and 428a–b, about potential influences on the Pythia and her reaction.

(30.) Famous is Dio’s Olympic speech (Or. 12), in which Phidias’s statue of Zeus and the idea of the gods are at the core of the oration, with a philosophical and artistic treatment of theology in the context of a fictive judicial process contra Phidias. Dio’s Borysthenes speech (Or. 36) was later used by some of the church fathers because its subject could be interpreted in a nonpagan cosmological-theological manner, cf. Nesselrath, Bäbler, Forschner, and De Jong 2003.

(31.) Cf., e.g., Ael. Arist. Panathenaic speech (Or. 1), in which the gods protect and mark out Athens (1.40–48, 399–401). On oratory see Pernot, chapter 13 in this volume.

(32.) Cf. Jones 1978, 56–64, about the moral aspects in his Euboian and Olbian speeches, Dio Chr. Or. 7 and 36; Piérart 1998.

(33.) Cf. Behr 1968, 148–161; Goeken 2012, 253–303.

(34.) On Apollonius of Tyana, see Miles, chapter 18 in this volume.

(35.) The earliest such treatise in the period of the Second Sophistic seems to be Plutarch’s On Superstition, in which he follows Plato and others in his critique and censures superstition as being as dangerous as atheism; Brenk 1987, 260–262.

(36.) See Billault 2012 on cult and rituals in Achilles Tatius; Morgan 2003, 446–454 on religion and morality and sexual codes in Heliodorus; Whitmarsh 2012 on eroticism and religion in the Jewish ancient novel of Joseph and Aseneth, with many parallels to the “Greek” novel of the imperial period.

(37.) No esoteric meaning is encoded in the texts of the second century, as Merkelbach 1988 has claimed. Cf. Beck 2003, 131–132; Zeitlin 2008, 95, though the idea still offers a stimulating suggestion for discussion of Apuleius’s Metamorphoses.

(38.) The deity Melikertes-Palaimon and some rituals of the cult are present in Philostr. Imag. 2.16; Her. 52.3–54.4; Ael. Arist. Hymn to Poseidon (Or. 46.40–41), and other epigraphic and literary texts, as well as on coins; cf. Piérart 1998 with the evidence; Galli 2001, 61–62 discusses the evidence at the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia. For the philosophical interpretation of mystery cults in the imperial period, see Van Nuffelen 2011, 27–47.

(39.) On these ethics of conjugality, see with further references Anderson 1993, 200–215; Zeitlin 2008, 98–99.

(40.) For the Heroicus, see Pache 2004; Rutherford 2009; for Lucian’s Peregrinus, see Jones 1986, 129. On epiphany in general, see Platt 2011, who includes art as well but has a focus on texts from the archaic to the late antique period.

(41.) Bowersock’s 1973, 182 devotion to “occultism” among the Antonine elites goes too far.

(42.) See above on Plutarch and Pausanias. For the role of paideia in the Roman empire, see Bowersock 1969; Swain 1996, 17–42 on language consciousness and its power to create a specific Greek identity within the Roman Empire; Schmitz 1997 on paideia as social capital which allowed the literati and the educated rich to negotiate and compete about status within the hierarchies of the local, regional and imperial elites; Whitmarsh 2001, 96–108 on paideia and social status.

(43.) Cf. Mitchell 1993, 191–195; Petzl 1998, but see also Van Nuffelen’s 2011, 12–13 warning to mix different conventions and social settings (inscriptions—philosophical treatises) by making too wide conclusions of the confession inscriptions.

(44.) For the discussion of the last twenty years of changes in religious mentality, see Van Nuffelen 2011, 11–14.

(p. 736) Chapter 39

(1.) As Aelius Aristides put it in On Rome (Or. 26.100–101): “Now indeed it is possible for Hellene or non-Hellene, with or without his property, to travel wherever he will, easily, just as if passing from fatherland to fatherland” (trans. Oliver 1953, 906).

(2.) Against: Price 2012, 8n36; for: Elsner 1992, Petsalis-Diomidis 2010.

(3.) For Lucian’s portrait of Alexander, see Bendlin 2011, Petsalis-Diomidis 2010, 42–66.

(4.) For Lucian’s criticism of pilgrimage, see also Dialogues of the Dead (10), where Menippus mocks the hero Trophonios for the procedure at the latter’s sanctuary in Lebadeia.

(6.) Petsalis-Diomidis 2010,167–220.

(7.) See Downie 2013, Petsalis-Diomides 2010, 122–150.

(8.) See Euseb. Vit. Const. 3.56 = Edelstein and Edelstein 1945, T817.

(9.) See the useful map of sanctuaries of Asclepius in Anatolia in Belayche 1987, 150.

(10.) König 2005, 29–30; Isthmos: Aelius Aristides, Isthmian Oration (Or. 46.23, 31); Olympia: see Ebert 1997.

(11.) See further MacKay 1990, 2052.

(12.) See Elsner 1997b; Künzl and Koeppel 2002, 68–71; Thiersch 1937. For the wide dissemination of the cult of Ephesian Artemis, see Pausanias: 4.31.7; I. Ephesos 24B.8–14.

(13.) See Rutherford 2013, 272–273.

(14.) Spawforth 2012, 130–138, 245.

(15.) For Phidias’s statue as a tourist destination in this period, cf. Arrian, Epictetus 1.6.23–25, who criticizes someone who travels to Olympia to behold it, and regards it as a misfortune to die without seeing such sights.

(16.) Totti 1985, no. 45; see Harland 2011; text in Friedrich 1968. So too the author of the Cyranides, a compilation of magical law, claims in the preface the he read the text on a stele that he was shown at Alexandria in Babylon: see Kaimakes 1976, 16–17

(17.) See Halfmann 1986, 115; Millar 1977, 28–40.

(18.) Suet. Vesp. 8.7.1; Tac. Hist. 4.82; Henrichs 1966.

(19.) Suet. Vesp. 8.5.6; Tac. Hist. 2.78. So too Pythagoras was supposed to have visited Mt. Carmel (Iambl VP 3.14–17). For Mt. Carmel, see Lipinski 1995, 284–288 and now Ovadiah and Pierri 2015, who publish graffiti from "Elijah's Cave", the earlier ones dating from 2nd-3rd centuries AD.

(20.) Apollo Grannus: Cass. Dio 78.15, 6; Pergamum: Herodian 4.8.3.

(21.) He also visited Athens “to perform sacred rites” (id.3.7).

(22.) Trajan: Joannes Malalas, Chronographia 11, p. 270 Dindorf; Halfmann 1986:188; Hadrian, Anth. Pal. 6.332; Hadrian: Aelius Spartianus, Vit. Hadr. 14.3; Julian: Amm. Marc. 22.14.4; Joannes Malalas, Chronographia 13, p. 327; Julian, Mis. 361d; Lib. Or. 18.69 (2:112, 14 Foerster).

(23.) Zeus Kasios: see Fauth 1990.

(24.) Hadrian: Halfmann 1986, 199; Caracalla: Cass. Dio 78.16.7, Herodian 4.8.3–5. Halfmann 1986, 214. See in general Erskine 2001, 252–253.

(25.) Bernand and Bernand 1969, 166ff., n.168; Totti 1985, no. 35.

(26.) On this, Bowersock 1984; on Julia Balbilla, see Rosenmeyer 2008.

(27.) For the authorship, see Lightfoot 2003.

(28.) Hajjar 1977, 1:177–178 (n. 158–163); for the pilgrimage more generally, 2:521.

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(29.) Bordeaux Pilgrim: Kötting 1950, 92–93; Egeria: Hunt 1982, 164–166; Paula: Hunt 1982, 171–172.

(30.) Lane Fox 1986, 180: “While Christians travelled to the holy land and marveled at God’s wrath against the Jews, pagan choirs were travelling yearly to Claros to sing and to see their delegates ‘enter’ the temple tunnels.”

Chapter 40

(1.) For the problems of identifying these works according to a precise genre of apologia, see variously Frede, 1999, 225–231; Young 1999, 82–92; Parvis 2007; Fredouille 1995. I use the term here loosely to designate works sharing a similar Tendenz rather than composition according to narrow structural characteristics.

(2.) Benz 1951. The death of Christ would, of course, prove the most important model for martyrdom; but His refusal to give a spoken defense was rarely, if ever, followed. Cf. Origen, C. Cels. praef. 1–3.

(3.) For similar influence on Athenagoras, Leg., see Rankin 2009, 161–162.

(4.) Justin, 1 Apol. 60.1, 5, alluding to Pl. Tim. 36bc. There was, therefore, an elision of the person of Socrates, the person executed in an unjust trial by the Athenians, and the doctrines elicited from the dialogues of Plato. In addition to the elements raised here (the act of dying for the truth, the doctrine of the immortality of the soul), Socrates’s general use of reason (logos) would be significant in the early Christian apologetic imagination; see the discussion below in the second section of the present chapter.

(5.) See also Legat. 7.29–32, 11.18–20, 17.28–29, 22.9–11.

(6.) Justin, Dial. 11.5, 110.4, 116.3, 119.3, 123.1, 138.2, 135.6.

(7.) The charge and entire court case are fictitious (as Isocrates declares at Antid. 8); he is clearly adapting Socrates’s Apology (as recorded by Plato) as a literary model; see notes in the Loeb edition, passim. For more general uses of excerpting in the classical period, see Konstan 2011.

Chapter 42

(1.) For the Hellenization of Syria, see Millar 1987, 110–133; Butcher 2003, 274–289.

(2.) Whittaker 1982, xii.

(3.) Whittaker 1982, xii–xv.

(4.) See Lampe 2003, 290.

(5.) For Tatian and Greek paideia, see Fotjik 2009; Lampe 2003, 426–440; Nasrallah 2010, 65–70.

(6.) Jos. Ag. Ap. 2.154.

(7.) On the importance of relics, see Porter, 2001, 67–76.

(8.) See Jones 2004, 19–20.

(9.) Cf. Diod. Sic. 2.4; see further Drews 1965.

(10.) Jones 2004, 19–20.

(11.) Briant 2006, 7. On Ninus and Semiramis in the founding myths of cities of Asia Minor, see Yildirim 2004, 40–46.

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(12.) Cf. (Ps.-?)Lucian, De Dea Syria, 12, where the narrator’s version of Deucalion has the hero and his family surviving the flood in an ark.

(13.) Joseph. Ant. 1.93, quoting Berossus.

(14.) Joseph. Ant. 20.25–26.

(15.) See Trebilco 2006, 86–95.

(16.) See Egeria Itinerarium; Reisebericht, 202.20–28 [19.19], ed. Rowekamp.

(17.) Julius Africanus, Chronographiae, F 23, 18–23, ed. Wallraff.

(18.) Chron. F26, 13–22.

(19.) Chron. F29.

(20.) Joseph. BJ 4.533.

(21.) For description of the festival in his own day (fifth century), see Sozom. Hist. eccl. 2.4. For recent discussion, see Caseau 2004, 123–126; Kofsky 1998, 19–30.

(22.) Chron. F30b, 4–11. For unknown reasons, Africanus locates the tree in Shechem, not Hebron.

(23.) Chron. F30a, 15–17.

(24.) Euseb. Hist. eccl. 1.13.5.

(25.) See Drijvers 1982, 167–189; Ross 2001, 133–135. For further arguments against Abgar’s Christianity, see Brock 1992, 212–234, esp. 222–224.

(26.) Cesti F12, 20.35–57, ed. Wallraff.

(27.) Cesti F12, 20.1–24.

(28.) For the Greek devaluation of archery, see Lendon 2006, 33–34; 47–48; 55–56; 96, 310.

(29.) Lucian, Toxaris, 8.

(30.) Cesti F12, 44–45.

(31.) Euseb. Quaest. Steph. suppl. (Migne, PG 22.965A).

(32.) See Euseb. Hist. eccl. 4.30.1, who states that his students translated his numerous Syriac treatises into Greek. On the Greek education of his son Harmonius, see Sozom. Hist. eccl. 3.16.5. See further Ross 2001, 119–123.

(33.) Epiph. Pan. 56.3, ed. K. Holl, 2.338.9–11.

(34.) On Bar Daysan as a representative of the cultural values of Edessa, see Drijvers 1994, 237–238.

(35.) Gelzer 1967, 1, 8.

(36.) For Edessa after the removal of Abgar, see Millar 1993, 476–481; Ross 2001, 57–68.

(37.) Epiph. Pan. 56.5. ed. Holl.

(38.) Moses of Chorene, History of Armenia, 66 (Tomson, 212–213).

(39.) Dio of Prusa, Or. 49.7.

(40.) Flinterman 2004, 359; see further Flinterman 1995, 178–181.

(41.) Porph. Abst. 4.17.60–63.

(42.) For discussion of other similarities between Dio and Bar Daysan, see Anderson 1986, 147–148.

(43.) See further Dihle 1964, 63; Drijvers 1965, 173–176; Müller 1980, 311–321; Reed 2009, 66–70; Sedlar 1980, 170–175.

(44.) Porph. Abst. 4.17.10

(45.) History of Armenia, 66 (Thomson, 212).

(46.) Chron. F46, 52–54.

(47.) Cesti F10, 50–53. For discussion, see Hammerstaedt 2009, 53–69.

(48.) Chron. F98.

(49.) Africanus, Epistle to Aristides, in Euseb. Hist. eccl. 1.7.14.

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(50.) Chron. T2a.

(51.) Cf. Millar 1993, 375–376.

(52.) On Severus Alexander’s dealings with Christians, see Ramelli 2000; Santos 1981.

(53.) See Jones 1971, 279.

(54.) Euseb. Onom. 90.15–17, ed. E. Klostermann.

(55.) Sozom. Hist. eccl. 5.21.6–7.

(56.) On Greek sophists in Rome, see Bowersock 1969, 43–58.

(57.) Cesti F10.51–52.

(58.) See Trapp 2007.

(59.) See Vieillefond 1970, 50–52, esp. 52; Adler 2009, 11–15.

(60.) Cesti F12, 10.4–5.

(61.) Chron. F34, 1–11. On Africanus’s chronicle in the context of Hellenistic historiography, see Roberto 2011, 67–106.

(62.) Euseb. Hist. eccl. 6.7.1.1–7.

(63.) Chron. F93, 1–13; 30–103.

(64.) Bowie 1974, 166–209.

(65.) Chron. T11, 5–7.

(66.) Chron. F93, 84–86.

(67.) Chron. F24.

(68.) Euseb. Hist. eccl. 4.30.

(69.) Ephrem, Hymns against heresies, 1.12.1–2, ed. Beck.

(70.) Cesti T1b.

Chapter 43

(1.) I would like to dedicate this chapter to the memory of Professor François Bovon (1938–2013), an inspiring scholar, a dear friend, and the gentlest of souls.

(2.) Kenney 1982–1985.

(3.) Swain 1999; see also the major collection of Schmeling 2003, which includes a wealth of discussion about Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles but pays less attention to other categories of Christian fictional literature.

(5.) A foundational study in this vein is Hägg 1983, which was very prescient in seeing in the Second Sophistic a wide range of related literary styles.

(6.) Apostolic Constitutions 6.16.3, ed. Funk.

(7.) Cf. 2 Timothy 3:16; 2 Peter 1:16–21.

(8.) Bovon 2011, 318–322; Bovon 2012.

(9.) Hist. eccl. 3.25, ed. Bandy.

(10.) The Gelasian Decree was not the only such list: others include the List of the Sixty Books (seventh century), and the Stichometry of Nicephorus (fourth or ninth century). For these texts and others, see Hennecke and Schneemelcher 1991, 34–43. The phrase “lost scriptures” is the title of Ehrman 2003.

(11.) Euseb. Hist eccl. 6.31; Adler 2009, 4; and, generally, Neuschäfer 1987.

(13.) See W. A. Johnson 2000, 2010.

(14.) See the “Further Reading” section at the end of this chapter.

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(16.) On this point, see Bauckham, Davila, and Panayotov 2013, xxxii; and more generally, Davila 2005 and Kraft 2009.

(17.) Kaestli 1977. The Manichaean Psalm Book (fourth century) names individual apostolic legends as part of a canon: see Klauck 2008, 3–4.

(18.) Bovon 1995, 173.

(19.) Cameron 1991, 89–119; Johnson 2007.

(20.) Elliott 2013, 456.

(21.) On these difficulties and others, see Bovon 1999.

(22.) See Baldwin 2005 and Thomas 2003.

(23.) For further discussion of these basic concepts, see Lapham 2003.

(24.) Bovon 1988. See also Koester 1990.

(25.) On the debates surrounding the definition of “Gnosticism,” see now Brakke 2010.

(26.) On the textual criticism of the Nag Hammadi codices as related to their reception history, see Emmel 1997.

(27.) On apocrypha in Syriac, see Debié, Jullien, Jullien, and Desreumaux 2005.

(28.) See Koester 1989.

(29.) E.g., Mark 1:1; 1 Peter 1:25; 2 Samuel 4:10; 2 Kings 7:9.

(30.) Tuckett 2005.

(31.) There are three extant fragments of the Gospel of Thomas in Greek, all from Oxyrhynchus: POxy. 1, POxy. 654, POxy. 655. The extant Coptic text is not an exact translation of the Greek.

(32.) See Pagels 2003 with Most 2005, 242–244; also the older critique of Fitzmyer 1980. See also Dunderberg 2013.

(33.) On the onomastics of Judas Thomas in this literature and elsewhere in Late Antiquity, see S. F. Johnson 2016, 111–114 (revising both Johnson 2010, 16n60 and Johnson 2008, 16n62). On the twin motif, see Stang 2016. On the Acts of Thomas, see Klijn 2003; and Bremmer 2001.

(34.) On infancy narratives generally, see Elliott 2006; Davis 2014.

(35.) See Elliott 2009, 3–25.

(36.) See Klijn 1992.

(37.) See Elliott 1997.

(38.) Bovon 2003a.

(39.) These dates are approximate and are taken from Klauck 2008, 3. In the ninth century, Photius knows these texts as a collection entitled “Circuits of the Apostles” (αἱ περίοδοιτῶν ἀποστόλων) authored by a Leucus Charinus. The Manichaeans claimed Charinus as the author of the entirety of their apocryphal canon. See Phot. Bibl. cod. 114, ed. Henry, with a discussion at Klauck 2008, 5–6.

(40.) On the Acts of John by Prochorus, see Junod and Kaestli 1983. On the Acts of Philip, see Bovon, Bouvier, and Amsler 1999; Bovon and Matthews 2012.

(41.) For this point, see Elliott 2013, 468.

(42.) See Stang 2016; Foster 2007; and Klauck 2008, 31–32. On the theology of the Apocryphal Gospels, see Frey and Schröter 2010; and Schröter 2013.

(44.) Klauck 2008, 2. See also Bovon 2003a.

(45.) For an extended discussion of this topic, see Davis 2001.

(46.) See Bremmer 1996.

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(47.) On this point with reference to the ancient novel, see Bowie 2003.

(48.) Johnson 2006c, 1–14.

(49.) On this text see Dagron 1978; Johnson 2006c. The Miracles half has been translated in Talbot and Johnson 2012. On the parallel history of apocrypha dealing with Stephen, see Bovon 2003b.

(50.) See Shoemaker 2002; and now Shoemaker 2016, which attempts to place devotion to the Virgin Mary much earlier in the history of Christian literature.

(51.) For more on this question in relation to the rise of Thecla devotion, see Johnson 2006c, 221–226.

(53.) On these texts, see in the present volume Morgan (chapter 25), Selden (chapter 27), and Zeitlin (chapter 26).

(54.) Apollonius King of Tyre: Kortekaas 2004, 2007. Alexander Romance: Stoneman 2008. Jewish Novels: Wills 1995, 2002.

(55.) This list is adapted from Bremmer 2001, 164, who in turn is summarizing the conclusions of Söder 1932.

(56.) See Bowersock 1994; Price 1997; also now Harper 2013, 121–132, 194–213.

(57.) See Bowie 2003.

(58.) On the “Hymn of the Pearl,” see Poirier 1981.

(59.) On the Odes of Solomon, see Lattke 2009.

(60.) Ed. Rehm and Strecker 1992 (Homilies), 1994 (Recognitions). See also Hennecke and Schneemelcher 1991–1992, 483–541.

(61.) Cf. Acts 8:9–24. See Ferreiro 2005 and Zwierlein 2013. On the Acts of Peter, see also Bremmer 1998.

(62.) The Grundschrift has recently been placed through internal analysis into a northern Mesopotamian cultural milieu in the early third century: Bremmer 2010; Kelley 2006. The Clementine literature has been associated with both Justin Martyr—a Greek Christian apologist teaching at Rome from the 140s—and, especially, his disciple Tatian, who composed his harmony of the Gospels, the Diatessaron, around 172, after having returned from Rome to his native Syria (Perrin 2002, 30–34). The Diatessaron seems to have a close affinity with the text of the canonical Gospels used by both the Gospel of Thomas and the Clementine Grundschrift. On this larger question of the dissemination and influence of the Diatessaron, see Petersen 1994 and Quispel 1975.

(63.) The Homilies was revised by an Arian editor who sought to include some basic metaphysical doctrine—namely, the “disposition of the syzygies,” or binary opposites—but it still retains some of the Jewish-Christian heritage thought to underlie the Grundschrift (e.g., vegetarianism) and which is missing from the Recognitions. See Reed 2007.

(64.) These texts were edited and presented alongside a hypothetical retro-translation into Greek by Frankenberg 1937.

(65.) The term “forgery” is favored by Ehrman 2011 and 2013. Ehrman is heavily dependent for terminology on the classic treatment of Speyer 1971, who speaks instead of Schwindelliteratur and literarische Fälschung. I consider Speyer’s treatment to be the more subtle, but, regardless, Erhman does not consider nearly the range of literature that Speyer does. A clearer example of Schwindelliteratur or literary hoax is found, for instance, in the early medieval Cosmography of Aethicus Ister, discussed at Speyer 1971, 77–78. This text invents sources out of whole cloth in order to buttress its claim to being an authentic (theretofore lost) work of Jerome (Herren 2011).

(p. 742)

(66.) For select anthologies of this huge corpus, see Bauckham, Davila, and Panayotov 2013; Charlesworth 1983; and Sparks 1984.

(67.) See also Reed 2008.

(68.) On question-answer literature, see Papadoyannakis 2006, and Volgers and Zamagni 2004. On Christian dialogue literature in Late Antiquity, see now Cameron 2014.

(69.) Pervo 1987; Bovon 1995, 161.

(70.) Cameron 2006.

(71.) Hägg 2012, 380–389.

(72.) Hägg and Rousseau 2000; Whitby 1998.

(73.) See Bovon 1981.