When Immanuel Bekker, the editor to whom Aristotle owes his page numbers, travelled to Paris in search of manuscripts between 1810 and 1812, Theognis had been a mainstay of classical scholarship for many hundreds of years. Even so, the small tenth-century parchment volume Bekker discovered there came as a surprise. Not only did it contain a text of the Theognidea which was four hundred years older than the earliest codex known so far; it also added an entirely new section of 176 lines. Presented by the scribe as ‘book 2’ of the Elegiac Poems by Theognis (ελεγειων β´), they revolved around the theme of pederastic love – until then a topic not usually associated with the moralist from Megara. In spite of their similarities to what had now turned into ‘book 1’, they were dismissed as a late forgery almost instantly after Bekker's 1815 edition. Although that view came to be challenged later and can now be considered obsolete, even van Groningen's first comprehensive commentary to the Theognidea, published in 1966 and not superseded since, breaks off where the second book would have begun. Until today, research on this part of the Theognidean corpus has not grown much beyond a trickle flowing at some distance from the classical mainstream.

This article aims to throw light on a recurrent structural feature of Heraclitus' style that, it will be argued, serves as a tool to enrich interpretation of his fragments. Named after the bow image used by the philosopher in B51, the ‘bow composition’ will be presented as a narrative technique developed by Heraclitus to reveal his conception of the world. In B51 we read: οὐ ξυνιᾶσιν ὅκως διαϕερόμενον ἑωυτῶι ὁμολογέει· παλίντροπος ἁρμονίη ὅκωσπερ τόξου καὶ λύρης (‘They don't understand how what is in variance agrees with itself, a reciprocal stretching harmony as in the bow and the lyre’). Following an assumption that will be defended later, I argue that Heraclitus attempts through his text to demonstrate how ‘what is in variance agrees with itself’. One of his strategies to this end would be the bow composition, a way to structure his statements in which its first and last terms share the same root but have subtle suffix or prefix differences in order to depict that while being related (ὁμολογέει) they still maintain some difference (διαϕερόμενον). By means of employing such structure to describe reality Heraclitus would imitate the world order in his word order by providing his audience with an analogy that once perceived in the text would teach them how to correctly interpret nature itself.

The Watchman's bed is not ‘supervised’ (13 ἐπισκοπουμένην) by dreams; instead, fear ‘stands in attendance’ (14 παραστατεῖ). The images are medical. He is ill; dream-filled sleep would be a good doctor, but the bad doctor fear is already on the job, preventing him from sleeping well.

Only two articles in the past century have attempted reconstructions of this play: Gilbert Norwood in 1930 conjectured a basis in tragic burlesque, specifically a parody of Aeschylus’ Edoni, due largely to the presence of Dionysus and a chorus of Babylonians. An entirely different plot was proposed in 1983 by David Welsh, who took as his starting point Herodotus’ account of the fall of Babylon; he thought that the chorus, envisioned as a group of refugees from the Persian empire, reflected the recent arrival in Athens of the grandson of the Persian primarily credited with the capture of Babylon. Though commentators on Aristophanic comedy and politics often affect to be on firm footing about this play, the total dissimilarity of these two reconstructions actually highlights our ignorance.

Every winter in the classical period, on a specifically chosen day, Athenians gathered together to mourn the men who had died in war. According to Thucydides, the bones of the dead killed in that year lay in state for two days before being carried in ten coffins organized by tribe to the dêmosion sêma where they were buried and then a speech was made in honour of the dead men by a man chosen by the city. As his description makes clear, this ceremony was a public event attended not only by citizens and foreigners, but also by the female relatives of the dead men. Other sources report that the polemarchos put on the agôn for those who died in the war and these contests included musical, athletic and hippic competitions. The war-dead also received sacrifices. The occasion combined burial with cult and games usually afforded to the divine, although how exactly this combination worked in practice is not clear because Thucydides, our single best source for the Epitaphia, focusses on the burial and the oration given by Pericles in the winter at the end of the first year of the Peloponnesian War.

In his account of the events leading up to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides tells us that in 435 b.c. the Epidamnians decided to transfer their allegiance from Corcyra to Corinth in accordance with the Delphic oracle, whereupon the Corinthians agreed to support Epidamnus against their own colony Corcyra. One of the reasons given is that the Corinthians hated the Corcyraeans for their contempt for their mother city, as ‘in their common festivals they would not allow them the customary privileges of founders, at their sacrifice they did not give priority to Corinthians [as other colonies did]’ (οὔτε γὰρ ἐν πανηγύρεσι ταῖς κοιναῖς διδόντες γέρα τὰ νομιζόμενα οὔτε Κορινθίῳ ἀνδρὶ προκαταρχόμενοι τῶν ἱερῶν ὥσπερ αἱ ἄλλαι ἀποικίαι). Precisely what the dispute was and what the word προκατάρχεσθαι means have not been convincingly explained by commentators.

The prospect of human immortality is manifest in many of Plato's writings, appearing as early as the Apology (28c, 41c–d) and the Crito (54b–d), and as late as Book 12 of the Laws (967d). But nowhere is immortality given so much attention, nor as central a place in Plato's philosophical projects, as in what have traditionally been referred to as his Middle Period works, so it is hardly surprising that we find an extensive treatment of the subject of immortality in Socrates’ own encomium in the Symposium (206e–209e). Eros, Socrates tells us, is not merely a desire to possess the good, but one that pushes us towards possessing the good forever (205a, 206a) and, because of this, eros is necessarily a desire for immortality (207a). However, it is evident that Socrates’ presentation of immortality in the Symposium is fundamentally different from those found in other dialogues. This is not merely because in this work alone Socrates attributes the desire for immortality to eros; rather it is also because the nature of the immortality that Socrates recommends here, and the means by which he suggests it is achieved, are wholly unique to this work. Whereas in other dialogues Plato casts his discussions in terms of the persistence of the soul in some super-sensible realm, here he offers a picture of lovers achieving human immortality by creating memorials (μνῆμαι) that will outlast them.

After arriving drunk (‘plastered’ in one translation) at Agathon's party, Alcibiades offers to praise Socrates instead of love, the object of the other characters' praise. In praising Socrates, Alcibiades says that he will have to use images (εἰκόνων, 215a4–5). He assures his companions, however, that this ‘is no joke: the image will be for the sake of the truth’ (ἔσται δ' ἡ εἰκὼν τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἕνεκα, οὐ τοῦ γελοίου, 215a6). Alcibiades goes on to present his famous images of a Socrates who is full of divine images (ἀγάλματα), and who casts spells with his words (λόγοι). Later, Alcibiades describes those words themselves as ‘bursting with images of virtue’ (ἀγάλματ' ἀρετῆς, 222a3–4).

In recent years there has been a renaissance of scholarly interest in Plato's Symposium, as scholars have again begun to recognize the philosophical subtlety and complexity of the dialogue. But despite the quality and quantity of the studies that have been produced few contain an extended analysis of the speech of Aristophanes; an unusual oversight given that Aristophanes' encomium is one of the highlights of the dialogue. In contrast to the plodding and technical speeches that precede it, the father of Old Comedy structures his own speech around a fantastic fable in which he tells how humans, having originally taken the form of comically grotesque ‘circlemen’, assumed their present shape after being divided in two for their impious actions against the gods. This story forms the basis of his discussion of Eros, which he claims is nothing more than a desire to return to our original form (192e–193a). One study on which commentators continue to draw heavily for their own interpretation of Aristophanes' encomium is that of Arlene Saxonhouse. As the title of her article suggests, central to Saxonhouse's analysis is her interpretation of the Net of Hephaestus passage (192c–e), in which Aristophanes suggests that, if offered the chance to be welded together with their beloveds and so become circlemen once more, all humans would leap at the opportunity, thinking that this would be all of the fortune that they could ever desire. For Saxonhouse this passage, more than any other, demonstrates that, on Aristophanes' view, our original nature is one of perfection. According to Saxonhouse, our original form is the telos of human existence and the standard by which we judge the good life, because she understands circlemen as being self-complete beings entirely free from desire and need. Put simply, to be a circleman is to be a perfect being. Eros, on this reading, as the desire for wholeness, is to be praised because it reminds us of our deficiency, and instills in us a desire to actualize our potential for perfection. But unlike Socrates' encomium, which ends with the lover realizing their potential by possessing knowledge of the divine, Saxonhouse believes that the Net of Hephaestus passage lends a tragic end to Aristophanes' speech. For Saxonhouse it is Plato's dirty trick that he turns Aristophanes into a tragedian.

In comparison to the speech of the Laws, the dialectic between Crito and Socrates at the beginning of the Crito has received little attention. In this paper I argue that it contains an important philosophical message. It illustrates that the many's failure to follow Socrates' principles, like his principle of non-retaliation, is due to the intrinsic fragility of true beliefs. Though the many can understand Socrates' values and may accept his principles if he argues with them long enough, they may fail to hold on to his principles when confronted with the difficulties of life. Crito's failure to deliberate Socratically at the beginning of the Crito exemplifies the many's predicament.

We start from a passage in Plato's Cratylus, 393b7–c7. For reasons which will become clear in due course, I give Burnet's text (with the addition of underlinings and apparatus of my own), which differs from that of the more recent OCT edition on an important detail.

The comic dramatists of the fifth century b.c. were notable for their preoccupation with poetics – that is, their frequent references to their own poetry and that of others, their overt interest in the Athenian dramatic festivals and their adjudication, their penchant for parody and pastiche, and their habit of self-conscious reflection on the nature of good and bad poetry. I have already explored these matters at some length, in my study of the relationship between comedy and literary criticism in the period before Plato and Aristotle. This article continues the story into the fourth century and beyond, examining the presence and function of poetical and literary-critical discourse in what is normally called ‘middle’ and ‘new’ comedy.

The ἰαματικά, a collection of seven short epigrams about healing grouped together and so labelled in the Milan papyrus attributed to Posidippus, present another useful source of information about the cult and cures of Asclepius (AB 95–101; P Mil. Vogl. VIII 309, XIV.30–XV.22). Brief though the epigrams are (all are four lines in length except the first, which is eight lines), they accord well with the picture of the cult presented by material, epigraphic and other literary evidence.

Dealing with fragmentary texts is an unavoidable task for anyone working on the Greco-Roman world with the awareness that only a tiny portion of the texts produced in antiquity has survived the perilous process of transmission. Since the Renaissance, generations of scholars have painstakingly collected and sifted quotations, paraphrases and allusions in later authors and grammatical sources, laying the foundation for our knowledge of large parts of that lost world. More recently a spectacular increase was made possible by the papyrological discoveries. Even so, after centuries of explorations in this field, the evidence provided by the indirect sources and, in particular, by the still partly unpublished troves of medieval lexicographical excerpts and compilations is far from having been exhaustively exploited.

Aristotle's Ethica Eudemia (EE) Book 2 Chapter 2 contains, at lines 1220b10–11, a well-known crux in the phrase ἐν τοῖς ἀπηλλαγμένοις. The context makes clear that Aristotle is using this phrase to refer to some writing or other, but scholars have been puzzled both about what the phrase means and what writing it refers to.

The text of Aristotle's Ethica Eudemia (EE) is often in need of emendation, especially because of the particular fault in the manuscripts of misreading one letter for another or misdividing letters to form words. Scholars have already done fine work in correcting many of these errors (especially at the beginning of 8.1), but more needs to be done. A second problem with the text does not have to do with matters of spelling or grammar (or even of punctuation), but rather with those of philosophical sense. For, as scholars have noted, the EE is marked by considerable compression of thought, and this compression leads scholars to propose changes where, on further consideration, it can be shown that not change of words but change of comprehension is needed.

Book 1 of Euclid's Elements opens with a set of unproved assumptions: definitions (ὅροι), postulates, and ‘common notions’ (κοιναὶ ἔννοιαι). The common notions are general rules validating deductions that involve the relations of equality and congruence. The attested postulates are five in number, even if a part of the manuscript tradition adds a sixth, almost surely spurious (‘two straight lines do not contain a space’), that in some manuscripts features as the ninth, and last, common notion. The postulates are called αἰτήματα both in the manuscripts of the Elements and in the ancient exegetic tradition. It is not said, however, that this denomination is original, as it coincides with the nomen rei actae associated with the verbal form introducing the postulates themselves. Since antiquity it has been recognized that the postulates naturally split into two groups of quite different character: the first three are rules licensing basic constructions, the fourth and the fifth are assertions stating properties of particular geometric objects (see Procl. In Euc. 182–4 and 188–93). I transcribe postulates 1–3 in the text established by Heiberg (Euclidis Elementa 1.4.14–5.2):

In the twenty-fourth aporia of Theophrastus' Metaphysics, there appears an important, if ‘bafflingly elliptical’, ascription to Plato and the ‘Pythagoreans’ of a theory of reduction to the first principles via ‘imitation’ (μίμησις):

There is a striking resemblance between the physical theory of Plato's Timaeus and that of the Stoics; striking enough, indeed, to warrant the supposition that the latter was substantially influenced by the former. In attempting to trace the main lines of this influence, scholars have tended to focus attention almost exclusively on the Stoics' choice and characterization of the world's ultimate constituents: a rational principle (strongly reminiscent of Plato's World Soul) that pervades and controls a material principle (reminiscent of Plato's Receptacle). In this paper, I offer some suggestions about how the early Stoics may have reacted as readers to Plato's literary presentation of the dialogue's cosmogonic myth. On this basis I consider the proposal that the crucial philosophical appeal of the Timaeus for the Stoics – and perhaps the reason it attracted their interest in the first place – lay not in its claims about the Receptacle and World Soul, but rather in its portrayal of the Demiurge who designed the cosmos.

The ancient sources tell a particular story about the destiny of the works of Aristotle and Theophrastus after Theophrastus' death. According to information provided mainly by Strabo and Plutarch, the texts produced by the Peripatetic school were lost and unavailable during a period of more than two hundred years, from the time of Neleus, the heir of Theophrastus' library, until Sulla's victory in Athens, in 86 b.c., at the end of his campaign against Mithridates. That was the point at which the private library of a famous bibliophile was confiscated: Apellicon of Teos, who at some time at the beginning of the first century b.c. had acquired the autograph papyri that contained the only copies of Aristotle's and his disciple's works. Sulla, so these sources maintain, recovered then for later generations the so-called ‘esoteric writings’ of Aristotle, and this prepared the ground for the general diffusion of Aristotelian thought, and for the work of Andronicus of Rhodes, whose name has gone down in history as the author of the editio princeps of the Aristotelian Corpus.