An ancient Greek proverb declares: ‘beautiful things are difficult’. One obvious difficulty arises from their almost limitless variety: sights, sounds, people, natural phenomena, man-made objects and abstract ideas may all be beautiful, but what do these things have in common? It is not just beauty's breadth of application, then, that makes it difficult, but the way in which its meaning varies depending on context. The beauty of a child may mean something quite different from the beauty of an old and wizened face, let alone the beauty of a supermodel. In common parlance, beautiful may be used as a general term of approbation alongside others like lovely or fine, while in academic discourse, the word beauty has a life of its own: since the emergence of aesthetics as an independent discipline in the mid eighteenth century, beauty has been constantly theorized and responded to in different ways that have laden the term with its own peculiar historical baggage. And although some of these philosophical reflections on beauty may have trickled into the common cultural consciousness, in general they seem a far cry from beauty's most ubiquitous incarnation in modern Western society, in the cosmetics industry; to put it another way, if you go into a beauty salon in search of a Kantian ideal of disinterested contemplation, I suspect you will be disappointed.

Things in Homer cannot complain about a lack of attention. Nearly forty years ago, Jasper Griffin, in response to the oralist emphasis on composition and formulaic language, drew our attention to the many significant objects populating the Iliad and the Odyssey. Nestor's cup, for example, is so heavy that other men have difficulties to lift it; the cup illustrates the eminence of its owner who rubbed shoulders with the far greater heroes of the past. As Griffin demonstrated, Homer deftly uses the significance of objects to enrich many scenes of his narrative. While the sceptre, symbol of the king's power, underscores the sorry figure cut by Agamemnon in Iliad Book 2, the washing places that Hector passes when he tries to escape Achilles generate a powerful tragic contrast to the battlefield chase in which he is now involved. Following Griffin's lead, scholars have closely examined things and their role in Homeric epic, notably their commemorative function: weapons and other objects have biographies and are therefore an important means of evoking the past besides song.

In the Iliad the Achaean ships play a prominent role in the narrative; they are foregrounded as Achilles sits by his vessels in anger and threatens to sail home; as the Trojans come close to burning them; and as Hector's body lies by Achilles’ ships until ransomed. Where not in the foreground, the ships remain a consistent background; without them the Achaeans would not have reached Troy; they are an essential component of the Greek encampment; and are the unrealized potential vehicle of the Achaean homecoming.

Some classical authors ascribe to Anaximander of Miletus a belief in the existence of infinite worlds. Their testimonies have provoked an extensive discussion on the question of whether Anaximander spoke of successive or coexistent worlds, or perhaps only one world that undergoes changes. Of course, this subject is related to important aspects of archaic cosmologies. First, we need to investigate whether one can even speak of a notion of coexistent worlds prior to atomist theories. Second, the issue of infinite worlds is closely linked to the nature of Anaximander's scheme of the universe and Ionian cosmologies in general. Finally, this matter has a bearing on the subject of the duration or perishing of the world.

In this article I consider five anonymous quotations in Stephanus of Byzantium. The first is very probably an overlooked fragment of early mythography. The other four are much less likely to be early, but theoretically could be and are included for the sake of completeness.

The focus of this note is the simile attached to Menelaus’ wound in Iliad 4 and its Virgilian transformation in Aeneid 12. My goal is to flesh out and specify the sense of the Homeric simile; as the parentheses in my title suggest, I call upon Virgil chiefly as a fellow-interpreter. Since an important part of my argument is that the simile only takes on its full significance when considered in its narrative context, I begin by setting the scene.

The meaning of dēmokratia is widely agreed: ‘rule by the people’ (less often ‘people-power’), where dēmos, ‘people’, implies ‘entire citizen body’, synonymous with polis, ‘city-state’, or πάντες πολίται, ‘all citizens’. Dēmos, on this understanding, comprised rich and poor, leaders and followers, mass and elite alike. As such, dēmokratia is interpreted as constituting a sharp rupture from previous political regimes. Rule by one man or by a few had meant the domination of one part of the community over the rest, but dēmokratia, it is said, implied self-rule, and with it the dissolution of the very distinction between ruler and ruled. Its governing principle was the formal political equality of all citizens. In the words of W.G. Forrest, between 750 and 450 b.c. there had developed ‘the idea of individual human autonomy … the idea that all members of a political society are free and equal, that everyone had the right to an equal say in determining the structure and the activities of his society’.

Herodotus’ fateful tale of the seven Persian emissaries sent to seek Earth and Water from the Macedonian king Amyntes has been the subject of increasingly rich discussion in recent years. Generations of commentators have cumulatively revealed the ironies of Herodotus’ account: its repeated hints, for example, of the Persians’ eventual end; and, crowning all other ironies, the story's ending: that, after resisting the indignity of his female relatives being molested at a banquet, and disposing of all trace of the Persian ambassadors and their party, Alexander of Macedon then arranges his sister's marriage to the leader of the search party sent to investigate his disappeared compatriots (Hdt. 5.21.2). More recent readings have gone further in uncovering the mythological archetypes for the logos, or in tracing its exploration of a number of themes: revenge, guest-friendship, the equation of sexual and military conquest, or the ‘explosion of violence resulting from the contact of two different cultures’. Most fruitful perhaps have been those readings that have seen the logos no longer as a detached ‘short story’ but in its wider context in the Histories: David Fearn, for example, has stressed the need to understand the presentation of Alexander I in the light of what the reader knows of his subsequent history.

In Sophocles’ Oedipus Coloneus, after laying hands on Antigone and Ismene, Creon ridicules Oedipus by saying these words (OC 848–9):

οὔκουν ποτ’ ἐκ τούτοιν γε μὴ σκήπτροιν ἔτι
ὁδοιπορήσῃς.

In Sappho's two-line fragment 115V, an unidentified speaker addresses a lucky bridegroom, wondering how best to describe him; the answer follows immediately:

τίῳ σ᾿, ὦ φίλε γάμβρε, καλῶς ἐικάσδω;
ὄρπακι βραδίνῳ σε μάλιστ᾿ ἐικάσδω.

Dear bridegroom, to what do I best compare you?
I compare you most of all to a delicate branch.

In the interpretation of fragments the omission or neglect of even the most minute detail can lead a scholar to false conclusions or to ill-founded speculations. How careful one must be to draw out every possibility and nuance from every little piece of textual evidence can be seen in the following case. This is the text of Soph. fr. 781 (ed. Radt) as quoted by a late lexicographer (Etym. Magn. s.v. ἔγχος [313.3–4]):

The reconstruction of ensemble d–f of the Akhmîm Papyrus, better known as the Strasbourg Papyrus, which attests approximately eighteen of the over seventy new lines of Empedocles’ physical poem, has drawn the attention of scholars over recent years. Thanks to the good condition of the papyrus and the coincidence with two Empedoclean lines, already known from the indirect tradition, ensemble d–f 1–10a presents a well-restored text and an intelligible sense. In contrast, because of the damaged state of the papyrus, the restoration of d–f 10b–18 is more complicated. These lines seem to describe a life-generative process, but what process was Empedocles talking about? Some resemblances between these papyrus lines and the lines of another Empedoclean fragment, DK 31 B 62, have suggested to scholars, notably to A. Martin and O. Primavesi in 1999 and M. Rashed in 2011, that the lines of the papyrus depict, just like DK 31 B 62, the generation of whole-natured beings (οὐλοφυεῖς; cf. B 62.4). Other scholars, however, such as R. Janko in 2004 (see n. 1) and A. Laks and G.W. Most in 2016, show more caution and leave the possibility open that Empedocles is here talking about the generation of something else.

Scholarship on Ecclesiazusae (as on Wealth) has been largely divided between those who are in favour of a fantastical/positive reading of the play and view it as a celebration of comic energy void of serious social critique, and those who argue for an ironic/satirical interpretation and deem Praxagora's plan as a spectacular failure. The unsuccessful realization of the new political programme is often regarded as a commentary on the state of democracy at the time. Other views are more affirmative of the democratic values of the play: Scholtz claims that the women in Ecclesiazusae succeed into putting into action Lysistrata's dream of a cohesive civic order, although, according to him, the play does not present ‘an unambiguously pro or contra viewpoint vis-à-vis gynaecocratic communalism’. Rothwell believes that the satire is directed against the greedy dēmos rather than against Praxagora's plan. He sees the persuasion exercised by women as ‘a benevolent and indispensable force in democracy’, and argues that the women of Ecclesiazusae, like the women in Lysistrata, strive to assure the continuity of the community; in his view, the play is about ‘the potential advantages of leadership in building a community’. Moodie also outright rejects a threatening or pessimistic reading, and makes the case that the audience is encouraged to take the women seriously as political actors owing to their unusual interaction with the audience and the rupture of dramatic illusion, which creates a rapport between the women and the audience. If the play is subversive, it is so only in its ‘non-satirical presentation of female leadership’.

Gorgias’ On Not-Being survives only in two divergent summaries. Diels–Kranz's classic edition prints the better-preserved version that appears in Sextus’ Aduersus Mathematicos. Yet, in recent years there has been rising interest in a second summary that survives as part of the anonymous De Melisso, Xenophane, Gorgia (= MXG). The text of MXG is more difficult; it contains substantial lacunae that often make it much harder to make grammatical let alone philosophical sense of. As Alexander Mourelatos reports, one manuscript has a scribal note that reads: ‘The original contains many errors; no one should blame me; I just copy what I see.’2 The treatise's state of preservation has aptly prompted Michael Gagarin to liken it to a black hole: ‘something we cannot see directly but know must exist because of certain effects it has on other objects.’3

How are we to understand what happens to Oedipus? What or who is the cause of the terrible deeds—predicted by oracles to both Laius and Oedipus—that he has already committed before the play begins and that are revealed in its course? The purpose of the present essay, whose title alludes to a well-known article by E.R. Dodds, is to draw attention to aspects of the play that have been ignored or explained away. To give them their due it will be necessary to take issue with two views of Dodds (one of which he owes to Wilamowitz) that I regard as mistaken. To argue against an article that is more than fifty years old might be thought a pointless exhumation, but Dodds's highly influential formulations, I will argue, have caused what Sophocles wrote to be either overlooked or misconstrued and are still causing misunderstanding in the second decade of the present century. It is time these views were examined critically.

This paper discusses the problem of Democritus’ allegoresis. The question whether Democritus practised allegoresis is usually answered affirmatively. Thus, for example, Jean Pépin, in his classic work on the development of allegorical interpretation, forcefully asserts that ‘Démocrite pratiqua d'abord une allégorie physique’ and that ‘il poursuivit aussi l'allégorie psychologique’. In one way or another, this view has been embraced by Luc Brisson, Ilaria Ramelli, Ilaria Ramelli and Giulio Lucchetta, Gerard Naddaf, to name just a few scholars who have recently examined the issue. However, those who find allegoresis in Democritus are often somewhat perplexed at what they discover. For instance Naddaf, in his otherwise excellent study, assumes that ‘Democritus believed that Homer was indeed a visionary sage with a privileged utterance that he intentionally transmitted allegorically’, upon which he concludes that Democritus’ position is ‘inconsistent and disconcerting given his place in the pantheon of Ionian rationalism’. This shows that the claim that Democritus practised allegoresis stumbles upon the following problem: if Democritus was a rationalist, then the question arises how his rationalism can be reconciled with his alleged belief that Homer deliberately disguised his poems as allegorical prefigurations of various Democritean views. Indeed, one may legitimately ask how rational it would be on Democritus’ part to ascribe to Homer the intention of being interpreted as a precursor of atomist philosophy. The purpose of the present paper is to shed some light on this conundrum and to offer a reconsideration of certain accounts that have been suggested so far.

Recent scholarship on Plato's Cratylus (= Cra.) has yielded interpretations that assign various functions of philosophical importance to the dialogue's lengthy etymological section. Barney (2001) considers the section an ‘agonistic display’ (69–73) in which Socrates beats contemporary practitioners of etymology at their own game while, at the same time, offering a cosmological theory intended for serious intellectual competition. In this context, Barney emphasizes the importance of Parmenides, a charioteer who journeys towards Truth, as a literary point of reference for Socrates’ own etymological quest after the true meaning of names which, from Cratylus’ naturalist perspective on language, are considered indicative of their referents’ essential nature. The contents of the etymologies may be a ‘rational reconstruction’ (52–7) of Cratylus’ linguistic naturalism. Sedley (2003) stresses the encyclopedic character of Socrates’ lexical interpretations and argues that these are ‘exegetically correct’ (28) in representing the opinions of the name-givers of old who subscribed to a Heraclitean view of a world in flux, as is reflected in the original form of the names they devised. Ademollo (2011) stresses that Socrates’ etymologies display the evolution of Greek intellectual thought, shown to be heavily reliant on the assumption of a universe in flux, and serve to exhibit the weaknesses in Cratylus’ naturalist view of language.

The third stasimon of Oedipus Rex (OT) is the climax of the play, separating the conversation with the Corinthian messenger from the interrogation of the shepherd, so crucial for the narrative. Indeed, the question τίς σε, τέκνον, τίς σ’ ἔτικτε, critical for the plot, comes right at the beginning of its antistrophe. Sophocles, however, offers no easy answer to it. Instead, he provides yet another narrative misdirection, one that—for the last time—suggests that the paths of the king of Thebes and of his predecessor may have been divergent: the possibility that Oedipus’ divine ancestry would question the prophecy of Apollo. After enumerating Pan, Hermes and Apollo himself as possible parents, the song also mentions Dionysus and the ‘Heliconian nymphs’. The reference to Helicon has perplexed the readers for many years, since the text seems to focus on Cithaeron as the ‘birthplace’. As a result, editions and translations prefer the conjecture ἑλικωπίδων (Νυμφᾶν) proposed by U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff in 1879, over Ἑλικωνί(α)δων, the form present in all manuscripts. In this paper I argue that an analysis of our sources for Heliconian cults, an assessment of the performative context, and a close reading of the stasimon and its place in the narrative, all suggest that the manuscript reading should be retained.

The Protagoras is a contest of philosophical methods. With its mix of μῦθος and λόγος, Protagoras’ Great Speech stands as a competing model of philosophical discourse to the Socratic elenchus. While the mythical portion of the speech clearly impresses its audience—Socrates included—one of its central claims appears to pass undefended. This is the claim that the political art cannot be distributed within a community as the technical arts are. This apparent shortcoming of the Great Speech does not seem to trouble philosophical commentators: it is a myth, after all, and it seems reasonable to suppose that the sly sophist slips certain claims into his myth precisely to avoid having to defend them. Nevertheless, it is worth subjecting the claim to philosophical scrutiny. What could be the reason that the political art had to be distributed differently than were the technical arts, as the myth insists?

Though Plato's Phaedo does not focus on pleasure, some considerable talk on pleasure takes place in it. Socrates argues for the soul's immortality and, while doing so, hopes to highlight to his companions how important it is to take care of our soul by focussing on the intellect and by neglecting the bodily realm as far as is possible in this life. Doing philosophy, so his argument goes, is something like dying, if we grant that death is the separation of the soul from the body and notice that genuine philosophers wish nothing else than to be detached from the bodily realm. For indulging into bodily pleasures has detrimental consequences on the soul, impeding the search of truth and distorting reality, and so philosophers should undertake to purify themselves from all bodily concerns and gratifications and love the objects of learning and knowledge without deviation and distraction. On the contrary, ordinary people fall for the bodily realm as the only real domain that should therefore be of priority and of their earnest concern.