Aristotle’s theory of human happiness explicitly depends on the claim that intellectual contemplation is peculiar to human beings, whether it is our ergon (work, function, characteristic activity) or only part of it. But there is a notorious problem: Aristotle says that divine beings also contemplate. For this reason, many interpreters affirm the Divinity Thesis: Contemplation is not proper to human beings, for divine beings engage in it, too. The Divinity Thesis thwarts solving the Conjunctive Problem. Drawing on an analysis of what divine contemplation involves according to Aristotle, I argue that he rejects the Divinity Thesis. This opens the door to an account of what is proper to humans that is able to solve the Conjunctive Problem.

The figures of Dido and Aeneas in Aeneid 4 illustrate how Virgil adopts Stoic belief in human responsibility. Dido’s naturally determined disposition to fall in love with Aeneas is indeed Homerically co-motivated with Venus and Juno (who can be viewed as Stoic ‘impressions’), but she allows it to resist ‘incognitively’ what she knows from Aeneas and the prophets is fate, Aeneas’ duty to ‘follow Italy’. She is ‘dragged’ by fate through her own noble disposition when she realises her wrongdoing and wishes for her death. Otherwise, her career and her curses on Rome illustrate perfectly the Stoic chain of fate’s causality. Aeneas, despite his growing knowledge of his fate and his natural disposition to fulfil it, at first rejects it because of his Stoically ‘incognitive’ loneliness. In his speech to Dido, he reveals that his assent to fate is still shaky when he states that he is not following Italy ‘of my own will’. The oak simile captures his situation: ‘his mind remains unmoved, tears roll to no purpose.’ But after Mercury urges him to perform his duty to fate, he obeys, ‘rejoicing’ , finally giving his assent to fate, but remaining very much a Stoic ‘moral progressor’.

This chapter described in detail the nature of Second Style Roman frescoes. It details the aesthetic and psychological impact such works must had exercised upon viewers. It provides examples, analysed in depth, of how often complex and subtle depictions of imaginary architecture were used to create a highly theatricalised ambience. It details the role of theatrical practice and example which may be identified in such painting and how the evidence for this can be seen reflected in both their design and meaning.

This chapter moves from the physical and visual aspects of the theatre to discuss the nature and varieties of performance as these may have been experienced by ancient spectators, while taking into account too what we believe we know about the cultural role of theatrical and spectacle entertainments. The various diverse forms of theatrical performance are detailed included Atellan farce, mime and shows in the arena. We discuss the varieties of scenic provision, and also explore the nature of the theatricalised experience and perception of ancient spectators. We describe at length the particularly important and highly popular art of pantomime.

I argue that Aristotle thinks of perception as veridical, and that phantasia – as a secondary motion consequent on perception – is responsible for all sensory error. I neutralize passages where Aristotle seems to countenance misperception by defending what I call an “object-oriented reading,” which holds that though Aristotle says we can make errors about the objects of perception, he is not committed to thinking that we can perceive them erroneously, as there are faculties besides perception (including phantasia) that engage with the objects of perception. According to the object-oriented reading, apparent misperception results when a false phantasia is mistaken for a perception, something that is possible due to the similarities between perception and phantasia. Nonetheless, since the faculties are distinct, perception remains veridical. I also address how this conception of phantasia can explain Aristotle’s appeals to phantasia in contexts like memory, thought, and animal motion.

Aristotle's De Anima discusses the psychological causes of what he calls locomotion – i.e, roughly, purpose-driven behavior. One cause is desire. The other is cognition, which falls into two kinds: thought (nous) and imagination (phantasia). Aristotle’s discussion is dense and confusing, but I argue that we can extract from it an account that is coherent, compelling, and that in many ways closely anticipates modern psychological theories, in particular Dual Processing theory. Animals and humans are driven to pursue objects that attract us. Objects take on that power when we cognize them as valuable. If we rely on imagistic, automatic, uncontrolled processing mechanisms – Aristotle’s phantasia, which closely anticipates the modern notion of Type 1 processing – our resulting desires and actions will be impulsive. If we rely instead on rational, critical, deliberative capacities – Aristotle’s thought, which closely anticipates the modern notion of Type 2 processing – our resulting desires and actions will be reflective. Animals are capable only of the first kind of behavior; the human psyche is constituted of an animal psyche united with an intellectual one, so we are capable of both.

This chapter surveys archaic and classical Greek ideas about music and memory. It first asks why song-producers and audiences, while readily acknowledging the effectiveness and value of music’s verbal components as preservers and enhancers of memory, do not seem to recognize the purely musical elements as being especially “memorable.” Second, I turn toAristotle, seeking to piece together how he thinks music – along with “voice” and sounds in general – functions in relation to memory, primarily through the psychological-somatic workings of the human “imagination,” i.e., his notions of affect (pathos) and phantasia. Even while Aristotle does not address musical memory directly, his work provides a sophisticated account of the material and physiological processes whereby hearing and memory operate in humans and other animals – adumbrating modern accounts based on a more accurate understanding of neurology and cognition. At the same time, since ancient music was experienced live (rather than through recordings or broadcasts) and could never be exactly repeated, there existed a different relationship between present and past in music-listening than most of us are used to today.

Chapter 6 concludes the discussion of lexis by focusing on metaphor, the linguistic and stylistic element par excellence treated under the notion of lexis. Unlike other linguistic phenomena, metaphor is not tied to a single form or genre but is listed in every enumeration of linguistic means available to the author of a poetic or rhetorical composition. This final chapter highlights the reason for the special place Aristotle assigns to metaphor by looking at it from the point of view of lexis and by examining it in the light of the excellence of lexis, as well as of mimēsis and energeia. Not only does this allow for a new approach to metaphor, but it also highlights the benefits of a three-level approach to Aristotle’s concept of lexis.

Chapter 5 is a direct continuation of the stylistic features discussed in Chapter 4. Rather than focusing on intra-textual aspects, though, this chapter looks at the extra-textual factors medium, hypokrisis (delivery) and audience, all of which further influence lexis on its third level. The chapter finishes with an examination of the purpose and function of lexis on its third level.

The Epilogue briefly explores some of the ramifications of a provocative recent article on the aesthetic spectacle of violence in Statius’ Thebaid and modern action film. While acknowledging the central importance of aesthetics in literary depictions of violence, the Epilogue argues that allusions to contemporary historical violence that punctuate ‘fictionalized’ epics like Statius’ Thebaid ask us to think more critically about abuses in the real world, problematizing, perhaps, our role as detached audience.