We're
All Homer's Children
Life as battle, life as journey,
and the epics that gave us both metaphors.
HOMER'S
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY
A Biography by Alberto Manguel, Atlantic
Monthly. 285 pp. $19.95
Reviewed by Tracy Lee Simmons
(originally published in the Washington
Post, Sunday, March 9, 2008)
The English novelist and essayist Maurice Baring
is often credited with the quip that it wasn't
Homer who composed the Iliad and the Odyssey,
but another man of the same name. Regardless
of who said it, we get the joke. Homer, the
Ur-poet of Western civilization -- and usually
the first author listed on any Western Civ syllabus
-- has over two and a half millennia become
a legend, not a personage whose life we can
chart more or less accurately. Even in Aristotle's
day, as imagined by Rembrandt, Homer was already
an icon, a bust, an object of distant veneration.
Over the centuries many sleuthing scholars have
surmised that the blind bard never existed,
that he was an artful composite of multiple
poets: a grand idea, not a grand man.
That
we shall never know the truth makes this mystery
all the more enticing. So instead of penning
a biography of Homer, a fairly impossible task
likely to produce thin work anyway, the Argentinean
critic and translator Alberto Manguel offers
a so-called biography of the epic poems themselves,
and it turns out that we find in their lives
reaching back over 2,000 years all the complexity
and contradictions of any eminent life, and
then some.
But
of course Manguel begins with the man belonging
to history, the poet himself -- or herself,
or themselves. Theories regarding the identity
of Homer vary widely, we might even say extravagantly.
We have the now traditional story that he was
a blind rhapsodist who lived centuries after
the events surrounding the Trojan War he recounts
in the Iliad-- though Eratosthenes,
otherwise known as the man who first measured
the circumference of the earth, believed Homer
to have lived contemporaneously with Achilles
and Hector. We have the provocative notion propounded
by Samuel Butler in the 19th century that the
author of the Odyssey, in particular,
was an authoress. And the idea -- widely accepted
today -- that Homer was, in effect, a committee
of poets, a chorus of generations. He is the
first and perhaps most conspicuous asterisk
attached to literature. Seven places vie for
the honor of his birthplace -- Smyrna, Chios,
Colophon, Salamis, Rhodes, Argos and Athens
-- and the unlikelihood of pinning it down lends
support, if not proof, to the position that
Homer the person is utterly unknowable.
Such
cannot be said of the poems, peopled with that
"spectacle of human shadows," which
have been woven deeply into the fabric of the
Western mind, a legacy that began with the ancients.
The 5th-century B.C. poet Aeschylus claimed
that all his plays were merely "slices
from the great banquets of Homer." Homer
provided object lessons for philosophers: Plato
mentioned him no fewer than 331 times in his
dialogues. To Greeks of the generation that
fought the Persian Wars, memorizing vast swaths
of the Homeric poems and being able to comment
on them with facility constituted a liberal
education in itself. When the Romans gained
both political power and cultural hegemony,
they too considered Homer's works the basis
of all schooling -- though they emphasized the
moral lessons to be derived more avidly than
the Greeks had done -- and their own masterwork,
Virgil's Aeneid, is unthinkable without
the literary patterns set by the Iliad
and the Odyssey.
Manguel
spends the balance of his book throwing pleasing
light on the many ways these poems have come
down to us through the years. Christians spun
them out for their own purposes, Muslims for
theirs. As with all literature of cultural consequence
and high imaginative wattage, Homer has had
to be rediscovered in every generation, each
taking him to be speaking to itself uniquely.
In the Middle Ages, Dante kept him elevated
in the pantheon of luminous spirits of the past,
and the unearthing of Greek texts (they had
been known mostly through Latin translations
until the 15th century) served as a spur to
the Renaissance. Milton wrote with epic Homeric
aspirations. English literature is barely imaginable
without Alexander Pope's translation of the
Iliad and its influence on Keats, among
others, and certainly the history of the 20th
century would have been singularly different
had we been deprived of that benchmark of modernism,
James Joyce's Ulysses. This isn't just
a matter of toting up allusions; every writer
since the Iliad and the Odyssey
were composed belongs to the fraternity of the
Homeridae, the descendants of Homer.
Yet
it's the residue these poems have left on our
imagination, the echoes they have sent vibrating
through our minds, that most recommends them
to us now and always. They have provided two
of our guiding metaphors -- life as a battle
(Iliad) and life as a journey (Odyssey);
Troy has come to stand for every city and Odysseus
for Everyman. They gave us a vocabulary of human
struggle and hope. As Manguel says, long ago,
with these poems, "we already had words
to name our most bewildering experiences and
our deepest and most obscure emotions."
More than one perspicacious reader through the
ages has noted that these two majestic stories
carry an eerie, discomfiting open-endedness.
With all their warring and wandering, with all
their tears and triumphs, the poems of Homer
end, but they don't quite resolve. In that way,
they're like much of life itself. *
The
Odyssey of Homer, by N. C. Wyeth
Tracy
Lee Simmons is the author of "Climbing
Parnassus" and director of the Dow Journalism
Program at Hillsdale College. Following in an
interview that first appeared in Interrrogatory
September 4 , 2002 Q&A by Kathryn Jean Lopez
Greek
to You
Is classical education dead?
Tracy
Lee Simmons, an NR contributor, is
director of the Dow Journalism Program at Hillsdale
College. He holds a master's degree from Oxford
in the classics and is author of Climbing Parnassus:
A New Apologia for Greek and Latin.
Kathryn
Jean Lopez: When you write about classical
education you mean more than learning enough
Latin to help with the SATs. What is a classical
education?
Tracy
Lee Simmons: This was the Humanist's
education, in the sense in which Erasmus and
Thomas More were Humanists. A classical education
used to mean simply a curriculum based upon
Greek and Latin. Of course, that curriculum
also included math, history, and literature,
but they were secondary; the two ancient languages
were primary. Greek and Latin were what made
the curriculum classical, nothing else.
Unfortunately, as I say in the book, a classical
education can mean lots of things these days,
practically everything from Shakespeare to phonics.
But, on the upper end, most definitions seem
to have in common a fairly demanding curriculum
and a serious reconnection to the history of
the Western world — but often without
the languages themselves. I think this is deadly,
because it excludes the rigor. Over time it
gives us the illusion of knowing things we don't.
So I've tried to reemphasize Greek and Latin
as being vital, in fact central, to a classical
education. It's not really my definition, mind
you. It's what everyone from T. S. Eliot on
back for hundreds of years would have recognized.
A classical education forms the mind by classical
models of thought and language and gives us
a past.
Lopez:
Should everyone be getting a classical education,
to some degree? Where do you start in terms
of grade/age level?
Simmons:
Well, after admitting, as we should, that no
time is too late to start — high school,
college, or later — we must also acknowledge
a few humbling facts. If the classical languages
are to serve their formative function,
a training in them should begin as early as
possible. It's still common in European countries,
for instance, to begin Latin around the age
of ten, and that's usually after the child has
already begun a second modern language. Let's
not kid ourselves: that kind of schooling is
not merely different from ours, it's superior.
Children end up maturing sooner and knowing
more. Who should get a classical education?
In a perfect world, everyone would have a shot
at it, at least at the beginning. But the real
answer is, whoever can. That is, whoever is
blessed with a good mind, as well as with the
advantages of good schools with traditional
values and practices — remember,
we need both. Where Latin is still available
in America, students still start somewhere near
the ninth grade. That's okay, but it's later
than it needs to be. Under the older system,
which some American schools followed, a Latin
student could be reading Virgil — or a
Greek student, Homer — by that stage.
I see no reason to waste time the way we do
in this country, though we can see where we've
gone wrong. If we're not worried about the immediate
and obvious utility of a subject, we're worried
that our children will feel bad about themselves
if they don't get straight-A's. Both motives
are low and unbecoming, and they don't, as we
say now, send a very good message to young people
about the life of the mind.
Lopez:
What are the current trends? Who is getting
classical educations? Who is studying Greek
and Latin?
Simmons:
Again, whoever can. It's a parched world out
there, but there are signs of hope. The Catholic
schools could once be counted on at least for
teaching Latin, if not Greek, and many still
do. But you find a disturbing number of Catholic
schools getting rid of Latin, and failing to
stress it where it survives, which means of
course that it probably won't survive very long.
Many homeschoolers are trying to provide Latin,
and mostly for all the right reasons. But if
the parents haven't had Latin, or not much of
it, they can't take their children very far
without expert tutoring. The best places remain
good private schools where, for whatever reasons,
the good and rigorous subjects remain and are
well taught by extraordinary, if underpaid,
teachers. Those schools are out there. You even
see Latin returning here and there to public
schools, and that should put the Catholic schools
to shame.
Lopez:
Among the advantages of Greek and Latin is the
discipline that comes with memorization. Rote
learning is out these days. Is a comeback possible?
Simmons:
Yes, I think a comeback of rote is probable.
The Gross National Stupidity might force the
issue. To say that Latin helps your English
is to say the least, but it still doesn't say
much. More disturbingly, people are beginning
to see that their intelligent children don't
know very much. Here they are, with minds as
strong as any the world has seen, and those
minds simply don't contain very much, nor are
they very well molded. And they've frittered
away their childhoods on public-school silliness
like multiculturalism and time-wasting projects
instead of reading books. They know things,
but they haven't learned much systematically.
If they had taken, say, French and Latin by
the age of twelve — along with Algebra
I — they'd not only know all that comes
with them; they'd have gained the ability to
teach themselves whatever comes along. Rote
memorization is a prerequisite to real knowledge.
As my colleague Jeff Hart has said, what else
are you supposed to do with French irregular
verbs? Well, use them, obviously. But first
you must learn them, and that can be hard work
for a
while.
Lopez:
You say this is all a lost cause, don't you?
Is it really? Then what are your goals?
Simmons:
It's mostly a lost cause, but not completely.
It's certainly a lost cause as far as the educational
establishment — the NEA and AFT and so
forth — is concerned. Talking to them
is like talking to a mud fence. I guess my goal
is to encourage the creation of a remnant of
those who know what's good and what will promote
a healthy society, which is of course healthy,
intelligent individuals, not big schemes for
social improvement. We need to start small.
And since I've pretty much given up on the education
establishment to reinstate some decency, I suppose
we must form a dis-establishment of civilized
people. It's possible. Maybe we'll need to return
to monastic schools, where the mind and soul
are formed together. That would be best. The
Benedictines have had it right for 1,500 years.
They brought salvation, sanity, and civilization
— not a bad deal, all things considered.
Lopez:
You teach college students. How much enthusiasm
to they have for classics?
Simmons:
Here's another reason why this is not a completely
lost cause. I see tremendous enthusiasm for
classics, at Hillsdale College and elsewhere.
When I was an undergraduate, twenty years ago,
most classics students I knew studied classics
in order to become classical scholars, or at
least classics teachers. Now I see undergraduates
— and remember, I teach journalism and
writing, not Greek and Latin — who wish
to major or minor in classics and carry that
credential with them for the rest of their lives,
to take it to their professions, professional
schools, what have you. They're not worried
about their curriculum helping them to get jobs.
They want to be complete as intelligent beings.
That makes them a cut above my self-serving
group. I can't tell you how much I admire them
for that.
Lopez:
Where would you send parents who want to ensure
their kids get a classical education or some
sort?
Simmons:
Start from home. As I said before, some public
and parochial schools continue to retain their
classics, and they might be just around the
corner. You may not need to go to an expensive
private boarding school. Here's one sign to
watch: generally, the earlier the students start
their languages, with grammar and everything,
the better and more serious the program is likely
to be. Be wary of those who prefer smiling children
to intelligent children; same with adolescents,
only more so. Be careful with those schools
offering Latin because it's a current fad; they
must be committed to it, regardless of what
the latest studies are saying. Incidentally,
make sure that the parents aren't running the
school, because that's a recipe for an oozing
demise of anything like real education. Sad
to say, the average Baby Boomer parent these
days is as ignorant of the goals of a humane
education as children are, and good things and
good people always get hurt when ignorant busybodies
prevail. If your local private school isn't
offering Latin, be bold and ask the headmaster
or principal why, and watch him squirm. Often
the reasons are not very good, and usually schools
that provide more computer training than intellectual
formation are ensuring a lifetime of mediocrity
for those children. If that's what you want,
go for it. Otherwise, politely walk away.
Lopez:
How has the decline in classical education effected
modern thought?
Simmons:
The decline of classics has made us more trivial,
less weighty, in our thinking, and certainly
less wise. The decline of the serious study
of rhetoric, for example, has reduced politics
to sound bites and number-crunching. We don't
see many statesmen about nowadays. We don't
care if politicians talk like snake-oil salesmen,
but we should. I suppose that a more direct
effect of that decline is its exposing us to
pseudo-sophisticated language of the kind we
get from the social sciences, like psychology
and sociology: if it sounds scientific, we think,
it must be intelligent. Anyone with a humanistic
education would see through that very quickly
— and act accordingly.
Lopez:
What's the relation between virtue and the classical
languages?
Simmons:
Well, that's the best question of all. The wisest
ancients, both sacred and secular, sought as
their social ideal the good man or woman who
could speak well. A clever use of words wasn't
enough; one had to use words for right and good
ends. And when we study the classics now, we
can't help but notice the preoccupation with
the connection between virtue and eloquence.
Men of the Renaissance understood this as well,
as did almost everyone till the 19th century.
John Henry Newman — who, as a Greek scholar,
was very much the believer in classical education
— lived to see that idea slipping away.
Also, the ancients have taught us to distrust,
or at least question, our emotions, our passions,
which they seemed to consider guilty until proven
innocent. That would be heresy on the afternoon
talk show circuit now but, between Seneca and
Oprah, I know whom I'd rather trust.
Lopez:
When did your interest in everything classic
first take root?
Simmons:
I really can't remember. It must have started
with tales of Greek mythology I saw in children's
books; I recall liking the quasi-biblical quality
of those stories. They were foreign and familiar
at the same time. Then watching Ben Hur,
The Robe, and films like that. Then, after
I started Latin, I noticed the way that that
marvelous language opened up the world of words
to me more intensely, and I guess I was hooked.
There were no epiphanies; it was gradual. To
be honest, in the earlier years of school, classics
was mostly work, but I must have had some tiny
talent with it all. Not until much later, in
my mid-twenties, did I look back and see all
I had gained. I would be a different human being
altogether without classics. I agree with C.
S. Lewis, who once said that losing Latin and
Greek would be like losing a limb.
Lopez:
WFB wrote the intro to your book. How did you
first come to know him?
Simmons:
He tells the story of our meeting in the foreword.
I wrote a review of one of his sailing books,
he wrote to me, and a month later I was writing
and editing for National Review. It
was a fantastic opportunity, and I'll be forever
grateful to him. And, in a sense, Climbing
Parnassus was his idea. I must have talked
a good deal about my devotion to the classics,
and he said what he often does to others taken
with something: Make it solid, write it up.
It made all the sense in the world for him to
write the foreword. I was, and am, honored.
Lopez:
Besides him, of course — who are you favorite
modern writers? Clear thinking, classically
trained, you'd want to hand a high-school or
college student?
Simmons:
Well, surely I've already said enough. But among
modern writers of the older set, you can't easily
go wrong with T. S. Eliot, Evelyn Waugh, or
Graham Greene. I always go back them. For today,
Jacques Barzun is the finest voice we have.
Victor Davis Hanson is writing the best war
commentary conceivable. But I try not to let
the fact that they were all classically trained
prejudice my opinion!
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