Sappho from ground zero

December 28, 2023, revised December 21, 2024

By Gregory Nagy

“Sappho” (1888). Gustav Klimt (1862–1918).
Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Preface

This book about the songs of Sappho is one of three interrelated volumes published online by Classical Continuum in 2023 and revised in 2024 for printed versions published by ΕΠΟΨ Publishers in 2025.

As I declare already in the title of this book, Sappho from ground zero, my primary aim here is to reconstruct, as far back in time as possible, the very beginnings of traditions in songmaking that culminated in Sappho’s poetic language. The beginnings—and that would be ground zero—are for the most part unreachable, and even the text of most of her songs has not survived. Nevertheless, reconstructions backward in time can still aim at ground zero. In the Introduction, I will explain further what I mean, based on my early academic formation as a linguist.

The other two books in this set of three books about Sappho are organized as a pair. Even their titles are paired. Sappho I, Version Alpha via Beta: Essays on ancient performances of her songs is matched with Sappho II, Version Beta: Essays on ancient imitations of her songs. Each one of those two books can be read independently of the present book, or of each other, though all three books, in their online versions as first published in the last month of 2023, are provided with cross-references by way of links. The links also keep track of the older as well as the newer online content of each essay. Even in the printed versions of these three books, cross-references to online content—newer or older—are retained.

Wherever I simply cross-refer from one book to another in this set of three books, my format for citation will be in short-hand: Sappho 0, Sappho I, Sappho II. For readers of the printed versions of these three books, I should add that none of them needs an Index, since the corresponding online versions, all three of which are available gratis via https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu, are completely “searchable.”

Introduction

0§1. What remains of the ancient text of songs attributed to Sappho is unfortunately most fragmentary. So, the research that has been done in modern times on her songmaking—on her poetics—is in its own way full of holes. My own relevant research is no exception, and I address in this book some of my concerns about the near-impossibility of aiming to paint a big picture of Sappho—a picture to be viewed by experts and non‑experts alike. To symbolize such concerns, I choose as the featured image for this book here not an ancient painting that represents Sappho—which is what I have done in the case of the book titled Sappho I—but a modern painting that can be viewed as a whimsical substitute for my own near-impossible big picture. That said, however, I need to proceed beyond such picturings from the modern or near-modern world and to catch at least a glimpse of what I call metaphorically the big picture of Sappho in the ancient world.

0§2. As I write this, I find that there continues to be much disagreement about Sappho in the academic world that I inhabit—disagreement about her, about her life and times, and even about her poetics. But there is room for more agreement, I think, about Sappho’s poetic language, and it is her language, in fact, that I hope to foreground in my approach to Sappho in this book. The approach I take is based primarily on linguistics, especially comparative linguistics. My early formation as an academic was in fact grounded in linguistics, not so much in “classical” studies—I use the word “classical” here in a narrow sense. That said, though, I must add that my later academic formation was in fact also shaped by classical studies in the broader sense of this same word “classical,” where the classics of ancient Greece and Rome can be compared with the classics of other traditional worlds. In my case, most of my comparative research in studying classical languages writ large involved, on the one hand in Greek, the poetic language of Homer and Sappho, especially as exemplified in the Homeric Iliad and in Song 44 of Sappho, and, on the other hand, in Indic, the poetic language of the Rig-Veda, a body of hymns composed in the most ancient attested form of Sanskrit. A prime example of this research is a book of mine, originally published in 1974, titled Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter. That book, as we will see, turns out to be foundational for my overall argumentation here in this book Sappho 0, first published in 2023. As this Introduction proceeds, I hope to situate more precisely the importance, for me, of such comparanda.

0§3. In analyzing the poetic language of Sappho, I engage in two kinds of reconstruction—both backward in time and forward in time. The first kind is so obvious that there seems at first to be no real need for any definition. An expected kind of definition, in any case, would be something like this: when we reconstruct any structure backward in time, our aim is to recover the original of that structure, which is expected to exist at ground zero. As for reconstructing forward in time, on the other hand, the aim is to trace the evolution of the given structure by starting from the original and working our way forward in time in order to see how the original structure survives in derivative structures.

0§4. But there is a big problem with both of these working definitions, and it centers on the very idea of a structure that is supposed to be original. In terms of comparative linguistic analysis, for example, the reconstructing of any given structure in language can go back in time only to earlier structures, without ever reaching, chronologically, an original structure—unless such a structure can be historically verified as a foundational status quo.

0§5. Given that the reconstruction of Sappho’s poetic language backward in time cannot recover an absolute chronological ground zero, I am aware that my reconstructing forward in time is limited to a continuation from ground zero without actually starting at any datable “origin.”

0§6. As I noted at the outset, there remains much disagreement in the academic world about the poetics of Sappho and about Sappho herself. But there is considerable agreement, however hesitantly expressed, about assigning an approximate historical date for her reconstructed life and times. That date is generally understood to hover somewhere around 600 BCE—though the traditions of songmaking that made Sappho’s poetic language possible must surely be older, dating back far earlier—so much earlier that such traditions cannot even be traced back chronologically to any absolute point zero that could be verifiable.

0§7. That said, though, I take as a hypothetical given the general dating that is conventionally posited by most expert researchers in search of a historical Sappho, to be dated around 600 BCE. And I will focus on a place where my own reconstruction of Sappho’s songmaking could be historically contextualized. I save the details for later, but I anticipate the essentials already here. The place I have in mind can best be described as a ‘middle ground’—which is actually the meaning of an ancient Greek place-name, Messon. In Modern Greek, the name that the local population today give to the same place is Mesa. This place is situated at the center of the island known as Lesbos in ancient Greek—or Lesvos in Modern Greek. In ancient times, there existed at Messon a precinct that was sacred to the gods, and this precinct was a place where songs of Sappho were in those ancient times sung—as well as danced. What I just said is not just a claim. As I will argue in this book, it is a fact. That is to say, there is historical and even archaeological evidence for arguing that the sacred precinct of Messon was in ancient times a venue for the performances of Sappho’s songs.

0§8. In making such an argument, I have drawn on three old essays of mine, previously published online as well as in print. In the Bibliography for my book here, I have listed under my name those three essays and have dated them to the year of online publication. In all three essays I delved into the historical context of Messon as a venue for the singing—and dancing—of Sappho’s songs. I also list those same essays here:

#A. 2007. “Lyric and Greek Myth.” https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-lyric-and-greek-myth/.

#B. 2007/2009. “Did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet? Symmetries of myth and ritual in performing the songs of ancient Lesbos.” https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-did-sappho-and-alcaeus-ever-meet-symmetries-of-myth-and-ritual-in-performing-the-songs-of-ancient-lesbos/.

#C. 2015. “A poetics of sisterly affect in the Brothers Song and in other songs of Sappho.” https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-a-poetics-of-sisterly-affect-in-the-brothers-song-and-in-other-songs-of-sappho/.

The links to those essays, as I just listed them, point to old and by now archived open-access online versions. All three of those old essays have now been rewritten and absorbed into my new book here, Sappho 0. The essays #A and #B and #C are now rewritten here as Essays 1/2 and Essay 3 and Essay 4 respectively. For reasons that I will explain presently, I have split my old essay #A into Essay 1 and Essay 2.

0§9. In the original versions of my essays #A and #B and #C, I found that the specific context of Messon in Lesbos was an ideal point of departure for my reconstructing the overall context of Sappho’s songmaking. In my reshaping of those essays for Sappho 0, however, I now prefer to build gradations into my presentation, starting from basic descriptions and then proceeding to detailed analysis. In the course of reading Sappho 0, the reader will find that the context of Messon will be studied in progressively deeper detail.

0§10. That said, I should add that Sappho’s songmaking obviously needs to be studied not only in the specific context of Messon but also in the general context of the overall poetic traditions that shaped such songmaking. At the very start of this book, I referred to such general context as the “big picture.” In the rewritten versions of the old essays #A and #B and #C, now absorbed into Sappho 0 as new Essays 1 and 2 and 3 and 4, I hope to provide such general context.

0§11. Next, I turn to introducing Essays 5, 6, and 7. By way of introduction, I need to start with some further bibliographical background. I will now list, within a time frame separating February 2015 from February 2017, a series of twenty-three studies related directly or indirectly to my attempts at recovering the big picture, as I have called it, of Sappho’s songmaking. Here is the list, in chronological order of publication:

#1. 2015.02.27. “Song 44 of Sappho and the Role of Women in the Making of Epic.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-and-the-role-of-women-in-the-making-of-epic/.

#2. 2015.06.01. “Herodotus and a courtesan from Naucratis.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/herodotus-and-a-courtesan-from-naucratis/. The most relevant part of the content here is about a courtesan named Rhodôpis, loved by Kharaxos, brother of Sappho.

#3. 2015.07.08. “Sappho’s ‘fire under the skin’ and the erotic syntax of an epigram by Posidippus.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/sapphos-fire-under-the-skin-and-the-erotic-syntax-of-an-epigram-by-posidippus/.

#4. 2015.10.01. “Genre, Occasion, and Choral Mimesis Revisited—with special reference to the ‘newest Sappho’.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/genre-occasion-and-choral-mimesis-revisited-with-special-reference-to-the-newest-sappho/.

#5. 2015.10.08. “The ‘Newest Sappho’: a set of working translations, with minimal comments.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/the-newest-sappho-a-set-of-working-translations-with-minimal-comments/.

#6. 2015.10.09. “An experiment in combining visual art with translations of Sappho.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/an-experiment-in-combining-visual-art-with-translations-of-sappho/.

#7. 2015.10.22. “Diachronic Sappho: some prolegomena.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/diachronic-sappho-some-prolegomena-2/.

#8. 2015.11.05. “Once again this time in Song 1 of Sappho.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/once-again-this-time-in-song-1-of-sappho/.

#9. 2015.11.09. “An experiment in combining visual art with translations of Sappho, Part 2.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/an-experiment-in-combining-visual-art-with-translations-of-sappho-part-2/.

#10. 2015.11.12. “The Tithonos Song of Sappho.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/the-tithonos-song-of-sappho/.

#11. 2015.11.19. “Echoes of Sappho in two epigrams of Posidippus.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/echoes-of-sappho-in-two-epigrams-of-posidippus/.

#12. 2015.12.03. “Girl, interrupted: more about echoes of Sappho in Epigram 55 of Posidippus.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/girl-interrupted-more-about-echoes-of-sappho-in-epigram-55-of-posidippus/.

#13. 2015.12.31. “Some imitations of Pindar and Sappho by Horace.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/some-imitations-of-pindar-and-sappho-by-horace/.

#14. 2016.01.07. “Weaving while singing Sappho’s songs in Epigram 55 of Posidippus.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/weaving-while-singing-sapphos-songs-in-epigram-55-of-posidippus/.

#15. 2015.06.10. Edited by Olga Levaniouk. “Previewing a concise inventory of Greek etymologies, Part 3.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/previewing-a-concise-inventory-of-greek-etymologies-part-3/.The most relevant part of the content here is about “talking names” as analyzed by Nagy, especially in #2 and in #4, also in #C as listed above at 0§8. The names are Dōríkhā, Kháraxos, Lárikhos, Rhodôpis, and Sapphṓ. Kharaxos and Larikhos are brothers of Sappho. Dōrikhā and Rhodôpis are names of courtesans loved by Kharaxos. These last two names may refer, I argue, to the same persona.

#16. 2016.07.01. “A sampling of comments on Iliad Rhapsody 2.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-iliad-scroll-2/. The most relevant part of the commentary here in #16 is about Aeolian women as represented in Homeric poetry, who are comparable to Aeolian women as represented in Sappho’s songs. Here and hereafter in Sappho 0, I will use the term Aeolian as a way of referring to whoever or whatever belonged to a sub‑grouping of ancient Greeks who were speakers of a dialect known as Aeolic—just as I will use the term Ionian with reference to speakers of a dialect known as Ionic. As we will see in Essays 6 and 7, the predominant dialect of Sappho’s songs was Aeolic, with admixtures of Ionic, while the predominant dialect of Homeric poetry was Ionic, with admixtures of Aeolic. The commentary here in #16 deals with the relatedness of Aeolic features in Homeric poetry to the poetics of Sappho as a native of the Aeolian island of Lesbos.

#17. 2016.08.26. “A sampling of comments on Iliad Rhapsody 9.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-iliad-rhapsody-9/. More here about Aeolian women as represented in Homeric poetry, who are comparable to Aeolian women as represented in Sappho’s songs.

#18. 2016.08.31. “Song 44 of Sappho revisited: what is ‘oral’ about the text of this song?” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-revisited-what-is-oral-about-the-text-of-this-song/.

#19. 2016.09.07. “Some ‘anchor comments’ on an ‘Aeolian’ Homer.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/some-anchor-comments-on-an-aeolian-homer/. Still more here about Aeolian women as represented in Homeric poetry, who are comparable to Aeolian women as represented in Sappho’s songs.

#20. 2016.10.08. “Sappho and mythmaking in the context of an Aeolian-Ionian poetic Sprachbund.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/sappho-and-mythmaking-in-the-context-of-an-aeolian-ionian-poetic-sprachbund/.

#21. 2016.12.01. “A sampling of comments on Iliad Rhapsody 19.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-iliad-rhapsody-19/. Relevant in this commentary is comparative evidence in Homeric poetry for viewing Sappho as a “choral personality.”

#22. 2017.02.17. “Sappho in the role of leader.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/sappho-in-the-role-of-leader/.

#23. 2017.02.23. “Sappho, once again this time.” https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/sappho-once-again-this-time/.

0§12. As in the case of the three lengthy studies that I had listed earlier as ##ABC, the links to these twenty-three further studies have been written here, and, once again, the links point to older open-access online versions. Like the lengthy essays ##ABC, some of these studies ##1–23 have been rewritten here in Sappho 0. An example of such rewritings is the essay at the end of the list, #23, which has been rewritten and absorbed into the Introduction here to Sappho 0. The content of some of the other studies has likewise been rewritten and absorbed into Sappho 0: notable examples are ##1, 18, 20: the first two of these studies—#1 and #18—have been consolidated into Essay 5 of Sappho 0 here, and the third—#20—into Essay 6. There is also further consolidation in the same Essays 5 and 6: also absorbed into these two essays are comparative comments I made about Sappho in ##16 and 17 and #19, which go back to the earliest versions of my Homeric commentaries on Iliad 2 and 9 and 19 respectively.

I have an important addendum here in 0§12, and I stress the importance by formatting this addendum as a nested paragraph that I add here to what precedes. In my listing of ##16 and 17 and #19 above, I have already provided, as previews, brief indications about the content of those comparative comments on Sappho. In the reading of my indications there, I now alert readers to an important usage in terminology that will be relevant to the whole book. It has to do with the terms Aeolic/Aeolian and Ionic/Ionian, which will be essential not only as linguistic facts about the Aeolic and Ionian dialects as spoken respectively by people who identified themselves as Aeolian and Ionian: these terms are essential also as cultural facts about the actual poetics that ultimately shaped both Homeric poetry and Sappho’s songs.

0§13. Next, I offer here a brief word about those of the 23 studies that I have not yet described. In the case of the studies numbered #5 and #7, the working translations of Sappho that I had included there have been reworked and incorporated here into Sappho 0. While #5 featured my translations of the “newest” fragments, #7 recapitulated my translations of the best-known “old” fragments of Sappho. Besides Song 1 as rendered in #7, I translated also Songs 16, 31, and 44. For both the “newest” and the “old” texts, my translations were occasionally enhanced by way of simultaneous visual narratives, the artistic creations of Glynnis Fawkes, who works in the style of graphic novels; previews of such visual narratives for the “old” and the “newest” texts can be viewed in the archived versions of #6 and #9 respectively. Finally, some of my twenty-three studies as listed above have been rewritten and absorbed not into Sappho 0 here but into Sappho I. Those studies are numbered here as ## 3, 4, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 14.

0§14. By contrast with Sappho 0, the book titled Sappho I collects rewritings of essays on Sappho that appeared online even after February 2017, and a complete list of such online versions that are rewritten in that book is tracked there. As for the book titled Sappho II, it collects rewritings of still further online essays on Sappho, all published after February 2017.

0§15. I sum up what I have surveyed so far. By contrast with Sappho I and Sappho II, the essays here in Sappho 0 are all rewritings of work published between February 2007 and February 2017. By now I have already accounted for six of the seven essays rewritten here in Sappho 0:

Introduction from #23: 2017.02.23

Essay 1 from the first part of #A: 2007

Essay 2 from the second part of #A: 2007

Essay 3 from #B: 2007/2009

Essay 4 from #C: 2015

Essay 5 from #1 combined with #18: 2015.02.27 combined with 2016.08.31

Essay 6 from #20: 2016.10.08

0§16. As for Essay 7, which is a brief epilogue, I offer not a rewriting but a small set of reflections about even earlier studies of mine on Sappho, especially about a publication that goes all the way back to 1974.

0§17. Before I can say more about that early publication, I need to note in general that I cite in Sappho 0 many studies of mine on Sappho that date back to the years 1973 through 2006. Throughout Sappho 0, I will be tracking, with some frequency, further details that can be found in such earlier studies. For the record, I list twelve relevant studies here, in chronological order:

GIM 1974, Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-comparative-studies-in-greek-and-indic-meter/.

BA 1979/1999, The Best of the Achaeans, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-the-best-of-the-achaeans-concepts-of-the-hero-in-archaic-greek-poetry/. The page-numberings of the first and the second printed editions, BA 1979 and BA 1999, are identical, except for the added pages (with pagination in roman numerals) in the new Preface to BA 1999.

PH 1990, Pindar’s Homer, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-pindars-homer-the-lyric-possession-of-an-epic-past/.

GMP 1990, Greek Mythology and Poetics, https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/greek-mythology-and-poetics/. Most relevant for Sappho 0 is Chapter 9 of GMP, which is a rewriting of an essay originally published in 1973: “Phaethon, Sappho’s Phaon, and the White Rock of Leukas,” as listed in the Bibliography below. A rewritten version of that essay going all the way back to 1973 was then republished at pp. 223–262, that is, in Chapter 9 of GMP=Nagy 1990b, that is, in Chapter 9 there. And that same Chapter 9 is rewritten and republished again in a second edition of GMP, printed in 2025.

PP 1996, Poetry as Performance, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-poetry-as-performance-homer-and-beyond/.

HQ 1996, Homeric Questions, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homeric-questions/.

HR 2003, Homeric Responses, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homeric-responses/.

EH 2006, “The Epic Hero,” https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-the-epic-hero/.

Superseded in Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/the-epic-hero/.

HC 2009|2008, Homer the Classic, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homer-the-classic/.

HPC 2010|2009, Homer the Preclassic, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homer-the-preclassic/.

H24H 2013, The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-the-ancient-greek-hero-in-24-hours/.

MoM 2015, Masterpieces of Metonymy, https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-masterpieces-of-metonymy-from-ancient-greek-times-to-now/.

The ordering of this list is chronological, except that I have mentioned above, in the entry “GMP 1990,” one particular essay that really goes back to 1973 in its original form before it was rewritten in 1990 as part of the book GMP = Greek Mythology and Poetics. That same essay has been rewritten again for the second edition of 2025.

0§18. I cite many of these studies in Sappho 0, but the study that is by far the most relevant to my overall argumentation is the very first one that I have listed above. It is the study abbreviated here as GIM = Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter, originally published in 1974. That year, if I may engage here in a playful way of saying things, was my own personal ground zero in my efforts to reconstruct the poetic language of Sappho, culminating now in Sappho 0, a book published half a century later. In the concluding Essay 7 of Sappho 0, I write a brief epilogue focusing on Chapter 5 of the 1974 book on Greek and Indic meter, where I had dwelled on the deep antiquity of Sappho’s poetic language as evidenced in her Song 44, about the wedding of Hector and Andromache.

0§19. That Chapter 5 in a book dating all the way back to 1974 is relevant, however, not only to Essay 7 in Sappho 0. It is relevant to all seven essays in my book here, especially to Essay 1 and Essay 2 as also to Essay 5 and Essay 6. So, concluding this Introduction while anticipating what I will say in Essay 1 and Essay 2, I need to stress the importance, for me, of connecting my reconstruction of Sappho’s poetic language in Chapter 5 of Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter with the cumulative synthesis of my overall arguments about Sappho.

0§20. As for my rewriting of my old essay #A, as listed at 0§8 in my Introduction above, I need to explain my rationale for splitting that essay, as noted already, into two new consecutive essays, Essay 1 and Essay 2. The first of these two, Essay 1, presents general background about the medium of “lyric” in the “archaic” period of ancient Greek song culture—that is, in the era of Sappho, which is also the era of her male poetic contemporary, Alcaeus. And when I speak about the song culture of Sappho and Alcaeus, I have in mind the general historical context of their songmaking (the apt term “song culture” derives from the thinking of Herington 1985:3–5, 40–41, 45). And then, Essay 2 presents more specific background about the historical era of Sappho and Alcaeus. In Essays 1 and 2, I write no footnotes, by contrast with Essay 3 and Essay 4. That is because I intend for the progression of my argumentation to be gradual. In the first two essays, I provide relatively less detail in bibliographical references, even to primary sources. For citations of the transmitted texts of poetry attributed to both Sappho and Alcaeus, I follow in general the streamlined edition of Campbell 1982, whose numbering of fragments [F] and testimonia [T] matches, for the most part, the numbering in the far more detailed older editions of Lobel/Page 1955 and Voigt 1971. Then, in Essay 3 and Essay 4 of Sappho 0, I follow up with more detailed argumentation of my own, backed up with copious notes, in a massive reworking of the old essays #B and #C, as listed above at 0§8. And I supplement such content with further content that I have extracted from the old and by now archived versions of online essays that I have listed at 0§11: ##1, 2, 5, 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21. In the case of the essays #1, #18, #20, as I already noted at 0§12, I have converted #1 and #18 into Essay 5 and #20 into Essay 6. Then and only then do I finally arrive at an Epilogue, in Essay 7.

Essay 1. A cumulative synthesis of the arguments in this book about the era of Sappho, Part I

1§0. This essay, as also the next essay, is extracted from a more extended printed version, the title of which was “Lyric and Greek Myth,” listed as Nagy 2007 in the Bibliography. The printed version was published in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology (ed. R. D. Woodard; Cambridge University Press 2007) 19–51, and it was symmetrically paired with a related essay, “Homer and Greek Myth,” pp. 52–82 in the same volume. The abbreviations that I will be using in the present essay (most prominently: BA, EH, HPC, PH, PP) are all listed in the Bibliography. The page-numbers of the version printed in 2007 are embedded within brackets in the version rewritten here: for example, {19|20} marks where p. 19 stops and p. 20 begins.

1§1. In the history of Greek literature, poets of “lyric” are conventionally associated with the archaic period. Some would go so far as to call this period a “lyric age,” to be contrasted with an earlier age represented by Homer and Hesiod, poets of “epic.” There is in fact a book about the archaic period bearing the title The Lyric Age of Greece (Burn 1960). The archaic period ended around the second half of the fifth century BCE, to be followed by the so-called classical period. The archaic period is thought to have ended with the lyric poet Pindar, while the classical period is thought to have begun with the tragic poet Aeschylus, even though these two literary figures were roughly contemporaneous.

1§2. There is a lack of precision in the general use of the term lyric. It is commonly associated with a variety of assumptions regarding the historical emergence of a “subjective I,” as represented by the individual poet of lyric, who is to be contrasted with the generic poet of epic, imagined as earlier and thus somehow less advanced. By extension, the subjective I is thought to be symptomatic of emerging notions of authorship. Such assumptions, as I will consistently argue in this book, cannot be sustained.

1§3. Lyric did not start in the archaic period. It is just as old as epic, which clearly predates the archaic period. And the traditions of lyric, like those of epic, were rooted in oral poetry, which is a matter of performance as well as composition (Lord 1995:22–68, “Oral Traditional Lyric Poetry”).

1§4. These two aspects of oral poetry, composition and performance, are interactive, and this interaction is parallel to the interaction of myth and ritual. In oral poetry, the performing of a composition is an activating of myth, and such activation is fundamentally a matter of ritual. When I speak of ritual here, I am not yet ready to offer a full-fledged anthropological definition, which I postpone till we reach Essay 3. For now, I offer merely a stop-gap working definition, which can lead into a correspondingly stop-gap working definition of myth. Both definitions are based on arguments developed in PH 9 = 0§18 and 362 = 12§47, which I epitomize here:

In traditional pre‑modern societies, ritual is doing things and saying things in a way that fits the cosmic order as variously viewed by such societies. Depending on this working definition is a secondary working definition: myth is the saying of things that connect with the ritual world. In other words, myth is an aspect of ritual. From the standpoint of these two working definitions, ritual frames myth. For myth to be myth, it needs to be performed, and the performance is ritual.

1§5. From the standpoint of these working definitions, I understand the artistic production of lyric in the earlier phases of ancient Greek song culture as a matter of performance, not only composition. The performance would be done {19|20} either by a single performer or by a group that is actually or at least notionally participating in the performance. The most prominent Greek word referring to such a group is khoros ‘chorus’, which designates not just singing, like its derivative chorus in English, but dancing as well. Choral lyric could be sung and danced, or just sung or just danced. To be contrasted is monody, which means ‘solo singing’.

1§6. Lyric could be sung to the accompaniment of a string instrument, ordinarily the kitharā, which is conventionally translated in English as ‘lyre’. This English noun lyre and its adjective lyric are derived from lurā (lyra), which is another Greek word for a string instrument. Lyric could also be sung to the accompaniment of a wind instrument, ordinarily the aulos ‘reed’. Either way, whether the accompaniment took the form of string or wind instruments, a more precise term for such lyric is melic, derived from the Greek noun melos ‘song’. English melody is derived from Greek melōidiā, which means ‘the singing of melos’.

1§7. Lyric could also be sung without instrumental accompaniment. In some forms of unaccompanied lyric, the melody was reduced and the rhythm became more regulated than the rhythm of melic. In describing the rhythm of these forms of unaccompanied lyric, it is more accurate to use the term meter. And, in describing the performance of this kind of lyric, it is more accurate to speak of reciting instead of singing. Recited poetry is typified by three meters in particular: dactylic hexameter, elegiac couplet, and iambic trimeter. In ancient Greek poetic traditions, the dactylic hexameter became the sole medium of epic. As a poetic form, then, epic is far more specialized than lyric (PH 17–25, 47–51 = 1§§1–16, 55–64).

1§8. In the classical period, the solo performance of lyric poetry, both melic and non‑melic, became highly professionalized. Lyric poetry was sung by professional soloists—either kitharōidoi ‘citharodes’ (= ‘kitharā-singers’) or aulōidoi ‘aulodes’ (= ‘aulos-singers’)—while non‑lyric poetry was recited by professional soloists called rhapsōidoi ‘rhapsodes’. The solo performance of lyric poetry was monody. In the classical period, an era that is defined primarily by the city-state of Athens, the main occasion for citharodic or aulodic or rhapsodic solo performance was the festival of the Panathenaia, which was the context of competitions called mousikoi agōnes ‘musical contests’. These Panathenaic agōnes ‘contests’ were mousikoi ‘musical’ only in the sense that they were linked with the goddesses of poetic memory, the Muses (HC 360–373 = 3§23–46). They were not ‘musical’ in the modern sense, since the contests featured epic as well as lyric poetry. In the classical period of Athens, the epic repertoire was eventually restricted to the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey, competitively performed by rhapsodes, {20|21} while the lyric repertoire was restricted to songs competitively performed by citharodes and aulodes.

1§9. In the same classical period of Athens, lyric was also sung and danced by non‑professional choruses. The primary occasion for such performances was the festival of the City Dionysia, the official venue of Athenian State Theater. The actors who delivered their lines by reciting the verses of non‑melic poetry embedded in the dramas of Athenian State Theater were professionals, but the choruses who sang and danced the melic poetry also embedded in these dramas were non‑professional, recruited from the body politic of citizens; theatrical choruses became professionalized only after the classical period, toward the end of the fourth century BCE (PP 157, 172–176).

1§10. The performances of non‑professional choruses in Athenian State Theater represent an essential aspect of melic poetry that transcends the classical period. Not only in Athens but throughout the Greek-speaking world of the classical period and beyond, the most authoritative context of melic poetry was choral performance. The khoros ‘chorus’ was in fact a basic social reality in all phases of archaic Greek prehistory and history, and this reality was essential in the evolution of lyric during those earlier phases (Calame 2001).

1§11. An important differentiation becomes evident in the course of this evolution. It is an emerging split between the composer and the performer of lyric. Before this split, the authorship of any lyric composition was closely linked to the authority of lyric performance. This authority played itself out in a dramatized relationship between the khoros ‘chorus’ and a highlighted khorēgos ‘leader of the chorus’, as idealized in the relationship of the Muses as a divine chorus to Apollo as their divine choral leader (PH 350–351 = 12§29). In lyric, as I argue, such authority is linked to the articulation of myth itself.

1§12. The khoros, as an institution, was considered the most authoritative medium not only for the performance of lyric composition but also for its transmission in the archaic period. As we see from the wording of choral lyric poetry, the poet’s voice is transmitted and notionally perpetuated by the seasonally recurring choral performances of his or her poetry. A most prominent example is Song 1 of Alcman (PH 345–346 = 12§18). The voices of the performers who sing and dance such poetry can even speak of the poet by name in the third person, identifying the poet as the one who composed their song. An example is Song 39 of Alcman. In other situations, the choral lyric composer speaks in the first person by borrowing, as it were, the voices of those who sing and dance in the composer’s {21|22} choral compositions. In Song 26 of Alcman, for example, the speaker declares that he is too old and weak to dance with the chorus of women who sing and dance his song: by implication, he continues to sing as their lead singer (PH 352–353 = 12§32).

1§13. For an understanding of authority and authorship in lyric poetry, more needs to be said about the actual transmission of lyric from the archaic into the classical period. The lyric traditions of the archaic period became an integral part of liberal education for the elites of the classical period. In leading cities like Athens, the young were educated by professionals in the non‑professional singing, dancing, and reciting of songs that stemmed from the archaic period—songs that had become the classics of the classical period. As we see in the Clouds of Aristophanes (1355–1356), a young man who had the benefit of such an education could be expected to perform the artistic feat of singing solo a choral song composed by the archaic poet Simonides (F 507) while accompanying himself on the lyre. Elsewhere in the Clouds (967), we see a similar reference to a similar solo performance of a choral song composed by the even more archaic poet Stesichorus (F 274).

1§14. Among the elites of the classical period, the primary venue for the non‑professional performance of archaic lyric songs that youths learned through such a liberal education was the sumposion ‘symposium’. Like the chorus, the symposium was a basic social reality in all phases of archaic Greek prehistory and history. And, like the chorus, it was a venue for the non‑professional performance of lyric in all its forms.

1§15. The poets of lyric in the archaic period became the models for performing lyric in the classical period. And, as models, these figures became part of a canon of melic poets (Wilamowitz 1900:63–71). This canon, as it evolved from the archaic into the classical period and beyond, was composed of the following nine figures: Sappho, Alcaeus, Anacreon, Alcman, Stesichorus, Ibycus, Simonides, Pindar, Bacchylides. To this canonical grouping we may add a tenth figure, Corinna, although her status as a member of the canon was a matter of dispute in the postclassical period (PH 83 = 3§2n3). Other figures can be classified as authors of non‑melic poetry: they include Archilochus, Callinus, Hipponax, Mimnermus, Theognis, Tyrtaeus, Semonides, Solon, and Xenophanes.

1§16. One of these figures, Xenophanes, can be classified in other ways as well. He is one of the so-called “pre‑Socratic” thinkers whose thinking is attested primarily in the form of poetry. Two other such figures are Empedocles and Parmenides. Since the extant poetry of Xenophanes is composed in elegiac couplets, he belongs technically to the overall category of lyric poetry, whereas Empedocles and Parmenides do not, {22|23} since their extant poetry is composed in dactylic hexameters, which is the medium of epic.

1§17. Such taxonomies are imprecise in any case. A case in point is Simonides, whose attested compositions include non‑melic poetry as well as melic poetry. Simonides is credited with the composition of epigrams as well (Epigrammata I–LXXXIX, ed. Page). Similarly, the poetry of Sappho was evidently not restricted to melic: she is credited with the composition of elegiac couplets, iambic trimeters, and even epigrammatic dactylic hexameters (T 1 and T 2 ed. Campbell). A comparable phenomenon in the archaic period is the perception of Homer as an epigrammatist (as in the Herodotean Life of Homer 133–140 ed. Allen; HPC 48 = I§§117–119).

1§18. On the basis of what we have seen so far, it is clear that a given lyric composition could be sung or recited, instrumentally accompanied or not accompanied, and danced or not danced. It could be performed solo or in ensemble. Evidently, all these variables contributed to a wide variety of genres, but the actual categories of these genres are in general difficult to determine (Harvey 1955). Moreover, the categories as formulated in the postclassical period and thereafter may be in some respects artificial (Davies 1988). Such difficulties can be traced back to the fact that the actual writing down of archaic lyric poetry blurs whatever we may know about the occasion or occasions of performance. The genres of lyric poetry stem ultimately from such occasions (Nagy 1995).

1§19. In the postclassical period, antiquarians lost interest in finding out about occasions for performance, and they assumed for the most part that poets in the archaic period composed by way of writing. A case in point is the traveler Pausanias, who lived in the second century CE. For example, Pausanias (7.20.4) says that Alcaeus wrote (graphein) his Hymn to Hermes (F 308c). A similar assumption is made about Homer himself: Pausanias (3.24.11, 8.29.2) thinks of Homer as an author who wrote (graphein) his poetry.

1§20. In the classical period, by contrast, the making of poetry by the grand poets of the past was not equated with the act of writing (HPC 31 = I§61). As we see from the wording of Plato, for example (Phaedo 94d, Hippias Minor 371a, Republic 2.378d, Ion 531c–d), Homer is consistently pictured as a poet who ‘makes’ (poieîn) his poetry, not as one who ‘writes’ it (graphein). So also Herodotus says that Homer and Hesiod ‘make’ (poieîn) what they say in poetry (2.53.2); and he says elsewhere that Alcaeus ‘makes’ (poieîn) his poetry (5.95).

1§21. In any case, the basic fact remains that the composition of poetry in the archaic period came to life in performance, not in the reading of {23|24} something that was written. Accordingly, the occasions of performance need to be studied in their historical contexts.

Essay 2. A cumulative synthesis of the arguments in this book about the era of Sappho, Part II

2§61a. As I have argued at length in an essay that goes back to 1973 (republished in GMP 1990b, where the relevant pages are 228–230, 258–262), Sappho’s love for the Aeolian hero Phaon is modeled on a myth about the love of the goddess Aphrodite herself for this hero. A variant myth is attested in a narration by Ptolemaios Chennos (first/second centuries CE), as epitomized by Photius Bibliotheca codex 190, page 153 ed. Bekker, where we read that Aphrodite undergoes a mock death by executing a “lover’s leap” from the heights of the same White Rock, Leukas, into the raging sea below—in this case, because she loves another beautiful youth, the non‑Aeolian hero Adonis.

2§61b. As we know from another variant myth, the role of the beautiful Adonis here as a love-object of a pursuing Aphrodite is matched by the role of the beautiful Phaon, who is likewise a love-object pursued by the goddess. Here I paraphrase the relevant testimonia (Sappho F 211 ed. Voigt):

According to a myth originating from the island of Lesbos, an old man named Phaon was a porthmeús ‘ferryman’ who was transformed into a beautiful youth by Aphrodite herself. The goddess had disguised herself as an old woman and persuaded the old ferryman to ferry her across a narrow strait separating the mainland of Asia Minor from the island of Lesbos. Then the goddess fell in love with the beautiful young Phaon and hid him in a head of lettuce. This myth is attested by the antiquarian Athenaeus (2.69d–e), citing as his source a master of Old Comedy, Cratinus (F 370 ed. Kassel/Austin). But this same antiquarian, Athenaeus (again, 2.69d–e), also cites later sources where it is the non‑Aeolian hero Adonis and not the Aeolian hero Phaon who is hidden in a head of lettuce by Aphrodite (Eubulus F 13 ed. Kassel/Austin and Callimachus F 478 ed. Pfeiffer).

2§61c. This thematic parallelism of Aphrodite and her Aeolian lover Phaon on the one hand with Aphrodite and her non‑Aeolian lover Adonis on the other hand becomes most important as we consider again the myth I already mentioned about Aphrodite and Adonis.

Here I paraphrase this myth as narrated by Ptolemaios Chennos (first/second centuries CE) and as epitomized by Photius Bibliotheca codex 190, page 153 ed. Bekker. According to this narrative, the first to leap down into the raging sea below from the heights of Cape Leukas was none other than Aphrodite herself, out of love for a dead Adonis. After Adonis died (how it happened is not said), the mourning Aphrodite went off searching for him and finally found him at a sacred precinct of the god Apollo in Cyprus. Apollo instructs Aphrodite to seek relief from her love by diving into the raging sea from the heights of the White Rock of Leukas, where Zeus sits whenever he wants relief from his passion for Hera. Then the narrative launches into a veritable catalogue of other figures who followed Aphrodite’s precedent and took a ritual plunge as a remedy for love.

2§61d. Modeling herself on Aphrodite, Sappho in her songs could actually picture herself as taking a lover’s leap, diving into the raging sea below from the serene heights of the White Rock of Leukas, crazed as she is with love—just as Aphrodite was crazed with love for Phaon—or for Adonis. And, just like Aphrodite, Sappho too can be crazed with love either for the beautiful Adonis or for the beautiful Phaon. In the book Sappho I (3§16, 9§§4–12, 10§§1–7), I show in some detail the bivalence of Sappho’s poetics expressing her love either for Phaon or for Adonis. When it comes to the lover’s leap of Sappho, however, as modeled on a lover’s leap by Aphrodite, we have a direct attestation only for Phaon as the love-object who inspires Sappho’s own plunge from the heights of the White Rock of Leukas. As we learn from the ancient testimonia about Sappho (T 23 ed. Campbell), the geographer Strabo 10.2.9 C452 quotes the relevant lines from the Leukadia of Menander (F 1 ed. Austin). Like Aphrodite, Sappho is pictured in these lines as leaping from the White Rock of Leukas into the raging sea below, crazed as she is with love for—in this case—Phaon.

2§61e. As I reconstruct the relevant poetic agenda of Sappho here, we see her figuring herself as a projection of Aphrodite. This goddess, by turning into an old woman, can turn the old man Phaon into a young man, but then she can once again turn back again into an eternally young goddess in her fond desire to turn him into her eternally young lover. The hope for Sappho is to share with Aphrodite the same fond desire.

Essay 3. Did Sappho and Alcaeus Ever Meet? 

3§0. This essay is rewritten from an earlier version, cited as #B 2007|2009 at 0§8 in the Introduction above. The original printed version appeared in Literatur und Religion I. Wege zu einer mythisch–rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen, ed. A. Bierl, R. Lämmle, K. Wesselmann; Basiliensia – MythosEikonPoiesis, vol. 1.1, 211–269. Berlin / New York 2007. The pagination of that version will be indicated here by way of “curly” brackets (“{“ and “}”). For example, “{211|212}” indicates where p. 211 of the printed article ends and p. 212 begins.

About myth and ritual 

3§1. Myth and ritual tend to be segregated from one another in most studies of ancient Greek traditions.[1] A contributing cause is a general lack of sufficient internal evidence concerning the relationship of myth and ritual. Another contributing cause is a failure to consider the available comparative evidence. This situation has led to an overly narrow understanding of myth and ritual as concepts—and to the emergence of a false dichotomy between these two narrowed concepts. A sustained anthropological approach can help break down this dichotomy.[2] Applying such an approach, I have argued that myth is actually an aspect of ritual in situations where a given myth comes to life in performance—and where that performance counts as part of a ritual.[3] I propose to develop this argument further here by considering mythological themes evoked in singing the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus in various ritual contexts. I will focus on themes involving Aphrodite and Dionysus, which will be relevant to the question that I ask in the title: did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet?[4]

About khoros and kōmos

3§2. As I write this, the very idea that the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus were sung in ritual contexts is not to be found in most standard works on these songs.[5] But there are telling examples of such contexts, two of which stand out. One is the khoros and the other is the kōmos.

3§3. I have already commented on the meaning of khoros in Essay 1 §§5 and 10–12, also in Essay 2 §§5 and 55, but now I attempt a deeper working definition: it is a group of male or female performers who sing and dance a given song within a space (real or notional) that is sacred to a divinity or to a constellation of divinities.[6] _{211|212} In the case of Sappho, her songs were once performed by women singing and dancing within such a space.[7] And the divinity most closely identified with most of her songs is Aphrodite.[8]

3§4. I now proceed to a working definition of the kōmos: in this case, it is a group of male performers who sing and dance a given song on a festive occasion that calls for the drinking of wine.[9] The combination of wine and song expresses the ritual communion of those participating in the kōmos. This communion creates a bonding of the participants with one another and with the divinity who makes the communion sacred, that is, Dionysus.[10] To the extent that the kōmos is a group of male performers who sing and dance in a space (real or notional) that is sacred to Dionysus, it can be considered a subcategory of the khoros.

3§5. Back when Sappho is thought to have flourished in Lesbos, around 600 BCE, we expect that her songs would be performed by girls or women in the context of the khoros. Around the same time in Lesbos, the songs of Alcaeus would be performed by men in the context of the kōmos. This context is signaled by the use of the verb kōmazein ‘sing and dance in the kōmos’, which is actually attested in one of his songs (Alcaeus F 374.1).

3§6. There is an overlap, however, in performing the songs attributed to Sappho. As I will argue, such songs could be performed not only by girls or women in a khoros but also by men in a kōmos.

About the terms sympotic, comastic, and theatrical

3§7. A typical context for the kōmos was the symposium.[11] Accordingly, at this early point in my argumentation, I find it convenient to use the term sympotic in referring to the context of the kōmos. At later points, however, I will need to use the more general term comastic.[12] _{212|213}

3§8. For now there is one basic fact to keep in mind about the term sympotic. Dionysus is the god of the symposium. So the sympotic songs attributed to Alcaeus must be connected somehow to Dionysus. It is not enough to say, however, that Dionysus is the sympotic god. The essence of Dionysus is not only sympotic. It is also theatrical. As I noted already in Essay 2 §68, Dionysus is also the god of theater. So, the question arises, how does the theatrical essence of Dionysus connect to the sympotic songs attributed to Alcaeus?

3§9. In search of an answer, I will now begin to elaborate on argumentation I introduced more generally in Essay 2, starting there at §69. As there, I focus again on the role of Dionysus as the presiding god of the festival of the City Dionysia in Athens. And, as I already noted there at 2§69, this festive occasion was the primary setting for Athenian State Theater.[13] Further, the role of Dionysus as the presiding god of theater was parallel to his role as the presiding god of the symposium in general, since the symposium of Dionysus, like the theater of Dionysus, was a festive occasion for the acting out of roles by way of song and dance. And the Greek word that signals such a festive acting of roles was mīmēsis, which, as before, I will continue to spell simply as mimesis. Following the working definitions of this word by Aristotle Poetics 1448b4–24 and Rhetoric 1.1371b4–10, I interpret the primary meaning of mimesis as ‘re‑enactment’, where the alternative translation as ‘imitation’ points to a secondary meaning that is built into the primary meaning, in the sense that an actor who re‑enacts in the present will be imitating, in various degrees, the re‑enactments of previous actors.[14] In terms of this interpretation of mimesis, the sympotic Dionysus is simultaneously a mimetic Dionysus. In this sense, the songs of Alcaeus are not only sympotic: they are also mimetic and even quasi‑theatrical.

A festive and even theatrical occasion: back to Messon

3§10. This formulation connects with how I started Essay 2, where I was already arguing that the songs of Alcaeus were once performed in a quasi‑theatrical setting, visualized as a festive occasion that takes place in a sacred space set aside for festivals. That sacred space was Messon. In what follows, I review what I have already observed in Essay 2 with regard to this place, now adding further details.

3§10a. As we already saw in Essay 2, Messon was a sacred space shared by a confederation of cities located on the island of Lesbos. The confederation was headed by the city of Mytilene, which dominated the other cities on the island. The name Messon meant ‘the middle space’, and its exact location has been identified, as already noted, by Louis Robert (1960). As we now know, ancient Messon was the same place that is known today as Mesa. In the Greek language as spoken today, this name Mesa is derived from the neuter plural of meson ‘middle’ just as the ancient name Messon is derived from the neuter singular messon ‘middle’ (the double –ss– was characteristic of the ancient Aeolic _{213|214} dialect of Lesbos). True to its name, this place Messon / Mesa is in fact located in the middle of the island.

3§10b. Songs 129 and 130 of Alcaeus actually refer to Messon—though not by name. The wording of these songs describes this place as a temenos ‘sacred space’, mega ‘huge’ in dimensions, which is xūnon ‘common’ to all the people of Lesbos (129.1–3). And this space is sacred to three divinities in particular: (1) Zeus, (2) an unnamed goddess who is evidently Hera, and (3) Dionysus (129.3–9). Of particular interest is the epithet applied to Dionysus, ōmēstēs, which I translate not in the sense of active agency but, in an older sense, where the distinction between active and passive voice is neutralized: ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’ (129.9: Ζόννυσσον ὠμήσταν). As we will see later, this epithet is relevant to the myths and rituals of Dionysus in Lesbos.[15]

3§11. Given this background, I return to my question: how is it that the sympotic songs of Alcaeus are mimetic and even quasi‑theatrical? In these songs, there is a variety of roles acted by the ‘I’ who figures as the speaker. The roles may be either integrated with or alienated from the community that is meant to hear the performances of these songs. Both the integration and the alienation may be expressed as simultaneously political as well as personal, and the personal feelings frequently show an erotic dimension—either positive or negative. Even in songs that dwell on feelings of alienation, however, the overall context is nevertheless one of integration. Alcaeus figures as a citizen of Mytilene who had become alienated from his city in his own lifetime and was forced to take refuge in a federal sacred space—which we now know was called Messon—only to become notionally reintegrated with his community after he died. The combined evidence of Songs 129 and 130 of Alcaeus is most revealing in this regard, as I will argue in the next two paragraphs.

3§12. The speaker expresses his alienation as he tells about his mournful exile from his native city of Mytilene (129.11–12; 130b.1–10) and about his finding a place of refuge that we can now identify with Messon. The speaker refers to this place as a no-man’s-land, eskhatiai, far removed from city life—this is where he exists ‘as an exile’ pheugōn, (130b.9: φεύγων ἐσχατίαισ’). And the speaker describes his existence as an exile in this place by saying that he ‘abides’ here, oikeîn, and that he abides here ‘alone’, oios, all by himself (130b.10: οἶος ἐοίκησα). By contrast with the speaker’s feeling of alienation, however, this same place where he ‘abides’ all by himself is also where the people of Lesbos celebrate their ‘reunions’, sunodoi (130b.15: συνόδοισι). _{214|215} In this positive context, we now see a place of integration, and the speaker goes on to say once again, even in this context, that he ‘abides’ here, oikeîn (130b.16: οἴκημ<μ>ι). We now know, to repeat, that this place where Alcaeus ‘abides’ is Messon, which the words of Alcaeus have described as a temenos ‘sacred space’, a mega ‘huge’ sacred space, which is xūnon ‘common’ to all the people of Lesbos (129.2–3: τέμενος μέγα | ξῦνον). This same temenos ‘sacred space’ is described in a related line of Alcaeus as belonging to the theoi ‘gods’ (130b.13: τέμ[ε]νος θέων), and this description is situated in a mournful context where, as we saw earlier, the words of Alcaeus describe this space as a lonely place for him, since he ‘abides’ here, oikeîn, all by himself, oios (130b.10: οἶος ἐοίκησα). But this same lonely place is where the speaker encounters, he then says, a chorus of beautiful young women who are pictured in the act of singing and dancing (130b.17–20). I repeat once again, we now know that this place is Messon, which the words of Alcaeus have described, in a most positive way, as a temenos ‘sacred space’, mega ‘huge’ in dimensions, which is xūnon ‘common’ to all the people of Lesbos (129.2–3: τέμενος μέγα | ξῦνον). [23]

3§13. In light of the positive theme of social integration that overrides the theme of personal alienation here, I need to take a closer look at the status of Alcaeus as an exile who has been marginalized, banished from his native city of Mytilene. I propose that this present marginalization of a living person from his city is converted by the poetry of _{223|224} Alcaeus into the future centralization of a dead person in a politically neutral space that is sacred to the whole island. The key to this conversion of status, I also propose, is the self-representation of Alcaeus as a cult-hero who is pictured as speaking from the dead and whose alienated voice holds forth a promise of social integration through an ultimate reckoning when, finally, the evildoers are punished and the morally noble are rewarded. A comparable poetic self-representation is evident in the poetry of Theognis: at verses 1209–1210, for example, the voice of the poet announces that he is an exile from his native city of Megara and that he now has an abode in the city of Thebes. The verb oikeîn ‘have an abode’, as used in Theognis 1210, is attested with a similar sense in the Oedipus at Colonus of Sophocles (27, 28, 92, 627, 637), with reference to the exiled and degraded hero’s intent to situate his own body after death in a place far away from his native city, in the Athenian dêmos ‘district’ of Colonus, inside the sacred space of the Erinyes ‘Furies’ (we may note especially the context of oikeîn at Oedipus at Colonus 39).[16] Elsewhere too, this verb oikeîn ‘have an abode’ is a reference appropriate to a hero as a cult-hero.[17] In the same poem of Theognis, after having declared that he ‘has an abode’ in Thebes, expressed by way of the verb oikeîn (line 1209), and that he is an exile from his native city (1210), the speaker goes on to say that he now belongs to the edge of the Plain of Lethe (1215–1216)—clearly, the realm of the dead (as we see from comparable wording in Aristophanes Frogs 186).[18] It would appear that the poet is represented as being heard speaking as a cult-hero from the grave.[19] His tomb, situated in a place remote from his native city, is visualized as a sacred space of hero-cult.[20] I propose a similar situation for the poetry of Alcaeus Song 129 and _{224|225}and Song 130.[21] In Song 129, the poet is represented as speaking from a sacred precinct or temenos (lines 1–2), praying that the gods of this precinct deliver him from painful exile (lines 11–12) and hear his curse (lines 10–11); the words of the curse adjure an Erinys ‘Fury’ to take vengeance against Pittakos, who broke the oath that served as foundation for society (lines 13–20).[22] Then, in Song 130 Part b, the poet again speaks of a temenos ‘sacred precinct’ (line 13), evidently the same precinct as before, which is pictured as what seems to be the actual abode of Alcaeus as lone exile (lines 13–16). The verb oikeîn ‘have an abode’ at lines 10 (ἐοίκησα) and 16 (οἴκημμι) of Alcaeus 130b is the same as in line 1210 (οἰκῶ) of Theognis. In this light, the nostalgia at lines 1–5 of Alcaeus 130b may be compared with the sentiment expressed at Theognis 1197–1202, where the brooding spirit of an exile contemplates a life that cannot any longer be his own.[23]

3§14. Such sustained balancing between the themes of alienation and integration in this context of the temenos ‘sacred space’ at Messon points to an overarching pattern of integration, and a sign of this integration is the reference in Song 130 of Alcaeus to a chorus of beautiful young women shown in the act of singing and dancing. As I have already argued, this reference is really a cross-reference to a form of choral performance that is typical of the songs of Sappho.[24] In terms of this argument, the temenos ‘sacred space’ at Messon was actually a setting for the performances of songs attributed not only to Alcaeus but also to Sappho.[25] That is, Sappho figures as a lead performer of choral song and dance at Messon.[26]

3§15. In brief, then, the sacred complex of Messon in Lesbos is the historical context for understanding the mimetic and even quasi‑theatrical characteristics of the songs of Alcaeus, and the same can be said about the songs of Sappho.[27] _{215|216}

More on kōmos and khoros

3§16. While Alcaeus speaks as the lead singer of a kōmos, Sappho speaks as the lead singer of a khoros. This choral role of Sappho is ignored in many standard modern works on Sappho and Alcaeus.[28] In the songs of Sappho, the ‘I’ may represent a lead singer who can speak directly to a presiding divinity on behalf of the whole khoros, as we see in Song 1 of Sappho. Further, the ‘I’ may also represent that divinity speaking back to the lead singer and, by extension, to the whole group attending and participating in the performance of the song. Within the framework of that song, the lead singer becomes identified with Aphrodite by virtue of performing as the prima donna of a khoros. And there are also many other roles played out by the speaking ‘I’ in the songs of Sappho. For example the ‘I’ may be Sappho speaking in the first person to a bride or to a bridegroom in the second person—or about them in the third person.[29]

3§17. So also in the songs of Alcaeus, the ‘I’ may play out a variety of roles. Primarily, the ‘I’ is Alcaeus speaking in the first person to his comrades in the second person—or about them in the third person. Secondarily, however, the ‘I’ may play roles that are distinct from the persona of Alcaeus.[30]

3§18. From what we have seen so far, the sacred space of Messon was a stage, as it were, for not one but two kinds of quasi‑theatrical performance: as I already observed earlier, one kind was the sympotic performance of the songs of Alcaeus, while the other was the choral performance of the songs of Sappho.[31] _{216|217}

3§19. With this observation in place, I have come to the end of my brief overview of the songs of Alcaeus as performed in contexts appropriate to a kōmos. So, I have reached a point where I can begin my argumentation concerning an overlap with the songs of Sappho as performed in contexts appropriate to a khoros. I am now ready to argue that the songs of Sappho could be performed not only by women or girls in a khoros but also by men in a kōmos.

Variations of markedness and unmarkedness in contexts that are sacred or profane

3§20. To argue for such an overlap is to argue for a symmetry between the profane and the sacred in the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho, despite what appears at first to be a disconnectedness between these two sets of songs. I repeat my formulation from Essay 2:

Behind the appearances of […] disconnectedness between the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho is a basic pattern of connectedness in both form and content. This pattern is a matter of symmetry. In archaic Greek poetry, symmetry is achieved by balancing two opposing members of a binary opposition, so that one member is marked and the other member is unmarked; while the marked member is exclusive of the unmarked, the unmarked member is inclusive of the marked, serving as the actual basis of inclusion. Such a description suits the working relationship between the profane and the sacred in the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho. What is sacred about these songs is the divine basis of their performance in a festive setting, that is, at festivals sacred to gods. What is profane about these songs is the human basis of what they express in that same setting. We see in these songs genuine expressions of human experiences, such as feelings of love, hate, anger, fear, pity, and so on. These experiences, though they are unmarked in everyday settings, are marked in festive settings. In other words, the symmetry of the profane and the sacred in the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho is a matter of balancing the profane as the marked member against the sacred as the unmarked member in their opposition to each other; while the profane is exclusive of the sacred, the sacred is inclusive of the profane, serving as the actual basis of inclusion.[32]

3§21. This formulation has a converse. Whereas the sacred includes the profane in festive situations, it can be expected to exclude the profane in non‑festive situations. That is, in non‑festive situations the sacred is marked and the profane is unmarked. Only in festive situations does the sacred become the unmarked member in its opposition with the profane. Only in festive situations does the sacred include the profane. Once the festival is over, the sacred can once again wall itself off from the profane.

3§22. The festive balancing of the sacred and the profane is relevant to questions of morality and decorum. Such questions are pointedly raised in _{217|218} the sympotic songs of Alcaeus, which display morally incorrect as well as correct ways of speaking and behaving in general.[33] Despite such displays, however, the incorrect aspects of these songs remain subordinated to the overall moral correctness of the symposium as a festive ritual made sacred by the notional presence of the god Dionysus.[34]

3§23. An analogous observation can be made about vase paintings featuring the god of the symposium, Dionysus himself. Vase painters conventionally depict this god as a morally correct and decorous figure even in settings where his own closest attendants abandon themselves to morally incorrect and indecorous behavior. We find striking illustrations in pictures of satyrs, mythologized Dionysiac attendants whom vase painters conventionally depict in the act of committing various wanton sexual acts.[35] By contrast, such depictions generally show Dionysus himself in a different light: the god maintains a stance of decorum amidst all the indecorous wantonness of his attendants.[36]

3§24. Likewise in sympotic songs, we find a festive balance between the sacred and the profane, though the profanities seem to be less pronounced. To illustrate such balancing, I highlight the inclusion of songs typical of Sappho in sympotic songs sung by men and boys. A case in point is Song 2 of Sappho. We have two attested versions of the closure of this song. In the version inscribed on the so-called Florentine ostrakon dated to the third century BCE, at lines 13–16, the last word is οἰνοχόεισα ‘pouring wine’, referring to Aphrodite herself in the act of pouring not wine but nectar. In the “Attic” version of these lines as quoted by Athenaeus (11.463e), on the other hand, the wording after οἰνοχοοῦσα ‘pouring wine’ continues with τούτοις τοῖς ἑταίροις ἐμοῖς γε καὶ σοῖς ‘for these my (male) companions [hetairoi], such as they are, as well as for your _{218|219} (male divine) companions [= Aphrodite’s]’.[37] At a later point in my argumentation, we will see that this kind of sympotic closure is compatible with the singing of Sappho’s songs by men and boys at Athenian symposia (Aelian via Stobaeus 3.29.58). As we will also see, choral songs typical of Sappho could be included in sympotic songs typical of Alcaeus.

3§25. Within the songs of Alcaeus, the choral figure of Sappho could appear decorous—even sacred. A notable example is this fragment:

ἰόπλοκ’ ἄγνα μελλιχόμειδε Σάπφοι
You with strands of hair in violet, O holy [(h)agna] one, you with the honey-sweet smile, O Sappho!

Alcaeus F 384

3§26. As I argued in Essay 2, the wording that describes the choral figure of Sappho here is fit for a queenly goddess.[38] For example, the epithet (h)agnā ‘holy’ is elsewhere applied to the goddess Athena (Alcaeus F 298.17) and to the Kharites ‘Graces’ as goddesses (Sappho F 53.1, 103.8; Alcaeus F 386.1). As for the epithet ioplokos ‘with strands of hair [garlanded] in violet’, it is elsewhere applied as a generic epithet to the Muses themselves (Bacchylides 3.17). In the overall context of all her songs identifying her with Aphrodite herself, Sappho appears here as the very picture of that goddess.

3§27. Such appearances, however, can be deceiving. The aura of the sacred and the decorous as externalized in choral songs typical of Sappho can no longer be the same once these songs make contact with the profane and the indecorous as externalized in sympotic songs typical of Alcaeus. The dialogic personality of Sappho speaking in the protective context of songs sung by women or girls in a khoros ‘chorus’ will be endangered in the unprotected context of songs sung by men or boys in a symposium or, more specifically, by men in a Dionysiac kōmos. In such unprotected contexts, even the honor of Sappho as a proper woman will be called into question.

A crisis for the reputation of Sappho

3§28. Such a situation, where the reputation of Sappho is put to the test, arises in a fragment of poetry quoted by Aristotle (Rhetoric 1.1367a) and generally attributed to Sappho (F 137). The fragment, already previewed in Essay 2 §§72–75, reveals a dialogue in song—a duet, as it were. This musical dialogue features, on one side, Alcaeus in the act of making sly sexual advances on Sappho and, on the other side, Sappho in the act of trying to protect her honor by cleverly _{219|220} fending off the predatory words of Alcaeus. Ancient scholia interpret Aristotle to mean that it was Sappho who composed this dialogue in song, and that the song is representing Alcaeus in the act of addressing her.[39] Most experts nowadays tend to agree.[40] I will argue, however, for the opposite: that the notional composer of this dialogue in song was Alcaeus, and that the song is representing Sappho in the act of responding to him. Here is the dialogue as quoted by Aristotle:

τὰ γὰρ αἰσχρὰ αἰσχύνονται καὶ λέγοντες καὶ ποιοῦντες καὶ μέλλοντες, ὥσπερ καὶ Σαπφὼ πεποίηκεν, εἰπόντος τοῦ Ἀλκαίου

θέλω τι εἰπῆν, ἀλλά με κωλύει αἰδώς,
αἰ δ’ ἦχες ἐσθλῶν ἵμερον ἢ καλῶν
καὶ μή τι εἰπῆν γλῶσσ’ ἐκύκα κακόν
αἰδώς κέν σε οὐκ εἶχεν ὄμματ’,
ἀλλ’ ἔλεγες περὶ τῶ δικαίω.

Men are ashamed to say, to do, or to intend to do shameful things. That is exactly the way Sappho composed her words when Alcaeus said:

{He:} I want to say something to you, but I am prevented by
shame [aidōs] …
{She:}But if you had a desire for good and beautiful things
and if your tongue were not stirring up something bad to say,
then shame would not seize your eyes
and you would be speaking about the just and honorable thing to do.

“Sappho” F 137 via the quotation of Aristotle Rhetoric 1.1367a

3§29. The meter of the line in Alcaeus F 384 is typical of a pattern found in the songs of Alcaeus:

⏓ – ⏑ – – – ⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ – ⏓

This Alcaic meter is not to be found in songs attributed to Sappho. One expert has tried to explain this apparent anomaly by arguing that “she [= Sappho] chose it [= the Alcaic meter] because it was, in general, a favourite metre of her ‘correspondent’, and, in particular, the metre of the poem to which she is replying.”[41] _{220|221}

3§30. Such an explanation is based on the assumption that Alcaeus and Sappho were simply two competing composers. This assumption leads to two alternative ways of interpreting the lyric exchange quoted by Aristotle:

1.          “… that the first part of the quotation […] comes from a poem by Alcaeus; the remainder […] from Sappho’s rejoinder.” [42]
2.          “… that the quotations in Aristotle come from a poem composed by Sappho in the form of a dialogue between herself and Alcaeus.” [43]

Either way we take it, “some have objected that, since Sappho appears to presuppose that her audience is aware of Alcaeus’ words […], it is hard to conceive of any but artificial arrangements for the presentation of the two poems to the public: were both presented, each by its own poet, to the same audience on different occasions?”[44]

Comparable “man-meets-woman” songs, and the case of the “Cologne Epode” of Archilochus

3§31. The impression of “artificial” arrangements is shaped by the same assumption: that Alcaeus and Sappho were competing composers. In terms of my argument, however, we are dealing here not with competing songs composed by competing composers but with competing traditions in the actual performance of these songs. A cross-cultural survey of singing traditions around the world reveals a vast variety of comparable “boy-meets-girl songs” of courtship or pseudo-courtship (I prefer to say “man-meets-woman” songs). Some of these traditions feature musical dialogues between the lovers or would-be lovers, and there is a vast variety of scenarios, as it were, for success or failure in such ritualized games of love: a case in point is the Provençal lyric tradition of the pastorela, as I noted in earlier work.[45] Within the Greek lyric traditions themselves, another case in point is the “Cologne Epode” of Archilochus (P.Colon.7511; F 196A ed. West, F S478 ed. Page).[46] It is most noteworthy that the setting of the first-person narrative of the Cologne Epode of Archilochus is a temenos ‘sacred space’, as we know from a poem of Dioscorides in the Greek Anthology (7.351).[47]

3§32. In Greek lyric traditions, the dialogic language of love can come to life even in situations where the first-person ‘I’ is talking to a second-person ‘you’ who does not talk back, as in Song 31 of Sappho.[48] _{221|222}

Another point of comparison, by way of American popular culture

3§33. I highlight a point of comparison in the popular music of several decades ago as of this writing: it is a song entitled “Oh, Pretty Woman,” composed by Roy Orbison with Bill Dees and performed by Roy Orbison, whose recording goes back to 1964 in Nashville, Tennessee. This is a song of a speaking ‘I’ talking his way through a tortured declaration of passionate love for a pretty woman who never talks back. The pretty woman walks on by without stopping to listen to the singer’s plaintive song of unrequited love. But then, most unexpectedly, she turns around and walks back to him. And it happens at the precise moment when he despairs of ever meeting her. Just as the song is reaching an end, the pretty woman who has been walking away from him is now all of a sudden walking back to him. What I find most remarkable about this song is that everything we hear happening in it happens while the speaking ‘I’ is singing to the pretty woman:

Pretty woman walkin down the street
Pretty woman, the kind I’d like to meet
Pretty woman, I don’t believe you
You’re not the truth
No one could look as good as you
Mercy

Pretty woman, won’t you pardon me
Pretty woman, I couldn’t help but see
Pretty woman, and you look lovely as can be
Are you lonely just like me?
… rrr …

Pretty woman, stop a while
Pretty woman, talk a while
Pretty woman, give your smile to me
Pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah
Pretty woman, look my way
Pretty woman, say you’ll stay with me

Cause I need you
I’ll treat you right
Come with me baby
Be mine tonight

Pretty woman, don’t walk on by
Pretty woman, don’t make me cry
Pretty woman, don’t walk away
OK _{222|223}

If that’s the way it must be, OK
I guess I’ll go on home, it’s late
There’ll be tomorrow night

But wait, what do I see?
Is she walking back to me?
Yeah, she’s walking back to me
O-oh
Pretty woman.

3§34. Since the voice of the pretty woman who is ‘walkin down the street’ is not heard in response, her character is in question. When the ‘I’ tells this woman that she is ‘the kind I’d like to meet’, does that wording make her the perfect woman or just a streetwalker who is ‘walkin down the street’—or both? In the beginning, the pretty woman is idealized. She looks too good to be true: ‘I don’t believe you | You’re not the truth | No one could look as good as you’. Words fail to express fully her loveliness: ‘you look lovely as can be’. But, despite all these worshipful words of admiration for the pretty woman, she is in danger of becoming a profanity by the time the song reaches the end: the streetwalker ‘walkin down the street’ who has been implored not to ‘walk on by’ but to ‘stop a while’ and to ‘talk a while’ will now be seen in the act of ‘walkin back to me’. And her character can be called into question precisely because she is about to come into contact with the questionable character of the ‘I’ who is singing to her. The ‘I’ had started reverently enough by addressing the pretty woman in the mode of a worshipful admirer. And, for a while, the wording continued to be reverent, but then the undertone of irreverence set in. The cry of ‘Mercy’ at the end of the first stanza already sounds less like an admiring exclamation and more like a predatory growl, which then devolves further into a non‑verbal ‘…rrr…’ at the end of the second stanza. By now the sound resembles the mating call of a tomcat on the prowl.

Back to the “Cologne Epode” of Archilochus 

3§35. In the musical meeting between Alcaeus and Sappho, by contrast with this example from American popular culture, Sappho gets to talk back to Alcaeus. In their dialogue, she gets a chance to defend her character. It is not clear, though, just how successful such a musical defense can be. After all, the anonymous woman in the dialogue of the Cologne Epode of Archilochus likewise gets a chance to talk back to the speaker—and look what happens to her character: it will be ruined forever as the dialogue proceeds.

3§36. Here is the way it happens in the musical meeting of the Cologne Epode. As we start reading the fragment of the poem as we have it, we find _{223|224} that the female speaker is already being directly quoted, as it were, by the male speaker. The fragment fails to show how the dialogue had started, and so our reading has to start in the middle of things, at a point where the dialogue is already in progress. But the sense is clear enough. The first five surviving verses show the female speaker already talking back to the male speaker. Her words are being quoted by the male speaker, who then marks in his first-person narrative the end of his quotation of her words: ‘such things she spoke’ (verse 6). Then he speaks back to her, quoting what he says (verses 7–27), but not before he signals in his first-person narrative the beginning of his self-quotation: ‘I answered back’ (again, verse 6). After he finishes what he says to the female speaker, the male speaker marks in his first-person narrative the end of his self-quotation: ‘such things I spoke’ (verse 28). And then he proceeds to narrate in the first person his success in winning the sexual favors of the woman he has just addressed (verses 28–35). That is how the narration in the Cologne Epode ostensibly ruins the woman’s reputation. In retrospect, however, in light of what is eventually narrated, her reputation has already been ruined from the very start. That is, she has ruined her own reputation by what she has already said at the very start, back when she is quoted as speaking in the first person (verses 1–5).

Back to the musical meeting between Alcaeus and Sappho

3§37. By contrast, in the musical meeting between Alcaeus and Sappho, we find no first-person narrative embedding the dialogue that is taking place between the first-person male speaker and the first-person female speaker. In this case, then, the mīmēsis is more direct. (From here on, I will continue to write simply mimesis.) And the dialogue is therefore more theatrical, more musical. In the case of the Cologne Epode, by contrast, the dialogue is less theatrical—and less musical—because the mimesis is less direct. In that case the mimesis of the dialogue between man and woman is embedded within the overall mimesis of a first-person narrator who plays the role of the indecorous man reminiscing about his sexual conquest of the once-decorous pretty woman. _{224|225}

3§38. The theatricality of a musical meeting between Alcaeus and Sappho is blurred, however, for those who assume that these two figures were simply “writers,” as we see from this sampling of rival explanations:

(a) “A poem by two writers is hard to imagine in the sixth century.[49]
(b) “Aristotle’s text […] implies either two poems by two writers or one poem (in dialogue-form) by one writer.”[50]

The theatricality stays blurred even if one “writer”—either Alcaeus or Sappho—is imagined as the composer of a functioning dialogue. Those who choose to imagine such a writer need to impose restrictions, as we see in the argument “that the poem is not a dialogue between Alcaeus and Sappho but between a man and a woman, or rather between a suitor and a rather unwelcoming maiden.”[51] In other words, a dialogue between would-be lovers seems imaginable only if neither Alcaeus nor Sappho is participating in the dialogue. It is assumed that Alcaeus and Sappho could not represent Sappho and Alcaeus respectively in such dialogic roles. After all, these figures are the equivalent of what we think is a writer. Surely a writer cannot be transformed into some kind of singing actor!

3§39. This is to misunderstand the medium of Alcaeus and Sappho, which as I have argued is fundamentally mimetic. The first person of Alcaeus and the first person of Sappho are ever engaged in roles of interaction with other persons. In terms of my overall argument, that is because the medium of Alcaeus and Sappho is not only mimetic. It is theatrical.

So, did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet?

3§40. Which brings me to the question: did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet? My answer is: yes, there was such a meeting—if you think of such a meeting as a staged musical event. Sappho and Alcaeus really did meet on the stage, as it were, of the festival held at Messon in Lesbos. And they could meet not just once but many times, as many times as a seasonally-recurring festival was being celebrated there.

3§41. The context for such a musical meeting at Messon, in terms of my overall argumentation, is sympotic. As such, this context is the source of a major problem in the transmission of songs attributed to Sappho. The problem has to do with a basic fact concerning sympotic events. The fact is, no woman could attend a symposium attended by men, as opposed to symposia organized by women and attended only by women. Or, to put it differently, only women of questionable character could be imagined as attending symposia organized by men. So, a sympotic role for Sappho in the company of men could not have been performed by Sappho even in the time of Sappho. Rather, such a role would be played out by men or by boys—or perhaps by women of questionable character.

3§42. This basic fact about the exclusion of women from symposia organized by men is essential for understanding what eventually happened to Sappho’s character—in both the theatrical and the moral senses of the word character. So long as the musical dialogues of Alcaeus and Sappho stayed within the framework _{225|226} of traditional festivities at Messon, the more playful aspects of Sappho’s character as sung by men or boys in a sympotic context could be counterbalanced by the more serious aspects as sung by women or girls in a choral context. But the overall character of Sappho—let me call it her role—became endangered once it slipped away from its native festive environment at Messon. And slip away it did.

On the recomposing of Sappho and Alcaeus by Anacreon

3§43. The lyric role of Sappho, symmetrically conjoined with the lyric role of Alcaeus, eventually outgrew its origins in Aeolian Lesbos. It became widely influential in the overall song culture of Aeolian and Ionian elites throughout the Aegean. And we can see clear signs of this influence in the songmaking traditions of Anacreon of Teos.

3§44. Anacreon was court poet to Polycrates of Samos, the powerful ruler of an expansive maritime empire in the Aegean world of the late sixth century. As we will see, the lyric role of Sappho was appropriated by the imperial court poetry of Anacreon.

3§45. This appropriation can be viewed only retrospectively, however, through the lens of poetic traditions in Athens. That is because the center of imperial power over the Aegean shifted from Samos to Athens when Polycrates the tyrant of Samos was captured and executed by agents of the Persian empire. Parallel to this transfer of imperial power was a transfer of musical prestige, politically engineered by Hipparkhos, son of Peisistratos and tyrant of Athens. Hipparkhos made the powerful symbolic gesture of sending a warship to Samos to fetch Anacreon and bring him to Athens (“Plato” Hipparkhos 228c). This way, the Ionian lyric tradition as represented by Anacreon was relocated from its older imperial venue in Samos to a newer imperial venue in Athens. Likewise relocated, as we will now see, was the Aeolian lyric tradition as represented by Sappho—and also by Alcaeus.

On the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus and Anacreon as performed in Athens, both at symposia and at the festival of the Panathenaia

3§46. The new Aegean empire that was taking shape under the hegemony of Athens became the setting for a new era in lyric poetry, starting in the late sixth century and extending through most of the fifth. In this era, Athens became a new stage, as it were, for the performing of Aeolian and Ionian lyric poetry as mediated by the likes of Anacreon. The most public context for such performance was the prestigious Athenian festival of the Panathenaia, where professional singers performed competitively in spectacular re‑stagings of lyric poetry. But there were also private contexts, at symposia. Here I review, in the following three paragraphs, what I have already noted in Essay 1 and Essay 2 about the Aeolian and Ionian lyric traditions that were kept vibrantly alive in both the public and the private contexts of Athenian song culture. _{{page break at 226}}

3§46a. In the early classical period of the earlier half of the fifth century, as noted in Essay 1§8, solo performance of lyric poetry became highly professionalized at the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens. And there was professionalism even in the private context of symposia, where elite amateur performers could have the benefit of learning from professional teachers the songs they would show off in performance. But the professionalism was most visible in the public context of the Panathenaia, where lyric poetry was sung competitively by professional soloists—either kitharōidoi ‘citharodes’ (= ‘kitharā-singers’) or aulōidoi ‘aulodes’ (= ‘aulos-singers’)—while non‑lyric poetry was recited competitively by professional soloists called rhapsōidoi ‘rhapsodes’. The solo performance of lyric poetry, to speak more formally about such performance of lyric, was monodic, not choral. At the Panathenaia, all monodic and rhapsodic competitions were called mousikoi agōnes ‘musical contests’, but these contests were ‘musical’ only in the sense that they were linked with the goddesses of poetic memory, the Muses (HC 360–373 = 3§23–46). They were not ‘musical’ in the modern sense, since the Panathenaic contests featured epic poetry performed by rhapsodes as well as lyric poetry performed by citharodes and aulodes. In the classical period of Athens, I should add, the epic repertoire was eventually restricted to the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey, competitively performed by rhapsodes, while the lyric repertoire was restricted to songs competitively performed, in separate categories, by citharodes and aulodes.

3§46b. In Essay 2§§82–83, I already sketched the essential facts about the reception, in Athens, of songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus. And I already offered general comments there on the intermediacy of Anacreon, whose songs as performed in public concerts at the Panathenaia and at private events like symposia had set the precedent for analogous performances of songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus. So, it was on the occasion of this most prestigious seasonally recurring Athenian festival, the Panathenaia, that professional citharodes and aulodes (as originally defined at 1§8) would be competing with each other in spectacular performances of lyric poetry attributed to poets like Alcaeus, Sappho, and Anacreon.

3§46c. Such lyric poetry, as I already noted briefly in Essay 2§83, thus became an integral part of Athenian song culture, and, consequently, it was absorbed also into other public contexts of songmaking in Athens. Besides the seasonally recurring Athenian festival of the Panathenaia, another such public context where the songs of poets like Alcaeus, Sappho, and Anacreon could be echoed was the likewise seasonally recurring Athenian festival of the City Dionysia, which was the primary venue for Athenian State Theater as exemplified not only by tragedy but also by comedy. What I just said, I should add, applies also to secondary festive venues sacred to Dionysus, such as the festival of the Lenaia. And I should also add that I have a specific reason for saying that the songs of Aeolian and Ionian lyric were “echoed” in the medium of Athenian comedy. As we will now see, classical Athenian Old Comedy became increasingly interactive with the old lyric traditions of the Aeolian and Ionian worlds as originally imported to Athens by elite figures like the so-called tyrant Hipparkhos. What resulted, as we will now see, was a veritable mental data-base of cross-references in comedy to memorable moments that were heard in performances of lyric poetry.

More on the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus and Anacreon in Athens, this time as echoed in Athenian comedy

3§47. Among the attested references in classical Athenian Old Comedy to the singing of Aeolian and Ionian lyric, I start by citing a most salient example, from Aristophanes (F 235 ed. Kassel/Austin), where singing a song of Anacreon at a symposium is viewed as parallel to singing a song of Alcaeus: ᾆσον δή μοι σκόλιόν τι λαβὼν Ἀλκαίου κἈνακρέοντος ‘sing me some skolion, taking it from Alcaeus or Anacreon’.[52] Elsewhere, in the Sympotic Questions of Plutarch (711d), singing a song of Anacreon at a symposium is viewed as parallel to singing a song of Sappho herself: ὅτε καὶ Σαπφοῦς ἂν ᾀδομένης καὶ τῶν Ἀνακρέοντος ἐγώ μοι δοκῶ καταθέσθαι τὸ ποτήριον αἰδούμενος ‘whenever Sappho is being sung, and some songs of Anacreon, I think of putting down the drinking cup in awe’.

3§48. In general, the Dionysiac medium of the symposium was most receptive to the Aeolian and Ionian lyric traditions exemplified by the likes of Anacreon, Alcaeus, and Sappho. There is an anecdote that bears witness to this reception: it is said that already Solon of Athens, sometime in the early sixth century, became enraptured by hearing a song of Sappho sung by his own nephew at a symposium (Aelian via Stobaeus 3.29.58).[53]

3§49. The correlation of Aeolian lyric with the Ionian lyric of Anacreon in these contexts is relevant to an explicit identification of Anacreon with the Dionysiac medium of the symposium. In a pointed reference, Anacreon is pictured in the lavish setting of a grand symposium hosted by his patron, the tyrant Polycrates, in the heyday of the Ionian maritime empire of Samos. The reference comes from Herodotus (3.121), who pictures Polycrates in the orientalizing pose of reclining on a sympotic couch in the company of his court poet Anacreon: καὶ τὸν Πολυκράτεα τυχεῖν κατακείμενον ἐν ἀνδρεῶνι, παρεῖναι δέ οἱ καὶ Ἀνακρέοντα τὸν Τήιον ‘and he [= a Persian agent] found Polycrates reclining in the men’s quarters, and with him was Anacreon of Teos’.[54] _{227|228}

On the recomposition of Sappho in Athens

3§50. The lyric tradition of ‘singing Sappho’ or ‘singing Alcaeus’ in Athens, as mediated by the sympotic singing of Anacreon in Samos and thereafter in Athens, would have derived ultimately from the sympotic singing of men and boys in the festive setting of Messon in Lesbos. So the question arises, what happened to the role of Sappho after her lyric tradition was transferred to the Dionysiac media of Athens?

3§51. An answer can be found in classical Athenian Old Comedy. In this Dionysiac medium, as we are about to see, influential lyric models like Sappho become conventional subjects of amusement and even ridicule.[55]

3§52. For background, I turn to an argument I offered in earlier work on the phenomenon of reperformance.[56] In any given song culture, I argued, we can expect that each composition of a song is to some degree re‑created in each new performance. I argued further that such a process of recomposition-in-performance could re‑create not only the given composition itself but also the identity of the composer credited with speaking as the ‘I’ in the notionally original composition. The voice of the composer could even be replaced by the voice of a performer other than the notionally original composer. In short, a reperformed composer could become a recomposed performer.[57]

3§53. In making this argument, I concentrated on the Dionysiac medium of the symposium in fifth-century Athens as a primary context for the practice of reperforming the songs of Sappho as well as Alcaeus and other such poetic figures, including Anacreon and even, say, a figure like Archilochus. In the case of Sappho and Archilochus in particular, I made the following point about the risks of destabilizing the identities of such figures in the process of recomposition-in-performance:

In the mīmēsis of a rogue’s persona, as in the case of Archilochus, we may expect an intensification of distinctions between composer and performer in the symposium. A similar point can be made about other personae as well, as in the case of Sappho. We know that Sappho’s songs, like those of Archilochus, were performed at symposia.[58] […] The point is, for a male singer to act out a woman’s persona implies a radical reshaping of personality in performance.[59] _{228|229}

3§54. Even when a composer is speaking in his or her own persona, the reperformance of the speaking ‘I’ in a symposium can lead to a fragmentation of this persona:

Let us reconsider the various songs in which an “author” is speaking through what is understood to be his or her own persona. The variety of situations conjured up even in such appropriated songs may lead to a commensurate variety of speaking personae. In other words, the demands of mīmēsis may lead toward an intensified multiplicity in ethos even for the author, with the persona of an Archilochus or a Sappho becoming transformed into multiple personalities that fit multiple situations. Just as the performer may be recomposed in multiple ways, so too this multiplicity may be retrojected all the way to the supposedly prototypical composer, the author. A case in point is the persona of Sappho, which becomes refracted into multiple personalities that eventually become distinguished from the “real” poetess in various Life of Sappho traditions: one such “fake” Sappho is a lyre-player who reputedly jumped off the cliff of Leukas (Suda σ 108, iv 323 Adler; also Strabo 10.2.9 C452), while another is a courtesan (hetaira: Aelian Varia Historia 12.19, Athenaeus 13.596e), even a prostitute (publica: Seneca in Epistles 88.37).[60]

More on recomposed performers 

3§55. There is a parallel fragmentation of the persona of Alcaeus. Didymus, an eminent philologist who lived in the late first century BCE and who followed the methodology of Aristarchus, who lived in the second century BCE, attempts to distinguish Alcaeus the poet from an Alcaeus who is merely a lyre-player (scholia for Aristophanes Women at the Thesmophoria 162). Further, Quintilian (Principles of Oratory 10.1.63) says he is puzzled that Alcaeus the poet mixes high-minded statesmanship with frivolous love affairs.

3§56. So, the tradition of singing Alcaeus and Sappho exemplifies the model of the recomposed performer. Alcaeus and Sappho are not only being reperformed. They are also being recomposed.

3§57. So far, our prime example of a text featuring a recomposed Sappho and Alcaeus has been a passage I quoted earlier, at 3§28, where Aristotle quotes Alcaeus in the act of speaking to Sappho, who then speaks back to Alcaeus. I now turn to a further example:

Λέσβιος Ἀλκαῖος δὲ πόσους ἀνεδέξατο κώμους,
Σαπφοῦς φορμίζων ἱμερόεντα πόθον
γινώσκεις. ὁ δ᾿ ἀοιδὸς ἀηδόνος ἠράσαθ᾿ ὕμνων
Τήϊον ἀλγύνων ἄνδρα πολυφραδίῃ.                                       50
καὶ γὰρ τὴν ὁ μελιχρὸς ἐφημίλλητ᾿ Ἀνακρείων
στελλομένην πολλαῖς ἄμμιγα Λεσβιάσιν·
φοίτα δ᾿ ἄλλοτε μὲν λείπων Σάμον, ἄλλοτε δ᾿αὐτὴν
οἰνηρῇ δείρῃ κεκλιμένην πατρίδα,
Λέσβον ἐς εὔοινον· τὸ δὲ Μύσιον εἴσιδε Λέκτον                  55
πολλάκις Αἰολικοῦ κύματος ἀντιπέρας

Hermesianax F 3.47–56 (ed. Lightfoot) via Athenaeus 13.598b–c

How many revels-of-singers-and-dancers [kōmoi] did Alcaeus of Lesbos greet [61] _{229|230}
as he played out on his lyre a yearning [pothos], lovely it was, for Sappho
—you know how many (such revels) there were. This singer [aoidos] was-passionately-in-love-with [erân] her, with that nightingale [aēdōn], with her songs [humnoi],[62]
and by way of his songs he would be causing pain for that man from Teos [= Anacreon], yes, by way of the manifold skill of these songs of his,
since, you see, she also had Anacreon, that honey-sweet one, competing for her.
She was so beautiful, the way she was put together, compared to the many other beautiful women of Lesbos.
Sometimes he [= Anacreon] would journey there [to Lesbos], departing from Samos, while at other times he did his journeying
from his own fatherland [= Teos], with its slopes of vineyards,
coming to Lesbos, with its own fine wine. There he would often set his gaze in the direction of Lektos, in Mysia,
yes, often he would gaze, looking across the strait of the Aeolian seas separating island from mainland.

3§58. These verses by Hermesianax of Colophon, dated to the early third century BCE and quoted by Athenaeus 13.598b, show that Alcaeus was well known for singing not one but many love songs that were directed at Sappho—and that the context for such singing was the kōmos ‘revel’. Further, these verses show that Anacreon, too, was known for singing love songs directed at Sappho. We have just read here how Anacreon was an envious rival of Alcaeus for the love of Sappho, that famed ‘nightingale’, described here as the most beautiful of all the women of Lesbos. And we also read here how a lovelorn Anacreon often journeyed to the island of Lesbos as if he were seeking, in vain, to win there the love of Sappho. There we see him wistfully gazing across a strait separating the island from the Asiatic mainland, where the promontory called Lektos is sloping upward, up toward the heights of Mount Ida. This strait, I should recall, could have been one of the straits where the old ferryman named Phaon used to ferry his passengers back and forth between Lesbos and the Asiatic Mainland, as we learn from Sappho F 211 (ed. Voigt), paraphrased at 2§61b above. And where would Anacreon be coming from, whenever he visited Lesbos? Sometimes he would be journeying from his homeland, the city of Teos, situated on the Ionian mainland of Asia Minor, while at other times, as he must have said in his poetry, he journeyed to the island of Lesbos from another island, Samos, off the coast of the Ionian mainland of Asia Minor. It was at Samos, as we have already learned from Herodotus (3.121), that Anacreon had been court poet of the island-empire ruled by the tyrant Polycrates.

3§59. The verses of Hermesianax that we have just read are taken from a lengthier poem of his about passionate love, quoted more fully by Athenaeus in his Scroll 13, starting at 597a and extending all the way through 598b. Then, after the quotation of the poem comes to an end in the text of Athenaeus at 13.599b, the learned discussion continues at 13.599c by questioning what the poet Hermesianax says about Anacreon. It is now claimed that Hermesianax made a big mistake by ‘synchronizing’ Anacreon with Sappho. Here, then, is what we read further in Athenaeus 13.599c: _{230|231}

ἐν τούτοις ὁ Ἑρμησιάναξ σφάλλεται συγχρονεῖν οἰόμενος Σαπφὼ καὶ Ἀνακρέοντα, τὸν μὲν κατὰ Κῦρον καὶ Πολυκράτην γενόμενον, τὴν δὲ κατ’ Ἀλυάττην τὸν Κροίσου πατέρα. Χαμαιλέων δ’ ἐν τῷ περὶ Σαπφοῦς καὶ λέγειν τινάς φησιν εἰς αὐτὴν πεποιῆσθαι ὑπὸ Ἀνακρέοντος τάδε·

σφαίρῃ δεῦτέ με πορφυρέῃ
βάλλων χρυσοκόμης Ἔρως
νήνι ποικιλοσαμβάλῳ
συμπαίζειν προκαλεῖται.
ἣ δ’ (ἐστὶν γὰρ ἀπ’ εὐκτίτου
Λέσβου) τὴν μὲν ἐμὴν κόμην
(λευκὴ γάρ) καταμέμφεται,
πρὸς δ’ ἄλλην τινὰ χάσκει.

καὶ τὴν Σαπφὼ δὲ πρὸς αὐτὸν ταῦτά φησιν εἰπεῖν·

κεῖνον, ὦ χρυσόθρονε Μοῦσ’, ἔνισπες
ὕμνον, ἐκ τᾶς καλλιγύναικος ἐσθλᾶς
Τήιος χώρας ὃν ἄειδε τερπνῶς
πρέσβυς ἀγαυός.

ὅτι δὲ οὔκ ἐστι Σαπφοῦς τοῦτο τὸ ᾆσμα παντί που δῆλον. ἐγὼ δὲ ἡγοῦμαι παίζειν τὸν Ἑρμησιάνακτα περὶ τούτου τοῦ ἔρωτος. καὶ γὰρ Δίφιλος ὁ κωμῳδιοποιὸς πεποίηκεν ἐν Σαπφοῖ δράματι Σαπφοῦς ἐραστὰς Ἀρχίλοχον καὶ Ἱππώνακτα.

Athenaeus 13.599c

In these verses Hermesianax is making a mistake in thinking that Sappho and Anacreon are contemporaries. For he [= Anacreon] lived in the time of Cyrus and Polycrates while she [= Sappho] lived in the time of Alyattes the father of Croesus. But Chamaeleon in his work On Sappho [F 26 ed. Wehrli] even says that these following verses were composed by Anacreon and addressed to her [= Sappho]:

Once again with a purple ball I am hit
– it was thrown by the one with the golden head of hair, Eros,
and—with a young girl wearing pattern-woven sandals
– to play with her does he [= Eros] call on me.
But, you see, she is from that place so well settled by settlers,
Lesbos it is. And my head of hair,
you see, it’s white, she finds fault with it.
And she gapes at something else—some girl.

Anacreon F 358 in PMG (ed. Page)

He [= Chamaeleon] says that Sappho says back to him [= Anacreon]:

It was that particular song, O Muse wearing the golden pattern-weave, that you [= Anacreon] performed [enispeîn], yes, it was
that particular song [humnos]. It came from the noble place of beautiful women, _{231|232}
and the-man-from Teos [= Anacreon] sang [aeidein] it. It came from that space. And, as he sang, he did so delightfully,
that splendid old man.

Adespota F 35 = F 953 in PMG ed. Page

That this song does not belong to Sappho is clear to everyone. And I think that Hermesianax was simply being witty in talking about this passionate love. Diphilus, the poet of comedy, composed a play called Sappho [F 70 ed. Kassel/Austin], in which he made Archilochus and Hipponax lovers of Sappho.

3§60. In the context of this learned claim in the text of Athenaeus about an ostensible mistake on the part of Hermesianax, we see here another learned claim about another ostensible mistake—this time the mistake is blamed on an earlier author, Chamaeleon of Heraclea Pontica, dated to the fourth/third centuries BCE. In a work of Chamaeleon, On Sappho (F 26 ed. Wehrli), as we have just seen it cited in the text of Athenaeus, this author interpreted what we know as Song 358 of Anacreon to be the words of the poet’s declaration of love for Sappho. As we have just seen, Chamaeleon first quotes the words supposedly spoken by Anacreon in professing his love for Sappho, without addressing her directly, and then, he follows up by quoting the words supposedly spoken by Sappho, who is supposedly talking back to Anacreon, at one point addressing him directly by way of the second person, ἔνισπες ‘you recited [enispein]’, although she then shifts to addressing him, a few words later, only indirectly by way of the second person, ἄειδε ‘he sang [aeidein]’ (Adespota 35 = F 953 in PMG ed. Page). An essential point of comparison here is what I noted already at 3§28, where we saw that Aristotle (Rhetoric 1.1367a) quotes words supposedly spoken by Sappho in talking back to Alcaeus.

3§61. The case of the musical duet between Anacreon and Sappho differs in one crucial respect, however, from the corresponding case of a musical duet between Alcaeus and Sappho: in the case of Anacreon and Sappho, it is clear from the dating of these two figures that they cannot be contemporaries. That is why editors nowadays assign the category of “Adespota” to the words reportedly spoken by Sappho in response to Anacreon.[63]

3§62. So, these words attributed to Sappho are officially declared to be inauthentic. And this modern judgment of editors is in agreement with the ancient judgment expressed in the learned discourse of Athenaeus (13.599c). Modern editors have not dared go so far, however, when they pass judgment on the words reportedly spoken by Sappho in response to Alcaeus, since in this first case the ancient world considered these two particular figures to be contemporaries. That is why the words attributed to Alcaeus and Sappho cannot be so easily dismissed. Or, at least, they cannot be dismissed on the basis of chronological considerations. Accordingly, editors are willing to allow for the possibility that Sappho herself composed such a dialogue, _{232|233} even though they are generally unwilling to identify the speakers of the dialogue as Alcaeus and Sappho.

3§63. An example of this kind of thinking is the opinion expressed by the editor and translator of the Loeb Classical Library version of Alcaeus and Sappho. Here is what he says about Song 137 of “Sappho”: “Perhaps S[appho] wrote a poem in which the identity of the male speaker was unclear, and later biographers identified him falsely as Alc[aeus].”[64] This editor then goes on to associate such a “false” identification with “the type of error that a Peripatetic writer could make.”[65] The “error” to which the editor is referring here is the “false” identification of Sappho as a dialogic partner of Anacreon in the works of such “Peripatetics” as Hermesianax and Chamaeleon. By implication, the same “error” is also being committed by the greatest “Peripatetic” of them all, Aristotle himself, who identifies the male speaker in the dialogue of Song 137 of “Sappho” as Alcaeus. So we are left to infer that the dialogue between Alcaeus and Sappho is a mere invention.

3§64. I resist this line of thinking. It is unjustified to claim that the likes of Aristotle, Chamaeleon, and Hermesianax invented stories about musical encounters between preclassical poets. I argue, rather, that such stories were part of a musical tradition that shaped the roles of these poets in the performance traditions that preserved the poetry attributed to them. The idea that a figure like Sappho could speak directly to a figure like Alcaeus does not start with Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Such an idea can be dated at least as far back as the early fifth century, well over a century before Aristotle.

Evidence from a picture of Sappho and Alcaeus painted on a vase

3§65. Here I turn to the evidence of two pictures painted on a red-figure vase of Athenian provenance. The pictures are conventionally attributed to an anonymous artist known to art historians as the Brygos Painter. At the beginning of this essay, I already showed a line drawing of one of the two pictures that grace the surface of this vase, which is a krater shaped like a kalathos. The vase was made in Athens sometime between 480 and 470 BCE, and it is now housed in Munich (Antikensammlungen no. 2416; ARV² 385 [228]). But the earlier home for this vase was Agrigento in Sicily. Since the ancient Greek name of this Sicilian city was Akragas. I will hereafter refer to this artifact simply as the Akragas Vase.[66]

3§66. In what follows, I will describe the two pictures painted on the two sides of the Akragas Vase while consistently referring to a pair of line drawings I show at the end of this essay, Image 1 and Image 2. I have already previewed the line-drawing in Image 1 as the featured image at the beginning of my Essay 3 here, but from now on I advise the reader to consult Image 1 together with Image 2 as they are featured together at the end of Essay 3. That said, I can now delve into details to be analyzed in the two images, and I start with the first of the two.

3§66a. In Image 1 we see two figures in a pointedly musical scene. The figure on the left is Alcaeus, labeled by way of adjacent Greek lettering, who is shown in the act of playing a specialized string instrument known as the barbiton, while the figure on the right is Sappho, likewise labeled by way of adjacent Greek lettering, who is shown in the act of playing her own barbiton. _{233|234} The visual duet of Alcaeus and Sappho as rendered by the painter matches in its symmetry the verbal duet of these same figures as quoted by Aristotle.

3§66b. The two figures in Image 1 are described as follows by a team of art historians:

[They are] side by side in nearly identical dress. But under the transparent clothing of one—a bearded man—the sex [sic] is clearly drawn. The other is a woman—her breasts are indicated—but a cloak hides the region of her genitals, apparently distancing her from any erotic context. She wears a diadem, while the hair of her companion is held in a ribbon (tainia). Each holds a barbiton and seems to be playing. The parallelisms of the two figures, male and female, is unambiguous here. A string of vowels (Ο Ο Ο Ο Ο) leaving the man’s mouth indicates song. An inscription, finally, gives his name, Alcaeus [ΑΛΚΑΙΟΣ], and indicates the identity of his companion, Sappho [spelled here as ΣΑΦΟ]. […] The long garment and the playing of the barbiton are […] connected with Ionian lyric.[67]

3§67. As I emphasized already, the vase on which this image was painted, now housed in Munich, was discovered in the vicinity of the ancient Sicilian city of Akragas, now called Agrigento, and, as of 1823, there was a record of the provenance of this artifact as part of the Panitteri Collection in Agrigento.[68] As we will now see, the place of discovery, ancient Akragas, is significant.

Comparative evidence, from a piece of sculpture known as the Motya Charioteer

3§68. The diaphanous ankle-length khitōn worn by the figure of Alcaeus in Image 1 is strikingly similar to the diaphanous ankle-length khitōn worn by a sculpted marble figure discovered in 1979 on the Punic island of Motya and known as the “Motya Charioteer.”[69] Malcolm Bell gives a detailed comparison of the costumes worn by these two figures, the Musician (as he calls him) and the Charioteer, which I quote here:[70]

The ankle-length musician’s {khitōn}worn by {Alcaeus} is divided into many long and sinuous folds that play over the legs and lower torso while maintaining their volume. These decorative, pleatlike vertical folds are strikingly like the drapery of the charioteer. At the left knee, right calf, and ankles the drapery is modeled by the underlying limbs. The {xustis} [= ankle-length khitōn] of {Alcaeus} is, in fact, the closest parallel known to me for the drapery of the Motya youth, and it suggests that Attic vase painters could aim for the same _{234|235} effects as the sculptors, most likely by imitating works that they had seen.[71]

3§69. Bell shows that both the painted vase and the marble sculpture were custom-made by Athenian artisans sometime in the decade of 480–470 BCE, and that both of these artifacts had been commissioned as artistic trophies intended for members of the dynastic family of the Emmenidai in Akragas—most likely for Xenokrates, tyrant of Akragas, and for Thrasyboulos, his son.[72] How the vase survived is not known. As for the sculpture, the fact that it was found on the island of Motya leaves some clues. When Carthaginian forces captured and pillaged Akragas in 406 BCE, the statue was evidently carried off to this island; as Bell notes, “this may have been the moment when the face and genitals of the sculpture were intentionally damaged.”[73]

Further comparative evidence, this time from Pindar’s Isthmian 2

3§70. Linked with the vase and the marble sculpture is a third artistic trophy: it is the song that is Pindar’s Isthmian 2. This song was commissioned to celebrate the victory of a four-horse chariot team sponsored by Xenokrates of Akragas in a chariot race that took place at the biennial festival of the Isthmia—most probably it was the festival held in the spring of 476; the same Isthmian victory is also mentioned in Pindar’s Olympian 2 (lines 49–51), which in turn celebrated the victory of a four-horse chariot team sponsored by the brother of Xenokrates, Theron of Akragas, in a chariot race that took place at the quadrennial festival of the Olympia in the summer of 476.[74] According to the Pindaric scholia, the reference in Pindar’s Isthmian 2 (line 3) to paideioi humnoi ‘songs of boys/girls’ is actually a reference to the songs composed by the poets Alcaeus, Ibycus, and Anacreon (ταῦτα δὲ τείνει καὶ εἰς τοὺς περὶ Ἀλκαῖον καὶ Ἴβυκον καὶ Ἀνακρέοντα).[75]

3§71. In earlier work, I argued that Pindar’s Isthmian 2 associates itself with the eroticism of Aeolian and Ionian lyric poetry—while at the same time distancing itself from the public professionalism of monodic singers who _{235|236} sang competitively in spectacular re‑stagings of such lyric poetry at the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens.[76] The professionalism inherent in the singing of such lyric poetry at that festival is ostentatiously acknowledged in the wording that opens the song in Pindar’s Isthmian 2 (lines 1–13), which contrasts the ‘professional Muse’ (Mousa ergatis) of its own contemporary era with a nostalgically idealized earlier era of non‑professional elites who once upon a time sang such lyric poetry for each other at symposia.[77]

3§72. To back up that earlier argument I return to the argument I have already been developing here at 3§46 with regard to the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens. I have been arguing that this festival was the most public venue for the professional performance of Aeolian and Ionian lyric poetry during the period starting with the late sixth century and extending through most of the fifth. As we see from the wording in Pindar’s Isthmian 2, the publicity stemming from such Panathenaic performances must have enhanced exponentially the artistic prestige that this poetry already enjoyed by way of emerging as the medium par excellence for expressions of elite solidarity at symposia. And the eroticized charisma of such enhanced artistic prestige would have been perceived as distinctly Athenian in provenance—and thus distinctly prestige-driven.

3§73. Pindar’s Isthmian 2 is linked with the Panathenaia not only indirectly, by way of its reference to the Aeolian and Ionian lyric poetry performed at that festival. There is also a direct link, by way of a reference in this song to something else that is Panathenaic and therefore distinctly Athenian in prestige: it is the victory of a four-horse chariot team sponsored by Xenokrates of Akragas in a chariot race that took place at the quadrennial festival of the Panathenaia in Athens (lines 19–22)—most likely at the festival held in the year 474 BCE.[78] So, the lyric poetry of Pindar’s Isthmian 2 is linked with the Panathenaic competitions in chariot racing as well as in _{236|237} poetry. That is to say, we see here a second Athenian signature in this song, and the prestige inherent in this signature is comparable to the prestige inherent in the Athenian provenance of two other trophies we have been considering—the Akragas Vase, commissioned in Akragas but manufactured in Athens, and the marble sculpture of the charioteer found in Motya, which was likewise manufactured in Athens, in terms of the argumentation presented by Malcolm Bell (1995). All three artifacts—the vase, the statue, and the song—were displays of Athenian artistic prestige that served to enhance the eroticized charisma of the tyrants of Akragas.

A picture of Dionysus and a Maenad

3§74. Next, I invite the reader to look at Image 2 as painted on the Akragas Vase. Like Image 1, the line drawing can be found at the end of this Essay 3. In Image 2, we see two figures in a pointedly sympotic scene. The figure on the left is Dionysus, while the figure on the right is a female devotee, that is, a Maenad. Sympotic themes predominate. Dionysus, god of the symposium, is directly facing the Maenad, who appears to be coming under the god’s possession, transfixed by his direct gaze. The symmetry of Dionysus and the Maenad is reinforced by the symmetrical picturing of two overtly sympotic vessels, one held by the god and the other, by his newly possessed female devotee: he is holding a kantharos while she is holding an oinokhoē.[79] The pairing creates a sort of sympotic symmetry.

3§75. Matching the sympotic symmetry of Dionysus and the Maenad in Image 2 is the musical symmetry of Alcaeus and Sappho in Image 1. Both Alcaeus and Sappho are shown in the musical moment of striking the strings of the barbiton in a sweep of the plēktron held in the right hand. Each of the two figures has just executed this masterful instrumental sweep, and now the singing may begin. Alcaeus has already begun to sing, but Sappho has yet to begin. Perhaps she is waiting for her own turn to sing.

The Anacreontic singer and his—or her—barbiton

3§76. The musical medium of Alcaeus and Sappho as pictured in Image 1 of the Akragas Vase corresponds to the musical medium of Anacreon as pictured in a special set of vase paintings that are described by art historians as “Anacreontic” in theme.[80] I focus here on a single point of comparison between Image 1 and the Anacreontic images. It has to do with the string instrument known as the barbiton.

3§77. As we have just seen, Image 1 on the Akragas Vase shows Alcaeus playing a barbiton as he sings his song—and it also shows Sappho playing on her own barbiton as she waits to begin singing her own song. I now _{237|238} juxtapose the vase painting represented in the line drawing of Image 1 with two Anacreontic vase paintings where Anacreon is imagined as playing a barbiton. On one vase, a red-figure lekythos (Syracuse 26967),  not shown here in this essay, a man wearing a long khitōn and a turban is playing a barbiton, and the inscribed lettering indicates that he is Anacreon (ΑΝΑΚΡΕΟΝ).[81] Painted on another vase, a red-figure kylix (London, British Museum E 18), likewise not shown here, is a bearded man wearing a cloak and playing a barbiton: here too the inscribed lettering indicates that he is Anacreon (ΑΝΑΚΡΕΟΝ).[82] Also, in the second of these two images, the singer playing the barbiton holds a pose suggestive of movement in a dance.

3§78. Also relevant are fragments of a krater dated approximately to 500 BCE and attributed to the Kleophrades Painter (Copenhagen MN 13365). In the image painted on one fragment, again, not shown here, a barbiton is pictured, and it is inscribed with the name of Anacreon (ΑΝΑΚΡΕ[ΟΝ]) on one of its two arms;[83] on another fragment, there is a picturing of a figure who “wears a mitra [= headband], has a garland of ivy around his neck, and carries a parasol.”[84] On this second of several fragments, the pictured figure raises his head and sings with vowels (Ι O O O) coming out of his mouth.[85]

3§79. The morphology of the barbiton made it ideal for a combination of song, instrumental accompaniment, and dance. With its elongated neck, it produced a low range of tone that best matched the register of the human voice, and its shape was “ideally suited to walking musicians, since it could be held against the left hip and strummed without interfering with a normal walking stride.” [86] What is described here as “a normal walking stride” could modulate into a dancing pose, as suggested by the second of these two pictures claiming to represent Anacreon himself.

A picture of Sappho as an Anacreontic singer—and of a girl

3§80. There is a comparable image of Sappho herself, whom we see painted on a red-figure kalyx-krater dated to the first third of the fifth century BCE and attributed to the Tithonos Painter (Bochum, Ruhr-Universitaet Kunstsammlungen, inv. S 508).[87] At the end of Essay 3 here, I show a line-drawing of this image, which I label “Image A.” We see here a picture of a woman in a dancing pose that resembles the _{238|239} “walking stride” of Anacreon. The woman is wearing a cloak or himation over her khitōn, and a snood (net-cap) or sakkos is holding up her hair. As she “walks,” she carries a barbiton in her left hand, while her gracefully extended right hand is holding a plēktron. The inscribed lettering, placed not far from her mouth, indicates that she is Sappho (spelled here as ΣΑΦΦΟ).[88]

3§81. It has been said that Sappho is “shown alone” on this vase.[89] I prefer a different interpretation, as formulated by Dimitrios Yatromanolakis.[90] Applying what he describes as an anthropological approach to the images painted on both sides of this vase, he argues that the obverse and the reverse can be viewed together. The image on the obverse side is what I have been calling “Image A.” I also show, at the end of Essay 3 here, a line-drawing of the image on the reverse side, to which I refer as “Image B.” Yatromanolakis sees an intriguing symmetry in the depiction of Sappho on the obverse, Image A, and the depiction of another female figure dressed similarly on the reverse, Image B: this other female figure, like Sappho, is wearing a cloak or himation over her khitōn, and a snood or sakkos is holding up her hair. The symmetry is clarified as soon as we realize that there is a second, hitherto unknown, inscription on the reverse of this vase. Near the sakkos holding up the hair of this female figure in Image B, paired with Sappho in Image A, is lettering that reads ΗΕ ΠΑΙΣ (= hē pais), meaning ‘the girl’.[91] If the viewer’s eye keeps rotating the vase, the two female figures eternally follow each other, but because their position is symmetrically pictured at opposite sides of the vase, they can never gaze at each other. Nor can a viewer ever gaze at both figures at the same time—at least, no such gaze is possible without a mirror.[92]

On the ambiguities of an Anacreontic singer

3§82. Of special interest here in Image A is a carrying bag that we see hanging from the lower arm of Sappho’s barbiton. Such a carrying bag, most familiar from vase paintings assigned to an artist by the name of Douris (whose work is related to the vase-paintings of the Tithonos Painter), was evidently used for carrying inside it a wind instrument known as the aulos ‘reed’.[93] In this particular picture, Image A, the carrying bag attached to the barbiton is flowing in the air, and the contour of this flow is synchronized with the graceful motion of the dance step. This flowing effect is evidently caused by the absence of an _{239|240} aulos inside the bag. As I will argue at 3§87, the visual reference here to an aulos is not merely incidental.[94]

3§83. Besides the barbiton, there is a variety of other features that mark the Anacreontic singer in Anacreontic vase paintings. They include (1) an ankle-length khitōn with a cloak or himation worn over it, (2) boots, (3) earrings, (4) a parasol, (5) a turban; significantly, all of these features, including (6) the barbiton, were linked with Asiatic Ionia.[95] Moreover, all of these Asiatic Ionian features would have been linked with Anacreon himself as the court poet of Polycrates of Samos. Here it is relevant to add that some traditions actually credit Anacreon with the invention of the barbiton (Athenaeus 4.175e). Alternatively, the inventor of the barbiton is said to have been an archetypal poet from Lesbos known as Terpander (Athenaeus 14.635d).

3§84. I will have more to say presently about the relevance of Terpander. For now, however, I concentrate on the overall relevance of the Anacreontic vase paintings in general.

How the evidence of Anacreontic vase paintings is relevant to Sappho

3§85. I start here with an obvious fact about Anacreontic vase paintings: their overarching theme is sympotic, even Dionysiac. Such an Anacreontic theme can even be described as comastic—and here I return to a term that I introduced at 3§8—in the sense that the generic Anacreontic singer who is represented in such vase paintings can be imagined as a participant in a kōmos or ‘revel’, that is, in a group of singing and dancing men. That said, however, I prefer in this case to use the more specific term sympotic in referring to the occasions represented in Anacreontic vase paintings for a simple reason: of the six Asiatic Ionian features I have already listed at 3§83 in describing the Anacreontic singer, not a single one of them is a marker of the kōmos in general. Rather, any one of the six features can be a specific marker of a symposium. By way of review, I list here again those six Asiatic Ionian features: (1) an ankle-length khitōn with a cloak or himation worn over it, (2) boots, (3) earrings, (4) a parasol, (5) a turban, (6) a barbiton, What I am saying is that not one of these features, not even the barbiton, can be seen as a signature, as it were, for the general idea of a kōmos. Rather, all six of these features are optional markers of something that is more specific, which is, an Asiatic style of attending a symposium. To put it another way, the Anacreontic singer is not a generally comastic figure, even if he is a specifically sympotic figure.[96]

3§86. Here I focus once again on the barbiton. The fact is, the Anacreontic vase paintings express the generally comastic feature of singing and dancing not by way of picturing a barbiton. Rather, the comastic performance of song-and-dance is expressed simply by way of picturing the wind instrument known as the aulos ‘reed’. _{240|241}

3§87. Relevant is a detail in Image A as pictured by the Tithonos Painter: that detail, already  highlighted at 3§82, is the “aulos bag” hanging from the barbiton played by a dancing figure of Sappho. In a published description of this detail, it has been stated that this wind instrument, the aulos, was featured “in sympotic or comastic contexts” as “the companion of the barbiton.”[97] I propose to modify this statement. Granted, Anacreontic paintings can show the barbiton coexisting in the same picture with the aulos or with the bag that contains the aulos, but the fact is that the barbiton does not signal—of and by itself—the general comastic themes of drinking wine while singing and dancing as expressed in these paintings. The musical instrument that is typical of comastic and even Dionysiac themes is the aulos.[98] By contrast, the barbiton is incidental in general contexts of a kōmos.

3§88. Even in vase paintings that show a barbiton in a generalizingly comastic context, the signal for such comastic singing and dancing is not the barbiton but the aulos. A case in point is a red-figure kylix (Erlangen 454) showing a young man with his head thrown back ecstatically and singing while carrying—but not playing—a barbiton in his right hand and a kylix in his left hand. The accompanying inscription reads:

ΕΙΜΙΚΟΜΑΖΟΝΥΠΑΥ[ΛΟΥ]
(= εἰμὶ κωμάζων ὑπ’ αὐ[λοῦ])
I am celebrating in a kōmos to the accompaniment of an aulos.[99]

There is a conclusion to be drawn from this picture, which is accompanied by such a pointed poetic reference to the aulos: whenever you are celebrating in a kōmos, you sing and dance to the tune of an aulos even if a barbiton is literally at hand.

3§89. So, the barbiton of the Anacreontic singer cannot be an obligatory feature of the kōmos as pictured in Anacreontic vase paintings. And the same can be said about his long khitōn and his boots and his earrings and _{241|242} his parasol and his turban. All six features are simply optional additions to the two obligatory features of a kōmos, which are (A) ritualized drinking of wine and (B) ritualized singing and dancing to the accompaniment of the aulos.

3§90. The six optional features I have just listed again, including the barbiton, are not only Ionian and Asiatic in theme: they are also orientalizing, even feminizing. And a further example of orientalizing and feminizing tendencies inherent in these themes is the occasional substitution of a snood or sakkos for the turban conventionally worn by the male Anacreontic singer.[100]

3§91. Such Ionian and Asiatic features of the Anacreontic singer, once they were integrated into a generalizingly comastic context, became Dionysiac in theme. That is why Dionysus himself can be pictured as wearing a long khitōn in such comastic contexts.[101] But the point is, these features were not generally comastic in theme. A prime example is the barbiton. As we have already seen, only the aulos was generally comastic, not the barbiton. I find it relevant that the male Anacreontic singer is often shown playing specifically the barbiton and never, more generally, the aulos.[102]

3§92. So, the dancing Sappho of the Tithonos Painter as we see in the line drawing of Image A below is basically a female Anacreontic figure, and not, more generally, a comastic figure—despite the fact that she is dancing as well as singing. Her comastic features are incidental, as signaled by the aulos bag hanging from her Anacreontic barbiton. The aulos bag without any aulos inside serves as a signature for the incidental status of comastic themes featured in Image A. One such comastic theme is the dance step executed by the figure of Sappho here. When you dance in a kōmos, you dance to the tune of the aulos, not of the barbiton. So, if Sappho is to be shown in the act of executing a comastic dance step while playing the barbiton, then surely there must be an aulos being played somewhere. The aulos bag is a telling sign.

3§93. By contrast with the aulos, which is a general feature of the kōmos, the barbiton is merely an optional or incidental feature—even if the kōmos happens to be a specifically Anacreontic kōmos. The fact is, the Anacreontic singer can even be shown playing a kitharā instead of the expected barbiton. It seems that the only relevant constraint in painting an Anacreontic _{242|243} scene is that the barbiton and the kitharā must be mutually exclusive.[103] In other words, if you paint a picture of a string instrument being played in an Anacreontic scene, you will choose between a barbiton and a kitharā.

3§94. Given that the barbiton of Anacreontic singers is interchangeable with the kitharā—and given that neither of these string instruments is specifically linked to the kōmos—I am ready to argue that the Anacreontic associations of both instruments with Sappho and Alcaeus were derived from a Panathenaic rather than a strictly Dionysiac context.

Panathenaic and sympotic contexts

3§95. I return to what I argued earlier—that the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens was a most obvious context for continued restaging of Aeolian and Ionian lyric poetry as mediated by the likes of Anacreon. Such re‑stagings in a Panathenaic context, however, could be matched by other re‑stagings in the Dionysiac context of the symposium. An example of such a Dionysiac context is the stylized sympotic occasion of Pindar’s Isthmian 2.

3§96. Even the paintings that celebrated such sympotic occasions could become part of an overall Dionysiac context. That is what we see in the pictures of sympotic vase paintings that celebrate the symposium by re‑staging in these pictures what is already being restaged in the singing and dancing of the symposium.

3§97. The actual re‑staging of lyric traditions in the symposium can be expected to vary, running the gamut from decorous to indecorous. And the same can be said about the re‑staging of lyric traditions in pictorial representations of the symposium. Examples that seem less decorous include the parodistic re‑stagings of Anacreon in Anacreontic vase paintings.[104] A more decorous example, on the other hand, is the less overtly parodistic re‑staging of Alcaeus and Sappho in the painting on the Akragas Vase.

3§98. So much for the re‑stagings of Anacreon and Alcaeus and Sappho in symposia and in sympotic pictures about symposia. But what about the more elevated re‑stagings that took place at the festival of the Panathenaia? What can sympotic vase paintings tell us about Panathenaic performances of the songs of such lyric artists? _{243|244}

Fusions of Panathenaic and sympotic contexts as imagined in Anacreontic traditions

3§99. In the representational world of Anacreontic vase paintings, as we have seen, a mark of Panathenaic performances was the barbiton. And, as we have also seen, the string instrument that served as an optional substitute for the barbiton in the Anacreontic paintings was the kitharā. Next I connect this fact with another: in the classical period of the fifth century, the kitharā was the string instrument of choice at the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens, where kitharōidoi ‘kitharā-singers’ competed with each other in singing lyric poetry. Connecting these two facts, I infer that the barbiton temporarily replaced the more traditional kitharā as the string instrument of choice at the Panathenaia in the preclassical period of the late sixth century; then the more traditional kitharā could become predominant again in the classical period of the fifth century.

3§100. We have already seen another relevant fact, which has to do with two conflicting claims about the invention of the barbiton. According to one version, the inventor was Anacreon (Athenaeus 4.175e); according to the other version, the inventor was an archetypal poet from Lesbos known as Terpander (Athenaeus 14.635d).

3§101. Just as the figure of Anacreon was associated with the kitharā as well as the barbiton, so too was the older figure of Terpander. In fact, Terpander of Lesbos was thought to be the prototype of kitharōidoi ‘kitharā-singers’ (Aristotle F 545 ed. Rose; also Hesychius under the entry μετὰ 
Λέσβιον ᾠδόν; also Plutarch Laconic sayings 238c). Pictured as an itinerant professional singer, Terpander was reportedly the first of all winners at the Spartan festival of the Karneia (Hellanicus FGH 4 F 85 by way of Athenaeus 14.635e).[105] Tradition has it that the Feast of the Karneia was founded in the twenty-sixth Olympiad, that is, between 676 and 672 BCE (Athenaeus 14.635e–f).

3§102. Not only was Terpander of Lesbos thought to be the prototypical kitharōidos or ‘kitharā-singer’ (“Plutarch” On Music 1132d, 1133b–d). He was also overtly identified as the originator of kitharōidiā or ‘kitharā-singing’ as a performance tradition perpetuated by a historical figure named Phrynis of Lesbos; just like Terpander, Phrynis was known as a kitharōidos (“Plutarch” On Music 1133b). And the historicity of this Phrynis is independently verified: at the Panathenaia of 456 (or _{244|245} possibly 446), he won first prize in the competition of kitharōidoi (scholia for Aristophanes Clouds 969).[106]

3§103. Given the interchangeability of barbiton and kitharā in traditions about Terpander as the prototypical kitharōidos ‘kitharā-singer’, I return to the traditions about Anacreon as shown in Anacreontic vase paintings: here too we have seen an interchangeability of barbiton and kitharā. In both cases of interchangeability, it is implied that the kitharā is the more traditional of these two kinds of instrument, since the barbiton is figured as something invented by the Asiatic Ionian Anacreon according to one version (Athenaeus 4.175e) or by the Asiatic Aeolian Terpander according to another (Athenaeus 14.635d).

Three observations about text and image

3§104. Here I must pause, to make three relevant observations about methodology in analyzing iconographic and literary evidence, that is, in analyzing the different kinds of evidence to be found in text and image.

3§104a. The first observation has to do with the parodistic function of Anacreontic vase paintings and the relevance of this function to the barbiton. In terms of my argumentation, any reference to the barbiton in a given Anacreontic vase painting is merely a case of accentuating a feature that is obviously Asiatic. Or, to say it more precisely, it is a feature that is Asiatic from the standpoint of Panathenaic traditions current in the classical period. By contrast, an alternative reference to the kitharā in such a painting would be merely a matter of failing to accentuate something that could have been accentuated. A similar point can be made about other such references in Anacreontic vase paintings. I have in mind here the various references to the long khitōn and the boots and the earrings and the parasol and the turban. The point is, even if you see a picture of a person associated with only some but not all of these features in a vase painting, you can still guess that this person is supposed to be an Asiatic Aeolian or Ionian. Only if all these features were missing would there be no point in guessing. In short, the purpose of Anacreontic vase paintings is not to provide reportage about marked features. Rather, it is simply to parody the features that happen to be marked. Any failure to mark a feature in a parody is not necessarily a failure in the overall parody.

3§104b. The second observation has to do with the parodistic function of Old Comedy—and with the relevance of this function to the figure of the Anacreontic singer. A case in point is the text of a _{245|246} comedy by Aristophanes, Women at the Thesmophoria, where a poet who was celebrated as a master of tragedy as a genre, Agathon, is represented as saying, at verses 159–163, that he prefers to wear a costume that matches the costumes worn by the archaic poets Ibycus, Anacreon, and Alcaeus—listed in that order—when they were performing their monodic songs; these imagined costumings, as described in these verses, even match the way painters pictured Anacreon himself in the act of performing, as we see the way he was painted by the Kleophrades Painter (Copenhagen MN 13365).[107] The textual evidence in this case indicates, as I infer, that Agathon as a master of tragic poetry was strongly influenced by the monodic performance traditions of lyric poetry as performed at the Panathenaia by the likes of Anacreon and by that poet’s imitators in later times.[108]

3§104c. The third observation is an extension of the second. It has to do with the potential for choral as well as monodic parody in Old Comedy. The case in point is again the Women at the Thesmophoria. In this comedy of Aristophanes, the Panathenaic persona of the tragic poet Agathon extends into a Dionysiac persona when the acting of the actor who plays Agathon shifts into a choral mode. Once the shift takes place, there can be a choral as well as monodic self-staging of the stage Agathon.[109] And such choral stagings would most likely be comastic in inspiration.

Back to the vase painting that pictures Sappho and Alcaeus together

3§105. Having made these three observations, I am ready to reassess the picturing of Alcaeus and Sappho by the painter of the Akragas Vase. So far, we have seen that the musical symmetry of these two figures is distinctly monodic and Panathenaic, as marked by their musical instrument of choice, the barbiton. But now we are about to see another symmetry, one that is sympotic and Dionysiac.

3§106. The musical symmetry of Alcaeus and Sappho as pictured on one side of the Akragas Vase, in Image 1, is counterbalanced by the sympotic symmetry of Dionysus and the Maenad as pictured on the other side of the vase, in Image 2. This counterbalancing achieves the effect of linking Image 2 with Image 1 and thus promoting a crossover of themes from one image to the other. In particular, the sympotic themes of Image 2 cross over into the musical themes of Image 1. This crossover suits the overall _{246|247} Dionysiac ritual function of the sympotic vessel on which the images are painted.

3§107. I see a Dionysiac theme even in the actual crossover from Image 2 to Image 1. To start, I note a symmetry in the body language of Dionysus in Image 2 and of Alcaeus in Image 1: each of these two male figures is leaning into the space occupied by the two female figures of the Maenad in Image 2 and of Sappho in Image 1. And, whereas the two male figures are each leaning slightly forward, the two corresponding female figures are leaning slightly backward—and away. Unlike the Maenad, however, who is facing Dionysus, Sappho is facing away from Alcaeus as well as leaning away from him. And Sappho not only faces away while leaning away from the ardent man who is singing to her. The pretty woman seems to be on the verge of walking away.

3§108. So, the figures of Sappho and the Maenad are asymmetrical in some ways, even though they are symmetrical in other ways. The asymmetry of eye contact is of particular interest. Whereas the Maenad is shown in profile view, thus making eye contact with Dionysus and becoming possessed by his direct gaze, Sappho is shown in three-quarter view. It has been pointed out to me that “the position of her irises makes it clear that Sappho is looking at Alcaeus; he, on the other hand, is looking down, his head to the ground in a typical attitude of aidōs [= modesty], all the more striking in that figures that sing Ο Ο Ο usually tilt their head up and backwards.”[110] A Sappho shown in profile view could be making direct eye contact with Alcaeus—if he were not looking down in seemingly false modesty. If she had been shown in frontal view, on the other hand, she would be making direct eye contact with the viewer. That is, she would be looking straight back at the viewer. Shown in three-quarter view, however, Sappho is looking only indirectly at Alcaeus. It is as if she were looking askance at him. Does Sappho disapprove of Alcaeus? Is she on the verge of walking away from him? Or is she perhaps on the verge of walking back to him?

3§109. In this regard, I offer an observation about the artistic conventions at work here. As we know from evidence independent of the vase we are considering, it was conventional in ancient vase painting to make distinctions in meaning between frontal and profile views of painted figures. For example, the frontal view of a given figure, unlike the profile view, could _{247|248} convey intense emotion on the part of that figure at the very moment of viewing.[111] In terms of this particular convention in painting, emotion is communicated at the exact moment when the figure being viewed can look right back at the viewer.

3§110. Turning back to the painting by the painter of the Akragas Vase, we may ask ourselves: what emotion do we actually see in the looks of Sappho? Well, whatever it is that she is feeling while on view in this painting, she is certainly not showing it to the viewer.

3§111. So, Sappho figures as something of an anomaly within the overall Dionysiac framework created by the visual symmetries painted into the vase. Still, it is this same Dionysiac framework that defines the anomaly.

3§112. We may look for such a Dionysiac framework even in the musical themes associated with Alcaeus and Sappho. After all, we have seen that these themes were not only Panathenaic but also Dionysiac.

3§113. Here I return to a point I was making earlier: within the Dionysiac framework of these songs, there was a contrast being made between an indecorous Alcaeus and a decorous Sappho. As I argued, this contrast was already at work in the poetic traditions of the symposium in the old historical setting of festive occasions in Lesbos. And this same contrast was perpetuated in the new historical setting of festive occasions in Athens during the sixth and the fifth centuries BCE. In the case of Athens, as I also argued, there were at least two kinds of festive occasion for actually performing—not just parodying—the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho. Besides the spectacularly large-scale and public occasion of musical competitions among kitharōidoi or ‘kitharā-singers’ at the festival of the Panathenaia, there was also the relatively small-scale and elitist occasion of the symposium. So I reiterate that we have to reckon with the symposium as a distinctly Dionysiac occasion for performing the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho.

Dionysiac themes in the vase painting that pictures Sappho and Alcaeus together

3§114. Matching a Dionysiac occasion for performing Alcaeus and Sappho is a Dionysiac theme. As we will see, this theme is noticeable not only in the songs of Alcaeus and Sappho but also in their picture as rendered by the painter of the Akragas Vase.

3§115. I start by taking another look at that picture, which I have been calling Image 1 in the illustration I have provided at the end of this essay. And I will compare it one more time to the picture I have been calling Image 2, painted on the other side _{248|249} of the same vase. As I look again at the staging, as it were, of Sappho in Image 1, I see a theme that is shared in the staging of the Maenad in Image 2. Sappho’s loose and flowing strands of hair match the loose and flowing strands of the Maenad transfixed by the gaze of Dionysus. Although Sappho is not transfixed by any gaze from Alcaeus, her own hair is loose enough to resemble the hair of the Maenad.

3§116. This is not to say that Sappho’s hairstyle is lacking in decorum.[112] It is just as decorous as the hairstyle of a stately Korē in archaic Greek sculpture. There would be no shame even for the likes of Artemis to show off such a hairstyle.

3§117. Still, there is a hint of eroticism in Sappho’s hair as rendered by the painter of the Akragas Vase, and this hint comes from the matching hair of the Maenad facing Dionysus in the picture we see on the other side of the vase. Although the Maenad’s hair is just as decorous as Sappho’s at the moment of viewing, we know that it will soon become indecorous once the power of Dionysus fully takes hold of her. The Maenad’s hair, once she is fully possessed, will come totally undone. And the Maenad’s loss of decorum, as we are about to see, transforms the subtle eroticism of the moment into raw sexuality.

3§118. The total undoing of a Maenad’s hair is a traditional Dionysiac theme attested already in the Homeric Iliad. When Andromache suddenly sees the corpse of Hector, she falls into a swoon (22.466–467) while at the same time tearing off her elaborate krēdemnon ‘headdress’ (22.468–470). In this passionate moment, as her eyes are just about to behold the dreaded sight of her husband’s corpse, she is described as looking just like a Maenad (22.460: μαινάδι ἴση).[113]

3§119. In this dramatic context, I draw attention to the evocative word krēdemnon ‘headdress’ (22.470). It refers to the overall ornamental hair-binding that holds together three separate kinds of ornamental hair-binding that serve to keep Andromache’s hair in place, under control (22.469).[114] When _{249|250} Andromache violently tears off from her head this most elaborate headdress, causing her hair to come completely undone, she is ritually miming her complete loss of control over her own fate as linked with the fate of her husband: we see here a ritually eroticized gesture that expresses her extreme sexual vulnerability as linked with the violent death and disfiguration of her husband.[115] For Andromache to do violence to her own krēdemnon is to express the anticipated violence of her future sexual humiliation at the hands of the enemy.[116] Pointedly, the goddess Aphrodite herself had given this krēdemnon to Andromache on her wedding day (22.470–471).[117]

3§120. Such explicit association of the krēdemnon with Aphrodite reveals its erotic properties. The undoing of a woman’s hair, caused by the undoing of her krēdemnon, produces what I will call an Aphrodisiac effect. So long as a woman’s krēdemnon is in place, her sexuality is under control just as her hair is under control. When the krēdemnon is out of place, however, her sexuality threatens to get out of control.

3§121. This ritual symbolism is part of a “cultural grammar of hair.”[118] Such a “grammar” helps explain why the virginal Nausikaa would not think of going out in public without first putting on her krēdemnon (Odyssey 6.100). She won’t leave home without wearing her headdress. Her gesture here is hardly a signal of being married. Clearly, she is unmarried. So, we see that unmarried women as well as married women like Andromache wear the krēdemnon in public. The gesture is simply a signal of propriety.[119]

3§122. Such a “grammar” is in fact typical of the Mediterranean world in general. A striking point of comparison is the figure of the sotah ‘errant _{250|251} woman’ in Jewish traditions. In this case, the ‘errant woman’ is a foil for the properly married woman:

Jewish women from Biblical times on typically bound or covered their hair in some way after marriage, since the wife suspected of adultery, called the sotah (errant woman), undergoes, according to the Bible, a ceremony of testing in which the preliminary ritual is the dishevelment of her hair (Num. 5:11–31). The unbound or uncovered hair of the sotah, together with the further ceremonial dishevelment of her clothing (a Mishnaic addition), signifies her “loose,” sexually suspect state. Indeed, the immense body of Rabbinic legislation regarding the covering of married women’s hair all derives from the disheveled hair of the hapless sotah.[120]

3§123. A moment ago, I described as an Aphrodisiac effect the ritual symbolism inherent in the undoing of a woman’s hair, and my prime example was the eroticized image of Andromache’s completely loosened hair. In what follows, we will see that such a description applies also to the eroticized image of Sappho’s partially loosened hair as depicted by the painter of the Akragas Vase.

3§124. Before we return to that image, however, I must stress that Sappho’s beautiful strands of flowing hair were depicted not only in paintings. They must have been depicted also in poetry, even in her own poetry. In a rhetorical paraphrase of one of Sappho’s own songs, we see the same Aphrodisiac effect applied not to Sappho but to her ultimate divine referent, Aphrodite herself:

τὰ δὲ Ἀφροδίτης ὄργια 
παρῆκαν τῇ Λεσβίᾳ Σαπφοῖ ᾄδειν πρὸς λύραν καὶ ποιεῖν 
τὸν θάλαμον· ἣ καὶ εἰσῆλθε μετὰ τοὺς ἀγῶνας εἰς θάλαμον, <πλέκει παστάδα, τὸ λέχος στρώννυσι,> γράφει παρθένους, <εἰς> νυμφεῖον ἄγει καὶ Ἀφροδίτην 
<ἐφ’ ἅρμα Χαρίτων> καὶ χορὸν Ἐρώτων <συμπαίστορα>. καὶ τῆς μὲν ὑακίνθῳ τὰς κόμας σφίγξασα, πλὴν ὅσαι μετώποις μερίζονται, τὰς λοιπὰς ταῖς αὔραις ἀφῆκεν ὑποκυμαίνειν, εἰ πλήττοιεν. τῶν δὲ τὰ πτερὰ καὶ τοὺς βοστρύχους χρυσῷ κοσμήσασα πρὸ τοῦ δίφρου σπεύδει πομπεύοντας καὶ δᾷδα κινοῦντας μετάρσιον.

Himerius Oration 9 lines 37–47 ed. Colonna

But [the other poets] left it to Sappho of Lesbos to sing the rituals of Aphrodite to the accompaniment of the lyre and to make [= imagine] the bridal chamber. After she [= Sappho] is finished with her contests [agōnes], she enters the bridal chamber and then plaits the wedding canopy, then spreads the sheets for the bed, then pictures maidens in attendance, and then conveys into the bridal chamber _{251|252} Aphrodite herself riding on a chariot drawn by Kharites accompanied by a khoros of Erōtes joining in sportive dance. Then she arranges her [= Aphrodite’s] hair, all done up and held together by a garland of hyacinth blossoms—except for strands separated at the forehead, and their loose ends she lets down for the swirling breezes to shape as they please. Then she [= Sappho] decorates in gold the wings and the curls of the Erōtes, speeding them along in procession ahead of the chariot, and there they are waving their torches in the air.

3§125. In this paraphrase of Sappho’s song, the reference to the agōnes ‘contests’ in which she supposedly competes seems to be a playful anachronistic allusion to the monodic competitions of kitharā-singers at the festival of the Panathenaia. It is as if Sappho herself were a monodic singer engaged in such public competitions. But the ongoing paraphrase of the song reveals the older choral setting of that song. And the detail about Aphrodite’s loose strands of flowing hair as pictured by Sappho’s song and as repictured by the paraphrase of Himerius is evidently part of the choral lyric repertoire.[121]

3§126. This lyric image is matched by the painterly image of Sappho’s loose strands of flowing hair as rendered by the painter of the Akragas Vase. Here I return to my argument that the visual detail of Sappho’s loose strands produces an Aphrodisiac effect. That is not all. As we see from the symmetry of Sappho and the Maenad in the painting of the Akragas Vase, this same visual detail produces also a Dionysiac effect. The Maenad’s loose strands of flowing curls of hair are seen cascading down from behind her ears at either side of her head garlanded with the ivy of Dionysus. As we look at the Maenad’s hair coming undone, we see a distinctive sign of her starting to lose control to Dionysus, of becoming possessed by Dionysus, of surrendering the self to Dionysus. That is what I mean when I speak of a Dionysiac effect.[122] _{252|253}

An example of the Dionysiac effect in Euripides

3§127. In the Bacchae of Euripides, we see a parallel correlation between an undoing of hair and a surrender of the self to the power of Dionysus. In the passage I am about to quote, we see Pentheus in the act of rehearsing, as it were, his misconceived role as a choral devotee of Dionysus. Once Pentheus is costumed as a would-be Maenad, he finds himself losing control to the god, becoming possessed by him, even surrendering himself to him.

{Δι.} σὲ τὸν πρόθυμον ὄνθ’ ἃ μὴ χρεὼν ὁρᾶν
σπεύδοντά τ’ ἀσπούδαστα, Πενθέα λέγω,
ἔξιθι πάροιθε δωμάτων, ὄφθητί μοι,
915σκευὴν γυναικὸς μαινάδος βάκχης ἔχων,
μητρός τε τῆς σῆς καὶ λόχου κατάσκοπος·
πρέπεις δὲ Κάδμου θυγατέρων μορφὴν μιᾶι.
…
925{Πε.} τί φαίνομαι δῆτ’; οὐχὶ τὴν Ἰνοῦς στάσιν
ἢ τὴν Ἀγαυῆς ἑστάναι, μητρός γ’ ἐμῆς;
{Δι.} αὐτὰς ἐκείνας εἰσορᾶν δοκῶ σ’ ὁρῶν.
ἀλλ’ ἐξ ἕδρας σοι πλόκαμος ἐξέστηχ’ ὅδε,
οὐχ ὡς ἐγώ νιν ὑπὸ μίτραι καθήρμοσα.
930{Πε.} ἔνδον προσείων αὐτὸν ἀνασείων τ’ ἐγὼ
καὶ βακχιάζων ἐξ ἕδρας μεθώρμισα.
{Δι.} ἀλλ’ αὐτὸν ἡμεῖς, οἷς σε θεραπεύειν μέλει,
πάλιν καταστελοῦμεν· ἀλλ’ ὄρθου κάρα.
{Πε.} ἰδού, σὺ κόσμει· σοὶ γὰρ ἀνακείμεσθα δή.
935{Δι.} ζῶναί τέ σοι χαλῶσι κοὐχ ἑξῆς πέπλων
στολίδες ὑπὸ σφυροῖσι τείνουσιν σέθεν.
{Πε.} κἀμοὶ δοκοῦσι παρά γε δεξιὸν πόδα·
τἀνθένδε δ’ ὀρθῶς παρὰ τένοντ’ ἔχει πέπλος.
{Δι.} ἦ πού με τῶν σῶν πρῶτον ἡγήσηι φίλων,
940 ὅταν παρὰ λόγον σώφρονας βάκχας ἴδηις.
{Πε.} πότερα δὲ θύρσον δεξιᾶι λαβὼν χερὶ
ἢ τῆιδε βάκχηι μᾶλλον εἰκασθήσομαι;
{Δι.} ἐν δεξιᾶι χρὴ χἄμα δεξιῶι ποδὶ
αἴρειν νιν· αἰνῶ δ’ ὅτι μεθέστηκας φρενῶν. _{253|254}

Euripides Bacchae 912–917, 925–944 [125]

{Dionysus:}
You there! Yes, I’m talking to you, to the one who is so eager to see the things that should not be seen
and who hurries to accomplish things that cannot be hurried. I’m talking to you, Pentheus.
Come out from inside the palace. Let me have a good look at you
915wearing the costume of a woman who is a Maenad Bacchant,
spying on your mother and her company.
The way you are shaped, you look just like one of the daughters of Kadmos.
[…]
925{Pentheus:}
So how do I look? Don’t I strike the dancing pose [stasis] of Ino
or the pose struck by my mother Agaue?
{Dionysus:}
Looking at you I think I see them right now.
Oh, but look: this strand of hair [plokamos] here is out of place. It stands out,
not the way I had secured it underneath the headband [mitra].
{Pentheus:}
While I was inside, I was shaking it [= the strand of hair] forward and backward,
and, in the Bacchic spirit, I displaced it [= the strand of hair], moving it out of place.
{Dionysus:}
Then I, whose concern it is to attend to you, will
arrange it [= the strand of hair] all over again. Come on, hold your head straight. [123]
{Pentheus:}
You see it [= the strand of hair]? There it is! You arrange [kosmeîn] it for me. I can see I’m really depending on you.
{Dionysus:}
And your waistband has come loose. And those things are not in the right order. I mean, the pleats of your peplos, the way they
extend down around your ankles.
{Pentheus:}
That’s the way I see it from my angle as well. At least, that’s the way it is down around my right foot,
but, on this other side, the peplos does extend in a straight line down around the calf. [124]
{Dionysus} I really do think you will consider me the foremost among those dear to you
when, contrary to your expectations, you see the Bacchants in-full-control-of-themselves [sōphrones].
{Pentheus:}
So which will it be? I mean, shall I hold the thyrsus with my right hand
or with this other one? Which is the way I will look more like a Bacchant?
{Dionysus:}
You must hold it in your right hand and, at the same time, with your right foot _{254|255}
you must make an upward motion. I approve of the way you have shifted in your thinking.

3§128. The image of hair displaced in the process of Bacchic dancing recurs elsewhere in the Bacchae (150, 455–456).[126] Of special interest is the use of pothos ‘desire’ in such contexts (456; also at 415). Elsewhere (693–713), we see the Bacchants shifting from a state of ‘proper arrangement’ or eukosmiā (693) to a state of full Bacchic possession, the first sign of which is that they let their hair down to their shoulders (695).[127] As we know from the words of instruction uttered by Dionysus himself to Pentheus (830–833), the initial kosmos ‘arrangement’ (832) of the Bacchant includes these two requirements: {1} flowing long hair (831) that is done up and arranged by way of the mitra ‘headband’ (833) and {2} an ankle-length peplos (833). [128]

Back to the painting on the vase

3§129. The maenadism of the Maenad as depicted by the painter of the Akragas Vase is not nearly as overt as the maenadism of the would-be Bacchant Pentheus as depicted by Euripides in the Bacchae. The Maenad of the painting carries no thyrsus and she strikes no overtly Bacchic pose. But her maenadism is more overt than the maenadism of Sappho as painted on the other side of the vase. Unlike the Maenad, who is transfixed by the intense direct gaze of Dionysus, Sappho looks askance at the downcast indirect gaze of the sympotic Alcaeus.

3§130. But there is one suggestion of maenadism even in the picture of Sappho as painted on the Akragas Vase. As we look again at Image 1, we see loose strands of flowing curls of hair cascading down from her head to her breast, starting from behind her ears at either side of her headdress. These loose strands of Sappho signal a suggestion of what may follow after the moment of the viewing. By contrast, the corresponding loose strands of the Maenad signal the certainty of what will follow for her, that is, the complete undoing of her hair. Comparable is the complete undoing of Andromache’s hair in the Iliad.

3§131. As we saw, Andromache’s dishevelment happens in a moment of supreme passion, immediately after she is compared in a simile to a Maenad (Iliad 22.460). As if this simile were a theatrical cue for her, Andromache _{255|256} immediately falls into a swoon (22.466–467) while at the same time tearing off her elaborate krēdemnon ‘headdress’ (22.468–470). By the time she recovers from her swoon (22.473–476), she is completely disheveled, and, in this most vulnerable state, the supreme diva of Homeric poetry sings a passionate song of lament for her dead husband—a lament as sensual as it is sorrowful (22.477–514). Only the ritual of lament protects her modesty. Without such ritual protection, this modesty would be destroyed. But the cover of ritual allows her to appear in public with her hair completely undone. Without such cover, her appearance with a full head of exposed hair would be like going naked in public. Even more than that, it would be like making wild love to someone in public. So her wild hair enhances the eroticism of her lament. In her exquisitely theatrical moment of passion, Andromache is just like a Maenad in a state of total possession, in a state of total surrender to the god Dionysus.

3§132. By contrast, loose strands of flowing curls of hair, a plaything of the breezes in Sappho’s songs, merely suggest the possibility of such total surrender to Dionysus. As we saw, the suggestively maenadic Sappho as painted on the Akragas Vase is demurely looking askance at the ardent Dionysiac singer who is singing to her without looking at her, whereas the Maenad on the other side of the vase signals the onset of her own total surrender to Dionysus by making direct eye contact with the god’s gaze.

3§133. Even if Sappho could avoid looking at Alcaeus in the painting, she could hardly avoid hearing the music of the song he is singing to her. This song belongs not only to Alcaeus. It is Sappho’s own song as sung all over again by men and boys in symposia. More than that, it is her own song as once sung and danced by women in a choral setting at a place called Messon in Lesbos. I have already argued for a Dionysiac effect in the sympotic setting. Now I will argue for a Dionysiac effect even in the earlier choral setting of Sappho’s songs.

Another look at Song 1 of Sappho

3§134. A prime example is Song 1 of Sappho. In this song, which is a functional Hymn to Aphrodite, the heart of Sappho is described as a ‘frenzied heart’. This description, as we are about to see, is Dionysiac as well as Aphrodisiac.

3§135. The word I translate here as ‘heart’ is thūmos, while the word I translate as ‘frenzied’ is mainolās, cognate with mainás ‘maenad, maenadic woman’. In Song 1 of Sappho, when the goddess Aphrodite herself appears to Sappho in an epiphany, she asks her what she wants to happen in her ‘frenzied heart’, mainolāi thūmōi. Those are the exact words as we _{256|257} find them in Song 1 of Sappho (verse 18: μαινόλαι θύμωι). The goddess of love and sexuality is asking Sappho about Sappho’s affairs of the heart.

3§136. Someone should write an essay about the heart of Sappho. It would be a difficult task, since this heart is so easy to misunderstand. Or, to say it another way, the ancient Greek thūmos is so hard for speakers of modern languages to understand. For those who speak modern English, to take just one example, the ancient Greek notion of thūmos as ‘heart’ seems too hard-hearted. After all, thūmos in archaic Greek poetic diction conveys the human capacity to know and learn and think, not only to feel emotion: about half of the time, thūmos is used in ways that are cognitive or even rational rather than affective or emotional.[129] Such a distribution in meaning is hard to translate for speakers of English, to whom the word heart means something almost entirely emotional. The heart is for us only residually cognitive, as when we speak of learning things by heart.

3§137. Things are different with ancient Greek thūmos. The sensitivity of the thūmos is also a matter of sensibility. When otherwise sensible people lose control of their senses, it means that something must have affected their thūmos. And the divinity in overall charge of this control is Dionysus himself. So when the thūmos ‘heart’ of Sappho becomes mainolās ‘frenzied’ in the choral setting of Song 1, Dionysus is both the cause and the effect of the ‘frenzy’.

3§138. In fact, mainolēs ‘frenzied’ was a ritual epithet of Dionysus, as we learn from a variety sources (Cornutus On the nature of the gods 60 ed. Lang; Philo On Noah’s work as a planter 148; Greek Anthology 9.524.13; etc.); in one source, we find the same Aeolic form mainolās that we have just seen in the song of Sappho (Origen Against Celsus 3.23: ὁ μαινόλας Διόνυσος καὶ γυναικεῖα περιβεβλημένος). A particularly striking example comes from a work of Plutarch (On containing anger 462b), where we see the positive Dionysiac epithets khoreios ‘the choral one’ and luaios ‘the releaser’ balanced against the negative Dionysiac epithets mainolēs ‘the frenzied one’ and ōmēstēs ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’: here the negative epithets are being applied to wine that has negatively affected the thūmos of someone who is feeling savage anger when he drinks it (ἂν μὴ προσγενόμενος ὁ θυμὸς ὠμηστὴν καὶ μαινόλην ἀντὶ λυαίου καὶ χορείου ποιήσῃ τὸν ἄκρατον). Elsewhere too, we see that the epithet mainolēs has negative applications: it is associated _{257|258} with the mythological and ritual themes of frenzied ōmophagíā ‘eating of raw flesh’ (Clement of Alexandria Protrepticus 2.12.2: Διόνυσον μαινόλην ὀργιάζουσι Βάκχοι ὠμοφαγίᾳ τὴν ἱερομανίαν ἄγοντες). It is relevant here to recall that ōmēstēs ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’ in its Aeolic form ōmēstās is attested as the epithet of Dionysus in the song of Alcaeus that referred to this god as one of three divinities presiding over the precinct of Messon (Song 129.9: Ζόννυσσον ὠμήσταν).

3§139. From these contexts I conclude that there is a Dionysiac effect produced by applying the epithet mainolās ‘frenzied’ to the lovelorn thūmos ‘heart’ of Sappho (1.18). We see a parallel effect in the Cologne Epode of Archilochus, where the supposedly oversexed Neoboule is described as a mainolis gunē ‘frenzied woman’ (verse 20).

3§140. It remains to be seen how this Dionysiac effect in the choral lyric world of Sappho fuses with what I have been calling the Aphrodisiac effect. I start with the idea of Dionysiac possession, which is evident even within the context of Sappho’s prayer to Aphrodite. As we have seen, the mainolās thūmos ‘frenzied heart’ of Sappho betrays her possession by Dionysus.

3§141. Such possession by the god has its positive as well as negative dimensions. After all, Dionysus is the god of sōphrosunē ‘control’: that is why this god describes Bacchants as sōphrones ‘in full control of themselves’ in the passage I quoted earlier from the Bacchae of Euripides (line 940). To be contrasted with such a positive Dionysiac view of Bacchants, ritually balanced as they should be, is the negative Dionysiac view of Pentheus as a would-be Bacchant who is ritually unbalanced.

3§142. Basically, the god Dionysus controls the balance between maintaining control and losing control, as we see in the ritual context of maintaining an equilibrium in the mixing and drinking of water and wine at a symposium. Such a balance between positive and negative dimensions of possession is also at work in the ritual context of the khoros ‘chorus’, as we have just seen in the positive sympotic use of the Dionysiac epithet khoreios ‘the choral one’ combined with luaios ‘the releaser’ as balanced against the negative sympotic use of the Dionysiac epithet mainolēs ‘the frenzied one’ combined with ōmēstēs ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’ (Plutarch On containing anger 462b).[130]

3§143. So, the Dionysiac effect in choral song is a balance of control and loss of control. And when this Dionysiac effect fuses with the Aphrodisiac _{258|259} effect, which is what happens in the choral songs of Sappho, the outcome will be a balance of sexual control with loss of sexual control.[131] Such a balance is what we see in the vision of Aphrodite’s hair coming only partially undone in the song of Sappho as paraphrased by Himerius.

3§144. The most unbalanced vision of the Aphrodisiac effect would be total dishevelment, as we saw in the Homeric picturing of Andromache in her moment of being likened to a Maenad. As for the picturing of Aphrodite’s loose strands of hair in the song of Sappho, it is a more balanced vision. The same can be said about the vision of Sappho’s loose strands of hair in the picture painted on the Akragas Vase. Here too we see a more balanced vision of a woman’s hair. As we have noted, however, such a vision can become unbalanced. And the model for such threatening unbalance is the Maenad in the picture painted on the other side of the vase. That is because the Maenad’s loose strands of hair at the present moment prefigure a complete undoing of her hair at a future moment—once she becomes completely possessed by Dionysus.

3§145. What provides balance in this painterly vision of the present moment is the Dionysiac effect, as fused with the Aphrodisiac effect. It is a moment when a woman’s hair can look domesticated and tamed even while revealing a suggestion of the wild and untamed. I return here to the suggestiveness of the Maenad’s loose strands of flowing curls of hair as they cascade down from behind her ears at either side of her head garlanded with the ivy of Dionysus. All signs point to the eventuality that the Maenad’s hair will come completely undone. As a Maenad, she is destined to a fate of losing control to Dionysus, of becoming possessed by Dionysus, of surrendering the self to Dionysus.

3§146. The kind of thing I am calling the Dionysiac effect is hardly unique to ancient Greek culture. That much should go without saying. To this day, there are many parallels to be found in a wide variety of cultures around the world. The suggestiveness of partially undone or uncovered female hair can cause a major uproar—or at least make a big impression—in a vast variety of cultural contexts. For an example, I turn to the world of women’s fashion, strictly regulated in the Islamic Republic of Iran as it exists as of this writing. In such a world, when some pretty woman exposes a wisp of hair from underneath a headscarf that has somehow slipped back ever so slightly _{259|260} from her forehead, such a vision will be as alluring to her admirers as a full head of female hair that must never be exposed to the public gaze. As we look for other examples in other worlds of fashion, we find that perhaps the most persistent of all themes is the allure of partially covered female nudity. A notorious example is the female cleavage in all its variations, running the gamut from the formality of a low-neck bodice to the informality of a bikini bottom. No matter how it looks when some pretty woman shows cleavage to her admirers, this display will suggest forbidden visions of bareness underneath.

3§147. Under the protective cover of the Dionysiac effect, Sappho in Song 1 of Sappho may allow herself to become maenadic for the moment. An otherwise sensible woman may take leave of her senses.[132] In her own maenadic moment, Sappho may lose control of her sexuality. After all, Dionysus himself now possesses her, causing her thūmos to be mainolās ‘frenzied’. She is now ready to surrender to the god.[133]

3§148. Such a poetics of Dionysiac surrender is also at work in the picture of Sappho as painted on the Akragas Vase. And the onset of this surrender is manifested in her seeming to lose control of her elaborately and beautifully arranged hair. Such a suggestion of loss of control is also experienced by the partially disheveled Aphrodite herself as pictured in the song of Sappho as paraphrased by Himerius.

3§149. In the poetics of Sappho, the Dionysiac effect is basically choral. To be contrasted is the poetics of Alcaeus, where the same effect is more basically comastic. Either way, however, the effect is communal, not individualized. Both the khoros and the kōmos are based on communal rather than individualized songmaking. And it is the communality of songmaking that makes it a thing of ritual and myth combined.

Concluding definitions

3§150. I conclude this essay by returning to my earlier work on defining ritual and myth in terms of communal songmaking. My earlier definitions can now be sharpened by applying the concept of the Dionysiac effect as we see it at work in the communal songmaking of Alcaeus and Sappho.

I start with this working definition of myth, derived from Walter Burkert: _{260|261}

[Myth is] a traditional narrative that is used as a designation of reality. Myth is applied narrative. Myth describes an important and meaningful reality that applies to the aggregate, going beyond the individual.[134]

Next I turn to a complementary working definition of ritual, again from Burkert:

Ritual, it its outward aspect, is a programme of demonstrative acts to be performed in set sequence and often at a set place and time—sacred insofar as every omission or deviation arouses deep anxiety and calls forth sanctions. As communication and social imprinting, ritual establishes and secures the solidarity of the closed group. [135]

3§151. In my own work, I have applied these definitions for the purpose of analyzing the interaction of myth and ritual in traditional song, dance, and instrumental accompaniment.[136] I have also applied to this analysis a concept developed by the anthropologist Stanley Tambiah in his typological studies of ritual: he describes what he calls a “fusion of experience” in ritual, produced by “the hyper-regular surface structure of ritual language.”[137] Tambiah’s understanding of ritual language accommodates all aspects of what I have just described as song, dance, and instrumental accompaniment.[138] As for Tambiah’s concept of fusion, it corresponds to what Burkert describes as the solidarity of participants in ritual.[139] In particular, as I argued, this concept of fusion corresponds to ritual participation in the mīmēsis of myth by the ritual ensemble that we know as the khoros ‘chorus’.[140] _{261|262}

3§152. Here I find it relevant to quote Tambiah’s typological description of song and dance in ritual. In the wording of this description, the term fixed pitch stands for song while fixed rhythm stands for dance:

Fixed rhythm and fixed pitch are conducive to the performance of joint social activity. Indeed, those who resist yielding to this constraining influence are likely to suffer from a marked unpleasant restlessness. In comparison, the experience of constraint of a peculiar kind acting upon the collaborator induces in him, when he yields to it, the pleasure of self-surrender.[141]

Although Tambiah speaks only of male participants in ritual, his formulations can of course extend to female participants as well.

3§153. In terms of my analysis of the Dionysiac effect, I offer two relevant examples. Both involve participants in the rituals of Dionysus. One is a positive example while the other is negative. To start with the negative, I point to the mythical figure of Pentheus in the Bacchae of Euripides: he fits perfectly Tambiah’s model of “those who resist yielding to this constraining influence.” As for a positive example, I point to the mythical figure of the Maenad facing Dionysus in the picture painted on the Akragas Vase: she fits perfectly the model of a participant in ritual who feels a “constraint” acting upon her and inducing in her, when she yields to it, “the pleasure of self-surrender.”

3§154. This mythical figure of the Maenad in the picture painted on one side of the Akragas Vase matches the ritual figure of Sappho in the picture painted on the other side. Sappho’s ritual function may be sympotic, as when she is reperformed by a man or a boy at a symposium, or it may be choral, as when she performs or is reperformed as the prima donna of a khoros of women. Either way, she is the pretty woman who surrenders herself to the Dionysiac effect.

3§155. As we have seen, a basic feature of the Dionysiac effect is the principle of self-surrender to the god. Such an act of surrender, as we have also seen, is made possible by Dionysus himself. He presides over the participation of those who surrender to him. And he protects them within the sacred space created by the ritual. In fact, it is essential for the god to protect his participants, since their self-surrender can happen only under the protective cover of his sacred rituals and the sacred myths that go with them. _{262|263}

3§156. So I come back to the question: did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet? My answer has been that Sappho and Alcaeus really did meet under the protective cover of the festival held at Messon in Lesbos. Even beyond Messon, they could keep on meeting under the protective cover of symposia and other such Dionysiac events—so long as songs were being sung about pretty women, the kind men would like to meet. _{263|264}

Images

 
Notes

1. In GMP 1–10, I offer a deeper analysis of the relationship between myth and ritual, with specific reference to Homeric poetry. Here in note 1 and hereafter in all the notes that follow in this book, I abbreviate bibliographical references: for example, N = Nagy, GMP = Greek Mythology and Poetics, and so on.

2. Bierl 2003:105–107; also Yatromanolakis 2003.

3. PH 30–33, 66–68 = 1§§24-30, 2§§30-31; Bierl 2003:105n51, 106n52.

4. The first time I raised this question was in a lecture delivered 1996.03.27 at King’s College, University of London. I owe Michael Silk, who was my generous host, special thanks for his encouragement.

5. A notable exception: Gentili 1985/1988; also Yatromanolakis 2003; also Lardinois 1994 and 1996.

6. PP 53-54, with extensive references to my earlier work and to Calame 1977 / 2001; Bierl 2003:98–101.

7. PH 371 = 12§62; PP 87.

8. PP 96–103; also Gentili 1988:216–222.

9. For the kōmos, I cite in general Bierl 2001 ch. 2 pp. 300–361; also Pütz 2003 and the review by Bierl 2005. Also Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:220, especially their p. 228 on Philostratus Imagines 1.2.298: as they argue, the detail given there about the participation of women in the rituals of the kōmosis anachronistic from the standpoint of the archaic and even the classical periods.

10. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:230.

11. PP 85; N 2004:31n17.

12. In my earlier work, I had used the term sympotic even in contexts where the term comasticwould have made a better fit. In rewriting such earlier usage here in Essay 3, I now use comastic and sympotic as the more general and the more specific terms, respectively.

13. Further analysis in PH 384–404 = 13§§6–46. For Dionysus in Greek tragedy, I cite in general Bierl 1991.

14. Updatings in N 2023.12.29, an essay titled “Homo ludens in the world of ancient Greek verbal art”. Further relevant observations in PP 55, 84–86, 218.

15. On this epithet ōmēstēsin the sense of ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’, see also Henrichs 1981.

16. N 1985, especially pp. 76–77. Updatings in N 1993. Further updatings in “Hour 18” of H24H; also in §18 of “Hour 15.”

17. Edmunds 1981:223n8.

18. N 1985:77.

19. Further argumentation in N 1985:76–81.

20. GMP 222n62, with reference to Theognis 1209–1210. The poet seems to be saying that this poetry is his sēma ‘tomb’. Relevant commentary by Svenbro 1988, especially p. 96.

21. N 1985:81.

22. Comments on a related passage, Theognis 337–350, in N 1985:68–74.

23. Relevant comments in N 1985:64–68. For more on Alcaeus Songs 129 and 130: Edmunds 2012.

24. Essay 2, §§5, 59, 75, with reference to the women’s choral event of the Kallisteia. These arguments go back to N 1993.

25. N 1993, with further analysis of the Kallisteia.

26. Essay 2§5, especially with reference to Greek Anthology 9.189 and the comments of Page 1955.168n4.

27. Commenting on my overall analysis of Alcaeus Song 129 and Song 130, Anton Bierl (per litteras2006.08.22) agrees that these fragments reveal a quasi‑theatrical interaction of Alcaeus as a solo male performer with an ensemble of choral female performers at an event known as the Kallisteia (more on which in Essay 2§5 above). Such interaction, as Bierl notes, is distinctly Dionysiac. In Song 129, we see the persona of Alcaeus praying to the gods—including Dionysus (ōmēstēs)—to help destroy an enemy described in grotesque comic terminology that is evidently Dionysiac in provenance (as Bierl also notes, phusgōn ‘pot-belly’ at F 129.21 is evocative of a “padded dancer” or “Dickbauchtänzer”). In Song 130, there is a Dionysiac theme at work in the image of the alienated man living alone in what at first seems like a desolate place, where he is then represented as interacting, despite his alienated role, with the integrating role of a chorus representing the women of Lesbos competing at the festive event of the Kallisteia. I highlight again a word referring to the ritual ululation of these women, olologē (F 130b.20), which is characteristic of choral performance (N 1993:222; Gentili 1985:220, 306n30). As Bierl notes, this choral cry could have a specifically Dionysiac reference (as in Euripides Bacchae 24 and 689; commentary by Seaford 1996:151). In Song 129 of Alcaeus, where the speaker prays to the gods—including Dionysus (ōmēstēs)—to release both his community and himself from troubles and cares, the context of this prayer matches the meaning of a cult epithet of Dionysus, luaios ‘the releaser’, as analyzed by Plutarch (On containing anger 462b). I will have more to say about this epithet at a later point in my argumentation.

28. Again, a notable exception is Gentili 1985 / 1988.

29. This paragraph summarizes the argumentation in PP 99 and, more immediately, in Essay 2§71 above.

30. Again, Essay 2§71.

31. Essay 2§70.

32. Essay 2§66, with reference to PH 6 = 0§15. On the terms markedand unmarked, I cite again PH 5–8 = 0§§12–15.

33. N 2004:46–48.

34. Again, N 2004.

35. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:231. They point out an interesting contrast: whereas the wanton male attendants of Dionysus are depicted as beasts, that is, as satyrs, the wanton female attendants of the god are depicted simply as women—even in their most wanton engagements with satyrs. For a traditional visualization of satyrs interacting with Bacchic women, I cite Cornutus On the nature of the gods 60 ed. Lang. I will have more to say later about this passage. In my overall formulation, I should add here, I have used the word satyr only as a general term.

36. I note with interest the relevant observation of Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:231n108: “The genitals of Dionysus never seem to be visible on archaic Attic pottery.”

37. On the relevance of this wording to questions of genre, I note the comments of Yatromanolakis 2004:65. On the “Attic” transmission of the sympotic songs of Alcaeus: N 2004:37–41.

38. Essay 2§65.

39. Collection of relevant comments in the scholia: Campbell 1982:152 at “Sappho” F 137.

40. An example: Campbell 1982:153n1.

41. Page 1955.107.

42. Page 1955.106.

43. Page 1955.108.

44. Page 1955.108.

45. PH 399 = 13§38.

46. PH 399–400 = 13§38.

47. N 1993:222n5, with further references.

48. Quoted in Essay 2§16 above.

49. Bowra 1935 (ed. 1 of Greek Lyric Poetry) 234.

50. Page 1955:107n1.

51. Bowra 1961 (ed. 2) 225, following Wilamowitz 1913:41.

52. The word skolion, as used in the time of Aristophanes, is a distinctly sympotic term. Details in N 2004:37n31.

53. PP 219. Of relevance are my comments on Song 2 of Sappho at an earlier point in my argumentation here, at 3§24.

54. Commentary by Urios-Aparisi 1993.54 on the explicitly sympotic features of the description given by Herodotus.

55. As already noted in Essay 2§83.

56. PP 11, 15, 18–20.

57. PP 60. It was here that I first made this argument.

58. Survey at PP 219.

59. PP 219.

60. PP 221.

61. As leader of reveling-singer-dancers, Alcaeus here is figured here as ‘greeting’ (anadekhesthai) the revelers. In other words, he is figured as organizing a serenade, as it were.

62. I offer a brief commentary here on lines 48–49. The epithet himeroeis ‘lovely’ at line 48 describing the pothos ‘yearning’ of the poet signals a reciprocity. The poetry of yearning for the beauty of Sappho is so beautiful as to be reciprocated by yearning for the beauty of that poetry. So the ‘loveliness’ of the pothos ‘yearning’ refers both to the love felt by the poet and to the love felt by those who listen to his poetry. As for the competition between Alcaeus and Anacreon for the love of Sappho, I note that the syntactical positioning of humnoi ‘songs’ at line 49 creates an ambiguity about the originator of the songs of Alcaeus as rivaled by the songs of Anacreon. When Alcaeus loves Sappho and thus loves her songs, these songs of hers become his songs as well, which the rival Anacreon can then make his own songs. In terms of this interpretation, I have translated humnoi at line 49 as both ‘her’ songs and ‘his’ songs, where ‘his’ can ultimately refer not only to Alcaeus but also to Anacreon.

63. I think that the wording of “Sappho” in Adespota F 35 in PMG (ed. Page) refers to choral performance in the context of the festival known as the Kallisteia at Messon in Lesbos. The use of the word humnos here in referring to such performance is of special interest, as we will see later on when we consider the context of paideioi humnoi ‘songs of boys/girls’ in Pindar’s Isthmian 2 (line 3).

64. Campbell 1982:153.

65. Campbell 1982:153.

66. For background on the provenance of the Akragas Vase and for other historical details. I cite a definitive article by Malcolm Bell 1995, who offers an extensive analysis, comparing this vase with a piece of sculpture known as the Motya Charioteer. I should add already here that the attribution of the pictures painted on the Akragas Vase to the Brygos Painter is not absolutely certain: Bell 1995:11n64, with further references. On the dating: Bell pp. 27–29. As Bell shows in detail, the original owners of the vase were the dynastic family of the Emmenidai, who ruled the city of Akragas in the early fifth century BCE. I think that they were the ones who had commissioned artisans in Athens to produce for them this splendid artifact, to be shipped to its new home in Akragas and to be proudly put on display there.

67. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:219. Besides the letterings indicating Alcaeus and Sappho, there is lettering between the two figures that reads ΔΑΜΑΚΑΛΟΣ (see ARV² 1573).

68. Bell 1995:27.

69. Bell 1995:27–30.

70. Bell 1995:11–12. The braces (“{” and “}”) in the quotation here from Bell indicate transliterations that are different from those used by the author.

71. Bell’s description of the drapery worn by Alcaeus and the Motya Charioteer is I think comparable to the visualization of Pentheus as a would-be Bacchant in the Bacchae of Euripides. I will show the relevant passage in the Bacchae at a later point, 3§127.

72. Bell 1995:25–30.

73. Bell 1995:22.

74. Bell 1995:16.

75. I submit that this reference in Pindar’s Isthmian2 (line 3) must have included Sappho. As we will see at 3§81, pais can mean not only ‘boy’ but also ‘girl’—as in erotic poetry attributed to Sappho.

76. PH 340 and 342 = 12§§4–11.

77. N 1989.

78. Bell 1995:17, 19, 25. This reference in Pindar’s Isthmian2 to a Panathenaic victory in 474 shows that the song was completed long after the Isthmian victory of 476. Bell p. 18 offers a most useful formulation concerning the synchronization of five Panhellenic festivals, which I summarize as follows. The festivals of the Olympia and the Pythia, each operating on a four-year cycle and each held in the summer, alternated with each other in the even-numbered years of our own calendar, while the festival of the Isthmia, operating on a two-year cycle, was held in the spring of each even-numbered year of, again, our own calendar, before the summer games of the Olympia and the Pythia. The festival of the Panathenaia, operating on a four-year cycle, was held in the late summer after the Pythia. The festival of the Nemea, operating on a two-year cycle, was held on odd-numbered years of our calendar, one year before and one year after the festival of the Olympia.

79. I offer my thanks to Gloria Ferrari Pinney, Kathryn Topper, and Hilda Westervelt for giving me their valuable advice about this painting.

80. Price 1990:134: “These scenes, beginning ca. 520–510 and continuing through the mid‑fifth century, thus span almost seventy years.”

81. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:237 Fig. 7.6.

82. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:237 Fig. 7.7.

83. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:238 Fig. 7.8.

84. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:215.

85. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:215. See also Bierl 2001:162–174 and p. 234 with n354 on the parodying of Anacreon in the song of Agathon in the Women at the Thesmophoriaby Aristophanes (especially with reference to the vase painting attributed to the Kleophrades Painter, Copenhagen MN 13365).

86. Price 1990:143n30.

87. Yatromanolakis 2001, with photographs of the obverse and the reverse sides.

88. On the diverse spellings of the name Sappho in all the vase-inscriptions that identify the poet: Yatromanolakis 2005.

89. Snyder 1997:112.

90. Yatromanolakis 2001 and 2005.

91. Yatromanolakis 2005, who was the first to read and publish this inscription.

92. Yatromanolakis 2001 and 2005.

93. Yatromanolakis 2007 chapter 2.

94. So also Snyder 1997: 112, who believes that “the emphasis of the scene […] seems to be on the dance step that the Sappho figure executes, rather than on musical performance per se.”

95. Price 1990:136; Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:221.

96. As Kathryn Topper points out to me (per litteras 2006.8.21), there are cases where the Anacreontic figures appear in explicitly sympotic situations. For example, on a red-figure hydria shoulder in Kassel (P. Dierichs Collection; no ARVnumber), a figure in Anacreontic dress reclines on the ground and holds a cup poised for kottabos.

97. Snyder 1997:112.

98. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:220 describe the aulosas the “obligatory instrument” of the kōmos. Such a description may be an overstatement, however, since there are sporadic attestations of comastic scenes where no aulos is to be found (thanks to Kathryn Topper, per litteras 2006.8.21).

99. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:242 Fig. 7.16. For the restoration ὑπ’ αὐ[λου] I refer to their p. 220n50; also Bierl 2001:165–166, especially n146. Richard Martin (2009.06.18) suggests that we may read ΕΙΜΙ as εἶμι, so that we may translate instead: ‘I am going to celebrate in a kōmos to the accompaniment of an aulos’.

100. Price 1990:134.

101. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:230.

102. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:225.

103. Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague 1990:226.

104. The article of Price 1990 argues strongly for the parodistic function of Anacreontic vase paintings.

105. PH 86–87 = 3§§7–9, with further analysis.

106. PH 98 = 3§32. On the date 446 see Davison 1968 [1958] 61–64.

107. Price 1990:169, with further bibliography.

108. For more on Anacreon as represented in Aristophanes Women at theThesmophoria: Bierl 2001:160–163. On Agathon as a stage Anacreon: Bierl p. 158 n137, 165. On Agathon as a parody of Dionysus: Bierl pp. 164–168, 173, 321n60.

109. Price 1990:169–170.

110. Gloria Ferrari Pinney per litteras(2006.08.21).

111. For an introduction to contrasts in frontal and profile views in vase painting: Frontisi-Ducroux 1995:77–80.

112. For references to hair and to ribbons in hair: Sappho F 98a+b and F 103.9.

113. Earlier in the Iliad, in an analogous context (6.389), Andromache is pictured as μαινομένῃ ἐϊκυῖα ‘looking like a woman possessed’ as she rushes toward the walls of Troy to see for herself the fate of the Trojans on the battlefield.

114. The three separate terms for ornamental hair-bindings here are ampux ‘frontlet’, kekruphalos ‘snood’, and anadesmē ‘headband’ (Iliad 22.469); the overall hair-binding or ‘headdress’ that keeps it all in place is the krēdemnon (22.470). Similarly, Varro (On the Latin language 5.130) speaks of three separate terms for ornamental hair-bindings traditionally used by Roman matrons: lanea ‘woolen ribbon’, reticulum ‘net-cap’ or ‘snood’, and capital ‘headband’. To these three words Varro (7.44) adds a fourth, tutulus (derived from the adjective tutus ‘providing safety’), which seems to be an overall term for the generic headdress worn by brides and Vestal Virgins as well as matrons. For more on the Latin terms: Levine 1995:103–104.

115. Nagler 1974:44–63; Levine 1995:103.

116. Another example of such ritual miming is the moment in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter when Demeter tears off her krēdemnon in reacting to the violation of her daughter Persephone by Hades (verses 40–42); comments by Levine 1995:103.

117. Detailed analysis by Dué 2006.4, 78, with citations.

118. Levine 1995:95.

119. On the function of the krēdemnon ‘headdress’ as an equivalent of a ‘veil’: Levine 1995, especially pp. 96–110; I note in general the important contributions by Levine on the topic of veiling; also by Llewellyn-Jones 2003. In the present paragraph, I correct some mistakes I made in the original version of my essay.

120. Levine 1995:104–105.

121. On the eroticizing of loose hair in the performance of choral song by women: Bierl 2007b, especially with reference to Alcman F 1.50–59, 101 and F 3.9; also Aristophanes Lysistrata1311 and 1316–1317.

122. Kathryn Topper (per litteras 2006.08.21) highlights a stamnos that shows the abandonment of Ariadne by Theseus (Boston, Museum of Fine Arts 00.349a): here the sleeping Ariadne is shown bare-breasted and with ostentatiously loose hair; there are also black figure paintings of Dionysus reclining on a sympotic couch or in a vineyard and in the company of a bare-breasted woman who is evidently Ariadne (examples: Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum G 48, ABV 259.17; Munich, Antikensammlungen J 1325). In such cases, the hair of both Dionysus and his female companion falls loosely over the shoulders.

123. Seaford 1996:224 infers that the head of the would-be Bacchant is flung back.

124. Seaford 1996:225 notes that Pentheus “raises his left foot backwards and looks over his shoulder to see the dress falling straight over it,” which is the same pose struck by Glauke in Euripides Medea1165–1166. The arrangement of pleats is comparable to what we have seen earlier in considering the drapery of the “Motya Charioteer”—and of Alcaeus in the painting on the Akragas Vase.

125. On this passage: Bierl 1991:204.

126. Seaford 1996:165–166, 187.

127. Seaford 1996:206.

128. Seaford 1996:214–215.

129. In GMP 87–88, I offer some relevant observations about the meaning of thūmos in Homeric poetry.

130. As I argued earlier, the meaning of luaios ‘the releaser’ in this passage corresponds to the context of Alcaeus F 129, where the speaker prays to the gods—including Dionysus (ōmēstēs)—to release both his community and himself from troubles and cares.

131. For an example of such fusion, I cite Euripides Cyclops 37–40, 63–72, with the commentary of Bierl 2006:130.

132. A point of comparison is Helen in Song 16 of Sappho: Bierl 2003:107–111, especially n59 and n73.

133. Such a reading of eroticism in Sappho is most compatible with the reading by Bierl 2003.

134. My translation, with slight modifications, of Burkert 1979.29. Further comment in GMP 8.

135. Burkert 1985:8. Further comment in GMP 10, where I note: “The insistence of ritual on a set order of things should not be misunderstood to mean that all rituals are static and that all aspects of rituals are rigid. Even in cases where a given society deems a given ritual to be static and never changing, it may in fact be dynamic and ever changing, responding to the ever-changing structure of the society that it articulates.”

136. PH 33 = 1§31, where I attempt a holistic typological formulation of song, dance, and instrumental accompaniment.

137. Tambiah 1985:165.

138. PH 33 = 1§31n88.

139. In myth, I would add, the fusion of ritual can lead to the confusion of the character who figures in the corresponding myth.

140. PH 44 = 1§§49–50.

141. Tambiah 1985:123. In PH 44 = 1§49, I comment on the pleasure inherent in mīmēsis(Aristotle Poetics 1448b).

Essay 4. A poetics of sisterly affect in the Brothers Song and in other songs of Sappho

Sappho, Illustration from the Nuremberg Chronicle 1493. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

4§0. An old online version of this essay, dated 2015.09.08, matches—for the most part—a printed version published in The Newest Sappho (P. Obbink and P. GC Inv. 105, frs. 1–5), edited by Anton Bierl and André Lardinois, Leiden: Brill, 2016. I am grateful to the editors of that volume for securing permission from Brill Publishers for me to publish that online version, which is longer than the printed version. The difference in length is due to the fact that, in the printed version, §§68–109 had been excised. In the original on-line version of 2015.09.08, the page-numbers of the printed version are indicated within braces (“{” and “}”). For example, “{449|450}” indicates where p. 449 of the printed version ends and p. 450 begins. In the rewritten version here, I have retained those indications, which will be useful to readers who need to look up references made elsewhere to the printed version of the book edited by Bierl and Lardinois. In an online version of that same book originally published by Brill in 2016, the two editors added a postscript, which I quote here:

Postscript (June 1, 2020): In the past years, following the first publication of this book, serious doubts have been raised about the reported provenance of the papyri discussed in this book, especially in Chapter 2: See M. Sampson, “Deconstructing the Provenances of P.Sapph.Obbink,” in Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists 57 (2020, forthcoming). So far, we have seen no evidence or indications to make us doubt the authenticity of the fragments themselves – they appear to be authentic. We as the editors of this volume will continue to monitor the developments around these papyri and we will, in consultation with the publisher, update this postscript or take further measures when necessary, on the basis of new scholarly evidence.

Introduction

4§1. The Brothers Song and other new papyrus texts, including the first stanza of what is now known as the Kypris Song, reveal some heretofore missing pieces of the poetic personality whom we know as Sappho. [1] In what I have to say here about this personality, I concentrate on the identity of Sappho as sister.

4§2. My approach builds on my previous work concerning not only Sappho but also Alcaeus. [2] My general argument is that we can see the personalities of Sappho and Alcaeus come to life only if we view them as poetic creations of their songs. To say it another way, the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus were meant to be heard by the public who did hear them. They were not meant for private readers. And, in the case of compositions like the Brothers Song and the Kypris Song, my specific argument is that the expressions of sisterly affect in such songs were sure to delight the listening public.

4§3. But what exactly would be so delightful about songs expressing an aristocratic woman’s tormented feelings about a brother who squandered his family’s wealth on a courtesan in Egypt? That is what her brother named Kharaxos seems to have done, as we learn from a variety of ancient sources, starting with Herodotus (2.134–135). So, where is the delight here? In attempting to answer such a question, I focus on the mixed feelings of the sister, as expressed by the poetics of Sappho. {449|450}

Poetic expressions of mixed feelings

4§4. I start with the first three stanzas of Song 5 of Sappho:

|₁ Πότνιαι Νηρήιδεϲ ἀβλάβη[ν μοι] |₂ τὸν καϲίγνητον δ[ό]τε τυίδ’ ἴκεϲθα[ι] |₃ κὤττι ϝῶ̣ι̣ θύμωι κε θέληι γένεϲθαι |₄ κῆνο τελέϲθην, |₅ὄϲϲα δὲ πρόϲθ’ ἄμβροτε πάντα λῦϲα[ι] |₆ καὶ φίλοιϲι ϝοῖϲι χάραν γένεϲθαι |₇ κὠνίαν ἔχθροιϲι, γένοιτο δ’ ἄμμι |₈ μηδάμα μηδ’ εἶϲ· |₉τὰν καϲιγνήταν δὲ θέλοι πόηϲθαι̣ |₁₀ [μέ]ϲδονοϲ τίμαϲ, [ὀν]ίαν δὲ λύγραν |₁₁ […]οτοιϲι π[ά]ροιθ’ ἀχεύων

|₁ O Queen Nereids, unharmed [ablabēs] |₂ may my brother, please grant it, arrive to me here [tuide], |₃ and whatever thing he wants in his heart [thūmos] to happen, |₄ let that thing be fulfilled [telesthēn]. |₅ And however many mistakes he made in the past, undo them all. |₆Let him become a joy [kharā] to those who are near-and-dear [philoi] to him, |₇ and let him be a pain [oniā] to those who are enemies [ekhthroi]. As for us, |₈ may we have no enemies, not a single one. |₉ But may he wish to make his sister [kasignētā] |₁₀worthy of more honor [tīmā]. |₁₁ The catastrophic [lugrā] pain [oniā] … in the past, he was feeling sorrow [akheuōn]… .

4§5. Here in Song 5, the loving sister is expressing a wish that her errant brother should become a kharāor ‘joy’ to her loved ones (6), not an oniāor ‘pain’ (7)—a pain that is then described as lugrā ‘catastrophic’ (10). [3] It should be the {450|451} other way around, she is saying, so that the family will have the joy—while the enemies will have the pain. But the family itself should have no enemies at all—nor any pain, as expressed twice by the noun oniā (7 and 10).

4§6. Later on in Song 5, the speaking persona of Sappho turns to Aphrodite, addressing her as Kypris and describing her with the epithet semnā ‘holy’ (18: ϲὺ [δ]ὲ̣ Κύπ̣[ρ]ι̣ σ̣[έμ]να). Although the fragmentary state of the papyrus here prevents us from seeing the full context, it is clear that the sister is praying to the goddess to prevent further misfortune from happening to her brother, who ‘in the past was feeling sorrow [akheuōn]’ (11: π[ά]ροιθ’ ἀχεύων).

4§7. But the pain that torments the family because of the brother’s misfortunes is not the only kind of torment we find in the poetics of Sappho. The same word oniā ‘pain’ that refers to the torment experienced by the family of Sappho refers also to the torment of erotic love experienced by Sappho herself. In Song 1 of Sappho, her speaking persona prays to Aphrodite to release her from such torment:

|₃ Do not dominate with hurts [asai] and pains [oniai], |₄ O Queen [potnia], my heart [thūmos].

4§8. Similarly in the first six lines of the Kypris Song, the speaking persona of Sappho once again turns to Aphrodite, praying that the goddess may release her from the torment of erotic love:

|₁ πῶϲ κε δή τιϲ οὐ θαμέω̣ϲ̣ ἄϲαιτ̣ο, |₂ Κύπρι δέϲ̣π̣ο̣ι̣ν̣’̣, ὄτ̣τ̣ι̣ν̣α [δ]ὴ̣ φι̣λ̣[ήει] |₃ [κωὐ] θέλοι μάλιϲτα πάθα̣ν̣ χ̣άλ̣[αϲϲαι;] |₄ [ποῖ]ον ἔχηϲθα |₅ [νῶν] ϲ̣άλοιϲι̣ μ’ ἀλεμά̣τ̣ω̣ϲ̣ δ̣αΐϲ̣δ̣[ην] |₆ [ἰμέ]ρω<ι> λύ{ι̣}ϲαντ̣ι̣ γ̣όν̣’ ω̣μ̣ε.[

|₁ How can someone not be hurt [= asâsthai, verb of the noun asā ‘hurt’] over and over again, |₂ O Queen Kypris [Aphrodite], whenever one loves [phileîn] whatever person |₃ and wishes very much not to let go of the passion? |₄ [What kind of purpose] do you have |₅ [in mind], uncaringly rending me apart |₆ in my [desire] as my knees buckle?

4§9. The ending of this song was already known before the discovery of the new supplements for the beginning as I just quoted it. At this ending, we find the {451|452} persona of Sappho declaring the poetics of her own self-awareness:

|₁₁ ἔγω δ’ ἔμ’ αὔται |₁₂ τοῦτο ϲυνοίδα

|₁₁ And I—aware of my own self—|₁₂ I know this.

Sappho Song 26.11–12

4§10. Such self-awareness as we find it at work in the songs of Sappho brings me back to the question I was asking from the start: what exactly is so delightful about songs expressing an aristocratic woman’s tormented feelings about a brother who squandered his family’s wealth on a courtesan in Egypt? I think that the answer to this question does in fact have to do with the delight of sensing that a woman’s veiled self-awareness about her own feelings is making a connection here with an unveiled love story—about an upper-class man’s self-destructive affair with a lower-class woman whose charms he finds utterly irresistible.

4§11. The songs of Sappho reveal an awareness of two kinds of torment. First, there is the torment experienced by a whole family in fearing a disgraceful loss of wealth and prestige. But then there is also the torment—and the delight—of a passionate love affair. This second kind of torment is experienced not only by the brother of Sappho but also by Sappho herself. The songmaking of Sappho reveals here not only an awareness but also a self-awareness. And here is a special delight for the hearer of Sappho’s songs—to hear about the torment of her own passionate loves.

4§12. The poetic language that expresses this torment—this oniā and this asā—envelops both the errant brother and the anxious sister. Both are afflicted by the torment—and the delight—of passionate love. And this delight can be experienced by all who hear the songs of Sappho. Among these hearers, as we will see, is Herodotus himself.

4§13. Before I proceed to Herodotus, however, I am aware that I will first have to explain why I speak here of torment and delight in referring to the love story of Sappho’s brother. I am thinking of Act 1 of La traviata, a romantic opera composed by Giuseppe Verdi (first performed in 1853), where the two lovers Alfredo and Violetta sing to each other about their passionate love affair. Both lovers express this love as a ‘torment and delight’, croce e delizia. Then, in Act 2, the father of Alfredo intervenes, confronting Violetta by singing to her an aria of his own. In this aria, the father expresses his own form of torment: how he fears that the reputation of his unmarried daughter, the sister of Alfredo, will be destroyed by the news of her brother’s love affair. Here I ask myself a question. Suppose there existed an aria sung by the aristocratic sister herself: what feelings would she express? Perhaps, at first, she would be most aware of her own tormented fears about her reputation, which is now endangered by the love affair of her brother with a courtesan. But she could also be aware of the torment caused by passionate love—if she had experienced it herself. And {452|453} she could even be aware of the delight. Without pushing an analogy too far, I reconstruct here the croce e delizia of a woman’s own passionate loves—as expressed most forcefully in the veiled but self-aware songs of Sappho. That said, I can now concentrate on the delight of hearing songs about the torment caused by such passionate love.

Starting with Herodotus

4§14. I have already mentioned the passage in Herodotus (2.134–135) where he refers to the love affair of Kharaxos, brother of Sappho, with a courtesan who lived in Egypt. The historian adds that Sappho scolded Kharaxos—or the courtesan—for this affair, and that the scolding was done by way of melos ‘song’: ‘Sappho scolded [kata-kertomeîn] him [or her] in many ways by way of her singing [melos]’ (2.135.6: ἐν μέλεϊ Cαπφὼ πολλὰ κατεκερτόμηϲέ μιν). [4] So, how did Herodotus know about such songs of Sappho? I will be arguing that he himself could have heard such songs being sung—and was eager to show off his appreciation of the songs—but, before I can undertake such an argument, I will need to consider the possible occasions for someone like Herodotus to listen to such singing. And, even before that, I will need to consider the original occasions for singing the songs of Sappho.

4§15. In order to engage in such considerations, I will now examine the problem of reception in analyzing the songs of Sappho. An ideal place to start is a formulation by Dirk Obbink, who writes: “The recorded reception of Sappho begins with Herodotus.” [5] I propose to build on this formulation by highlighting a qualification noted already by Obbink. The fact is, the text of Herodotus shows the first recorded case of reception. But the reception of Sappho can be reconstructed further back in time—back to earlier phases of reception. It can even be reconstructed all the way back to its original phases.

4§16. The reception of Sappho, as I will now argue, goes back to the original creation of the songs attributed to her. And a similar formulation applies to the reception of Alcaeus.

4§17. When I say “original creation” here, I mean simply the earliest attested phase of the relevant songmaking. In terms of such an earliest phase, I will argue, the reception of songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus is already at workin the overall tradition of composing and performing such songs. {453|454}

Viewing diachronically the reception and the transmission of Sappho and Alcaeus

4§18. As I said already, we can see the personalities of Sappho and Alcaeus come to life only if we view them as poetic creations that are shaped by their songs. But now I argue further that this view needs to be diachronic as well as synchronic. Here I continue a line of argumentation that I have been developing in previous publications about Sappho and Alcaeus. [6] In using the term diachronic, I am applying the formulation of Ferdinand de Saussure concerning language as a system. As Saussure explains, a synchronic approach views a current phase of a system while a diachronic approach views different phases in the evolution of that given system. [7]

4§19. In the case of the poetic language represented by Sappho and Alcaeus, as also in even earlier cases represented by the likes of Hesiod and Archilochus, a diachronic approach involves not two but four aspects of poetic creation: there is not only composition and performance but also reception and even transmission. [8]

4§20. In any poetic system that depends on the performance of a given composition, the reception and the transmission of such a composition can be viewed in terms of a process that I describe as recomposition-in-performance. In terms of such a process, as I was already starting to argue in Essay 3§52, a reperformed composer can even become a recomposed performer. [9]

4§21. Here I elaborate further. In the first place, the performer of a reperformance does not have to be the same person as an earlier performer, who can be viewed as the original composer. Still, such a performer of a reperformance can persist in appropriating to himself or herself the persona of the earlier performer—even if the historical circumstances of performance have changed. But then, in the process of recomposition-in-performance, even the persona of the performer can change over time, becoming different from the persona of the notionally original composer, and the differences in personality can be all the more pronounced if the venue of performance changes. That is how the persona of a reperformed composer can become recomposed in an {454|455} ongoing process of recomposition-in-performance. And that is how the reperformed composer can become the recomposed performer.

4§22. This formulation, as I have just summarized it, applies to the poetic personalities of Sappho and Alcaeus, as I have argued at length in my previous publications. [10] In the context of reperformances in different times and in different places, the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus could become recomposed-in-performance, and their personae could thus become recomposed as well. That is how Sappho and Alcaeus, as reperformed composers, could become recomposed performers. And that is what I meant when I said, from the start, that Sappho and Alcaeus can be viewed as poetic creations of their own songs.

4§23. Here I return to Herodotus. In his era, dated to the second half of the fifth century BCE, the poetic personalities of Sappho and Alcaeus were already significantly different from what they had been in earlier times. In the contexts where Herodotus refers to Sappho (2.135.1 and 6) and to Alcaeus (5.95.1–2)—as also to other comparable poetic figures such as Anacreon (3.121.1)—we can see in each case that these figures were by now viewed as poets who created monodic songs. Such songs, in the era of Herodotus, were performed solo, and there existed primarily two kinds of venue. On the one hand, there were amateur monodic performances at private symposia, while, on the other hand, there were professional monodic performances at public concerts, the most prestigious of which were the competitions of singing self-accompanied by a string-instrument at the Athenian festival of the Panathenaia.

4§24. What I just said is a most compressed formulation of a lengthy argument that I developed in the study entitled “Did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet?”—originally published in 2007 and rewritten in this book as Essay 3, where I analyzed diachronically the reception and the transmission of songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus.[11] In terms of this argument, the poetic personalities of both Sappho and Alcaeus were actually reshaped in the historical contexts of the two venues that I have just highlighted for the era of Herodotus, namely, (1) private symposia and (2) public concerts. In these contexts, especially as we see them take shape in Athens during the fifth century BCE, the songs originally attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus would be reperformed by performers who could re‑enact the personae of Sappho and Alcaeus themselves, but, in the process of reperformance, these personae could be recomposed. That is how Sappho and Alcaeus could become recomposed performers. In the process of recomposition-in-performance, their poetic personalities could be recomposed by sympotic and concertizing performers, and, in this way, Sappho and {455|456} Alcaeus themselves could be re‑imagined as sympotic and concertizing performers in their own right. [12]

4§25. At a later point, I will offer further arguments to back up this formulation. For now, however, we have to deal with a more important question: how were Sappho and Alcaeus imagined before they became re‑imagined as sympotic and concertizing performers? The answer is twofold. In the case of Sappho, as I have been arguing since 1990, she had been previously a choral personality, that is, someone who performs in a singing and dancing ensemble known as a khoros or ‘chorus’. [13] In the case of Alcaeus, on the other hand, he had been previously a comastic personality, that is, someone who performs in a singing and dancing and wine-drinking ensemble known as a kōmos or ‘group of male revelers’. And secondarily, Alcaeus could also be a choral personality in his own right, like Sappho herself: a likely example is Song 34 of Alcaeus, which is a prayer to Castor and Pollux, the Dioskouroi (Essay 2§67).

Distinguishing between sympotic and comastic occasions

4§26. I will now trace the ramifications of the distinction I am making here between sympotic and comastic occasions. [14]

4§26a. The term sympotic, as I use it here, can refer to any grouping of male drinkers who attend a symposium. That said, however, there is no single criterion for defining a group of male drinkers who attended any ancient Greek symposium.

§26b. By contrast, my term comasticimplies that male drinkers who were grouped together in a kōmos must have felt bound to each other by special ties that bind, and such a grouping, as it becomes evident in the poetic language of Alcaeus, consisted of men who were (h)etairoi or ‘comrades’ to each other.[[15]

4§27. Another distinction between sympotic and comastic occasions is the fact that a sympotic song, as we see it attested in the era of Herodotus and thereafter, was ordinarily performed by a solo singer, in monodic form, to the accompa{456|457}niment of a wind- or a string-instrument, whereas a comastic song would have been performed by a group that could both sing and dance. This is not to say that an individuated singer—or a succession of individual singers—could not dominate the overall group performance of a kōmos. But I do insist that any exclusively solo performance of a song would have been incompatible with the mentality of a group that sings and dances in a kōmos. [16]

Distinguishing between sympotic and choral occasions

4§28. A comparable distinction applies in the case of sympotic and choral occasions. A sympotic song, I repeat, was ordinarily performed by a solo singer, in monodic form, to the accompaniment of a wind- or a string-instrument. By contrast, a choral song was performed by a group, known as the khoros or ‘chorus’, where the performers both sang and danced to the accompaniment of a wind- or a string-instrument.

4§29. Here too in the case of the khoros, as in the case of the kōmos, I am not saying that an individuated singer—or a succession of individual singers—could not dominate the overall group performance. But I do insist, once again, that any exclusively solo performance of a song would have been incompatible with the mentality of a group that sings and dances. Such a group, I maintain, was the khoros. [17]

A split between monodic and non‑monodic performance

4§30. In view of these distinctions between monodic and non‑monodic performance, I reconstruct a split between the later personae of Sappho and Alcaeus, who were both pictured as monodic singers, and the earlier personae, who need to be viewed in the historical context of group performances. I have already described these earlier personae as a choral Sappho and as a comastic Alcaeus (3§149) and I have left the door open for a choral Alcaeus as well (4§25). But before I can say anything more about such choral and comastic personae, I first need to explore the historical circumstances of the earliest attested venue where such personae could actually come to life. {457|458}

The earliest known venue for Sappho and Alcaeus

4§31. From a diachronic point of view, the earliest attested venue for performing the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus can be located, as we have seen from the start, in a space known in ancient times as Messon, which, as we have also seen, figured as a politically neutral ‘middle ground’ for the entire island of Lesbos.

4§32. Here I return to the basic arguments proving this localization were published in a 1960 article by Louis Robert, [18] whose work has been foundational for my own diachronic analysis of the poetic venues for both Sappho and Alcaeus. [19]The published reactions to the work of Robert have been thoroughly reviewed and tested in a 2010 article by Stefano Caciagli, whose own conclusions validate most of the original arguments advanced so many decades earlier by Robert. [20] Although he does not say so, the conclusions offered by Caciagli also validate—for the most part—what I had argued in a 1993 article entitled ‘Alcaeus in sacred space’, published in the Festschrift for Bruno Gentili. [21] In that article, I supported the argument, originated by Robert, that the poetry of Sappho and Alcaeus actually refers to Messon—as that place existed at a time that corresponds to the traditional dating of these poetic figures, around 600 BCE.[22]

4§33. I start with the references to Messon in Songs 129 and 130 of Alcaeus. As I have noted from the start of this book, the name of the place is not mentioned in those songs, but the identification is clear. As we have seen in Essay 3, these songs of Alcaeus songs refer to the place as a temenos ‘precinct’ (129.2 and 130b.13: τέμενοϲ), pictured as a great federal sacred space that is xūnon ‘common’ (129.3: ξῦνον) to all the people of the island of Lesbos. The precinct is sacred to three divinities: they are Zeus, ‘the Aeolian goddess’, and Dionysus (129.5–9). As we will now see, the Aeolian goddess (129.6: Αἰολήιαν … θέον) must be Hera.

4§34. Even before delving into details, I highlight already here another relevant reference, this one in Song 130 of Alcaeus, to the same precinct: it is called the teikhos basilēion ‘the Queen’s Wall’ (130a.15: τεῖχοϲ βαϲίληιον), glossed as ‘Hera’s wall’ in a scholion written next to the text (τὸ τῆϲ ῞Ηραϲ). I translate basilēion here as ‘Queenly’, not ‘Kingly’, in {458|459} light of what we read in the newly-found Brothers Song of Sappho: the speaking Sappho in this song says that she needs to be sent off to pray to basilēa Hēra ‘Queen Hera’ (line 10 [6]: βαϲί̣λ̣η̣αν Ἤ̣ραν). As I will argue at a later point, the queenly status of the goddess Hera subsumes even the kingly status of her consort, the god Zeus, who is described as the basileus Olumpō ‘king of Olympus’ in the Brothers Song (line 17 [13]: βαϲίλευϲ Ὀλύμπω).

4§35. I continue my argument that the queenly residence of the goddess Hera must be the precinct at Messon. In the Brothers Song, it is in this precinct that Sappho will pray for the safe return of her brother Kharaxos from a sea voyage. Even as she pictures herself as praying, she expresses the hope that the brother is sailing his way back home (lines 11–12 [7–8]).

4§36. Where is home? It is a place that is signaled by the deictic pronoun tuide ‘here’ in the words of the Brothers Song (line 11 [7]: τυίδε). And where is ‘here’? The answer, in terms of my argument, is that this place ‘here’ is Messon.

4§37. Sappho will not be praying alone to Hera. She will be part of a procession that must be sent off to the precinct of the goddess, as we can see from the expression pempēn eme ‘send me’ in the Brothers Song (line 9 [5]: πέμπην ἔμε), which I argue refers to the sending of not one person in this case: rather, it is the sending of a procession, the classical Greek word for which would be pompē. Not only will Sappho be a part of a procession; she will also have the leading part, as indicated by the focus on ‘me’ in the expression pempēn eme ‘send me’ (again, line 9 [5]: πέμπην ἔμε).

4§38. Once the sacred procession reaches the precinct of the goddess, as we will now see, the processing ensemble will transform itself into a chorus of singing and dancing women who are charged with the sacred imperative of supplicating Hera, as expressed by the word lissesthai ‘implore’:

πόλλα λί̣ϲϲεϲθαι ̣βαϲί̣λ̣η̣αν Ἤ̣ραν

to implore [lissesthai] Queen [basilēa] Hera over and over again

Sappho Brothers Song 10 [6]

4§39. In Song 1 of Sappho, we see a comparable situation where Sappho is supplicating a goddess—this time, it is Aphrodite—and again the word for the ritual action that I translate as ‘implore’ is lissesthai (2):

|₁ ποικιλόθρον’ ἀθανάτ’ Ἀφρόδιτα, |₂ παῖ Δίοϲ δολόπλοκε, λίϲϲομαί ϲε, |₃ μή μ’ἄϲαιϲι μηδ’ ὀνίαιϲι δάμνα, |₄ πότνια, θῦμον, |₅ ἀλλὰ τυίδ’ ἔλθ’, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα |₆ τὰϲ ἔμαϲ αὔδαϲ ἀίοιϲα πήλοι |₇ ἔκλυεϲ, … {459|460}

|₁ You with pattern-woven flowers, immortal Aphrodite, |₂ child of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I implore [lissomai] you, |₃ do not dominate with hurts [asai] and pains [oniai], |₄ O Queen [potnia], my heart [thūmos]. |₅ But come here [tuide], if ever at any other time, |₆hearing my voice from afar, |₇ you heeded me …

Sappho Song 1.1–7

4§40. Here too in Song 1, we see the deictic pronoun tuide ‘here’ (5: τυίδ’). Sappho implores the goddess Aphrodite to come tuide ‘here’ to the place where she is praying, just as she will implore the goddess Hera to bring back her brother tuide ‘here’ to the place where she is praying in the Brothers Song (line 11 [7]: τυίδε).

Processing to the precinct of Hera

4§41. A moment ago, I started to argue that Sappho’s prayer to Hera in the Brothers Song can be seen in the overall context of a sacred procession that proceeds to the precinct of Hera, at which place the processing ensemble will transform itself into a chorus of singing and dancing women who are charged with the sacred imperative of supplicating the goddess. As I will now argue further, the procession is in fact already a chorus in the making. Pursuing this argument, I now cite a parallel kind of event that took place at the precinct of Hera—not the one at Lesbos but the one near the city of Argos. I start by quoting here a description of the pompē ‘procession’ of the Hekatombaia, which was the Argive name for the seasonally recurring festival of the goddess Hera at Argos:

Ἑκατόμβαια δὲ ὁ ἀγὼν λέγεται ὅτι πομπῆϲ μεγάληϲ προηγοῦνται ἑκατὸν βόεϲ, οὓϲ νόμοϲ κρεανομεῖϲθαι πᾶϲι τοῖϲ πολίταιϲ.

This festival-of-competitions [agōn] is called Hekatombaia because one hundred cattle are led forth in a grand procession [pompē], and their meat is divided by customary law among all the citizens of the city.

Scholia for Pindar Olympian 7.152d 1

4§42. The name of this festival, Hekatombaia, refers to a hekatombē ‘hecatomb’, which is the sacrificial slaughtering of one hundred cattle in honor of Hera. And the procession that led up to this sacrifice in honor of the goddess at her festival {460|461} in Argos culminated in a choral performance of Argive girls who participated in that procession. This culminating ritual event can be reconstructed on the basis of what we read in the Electra of Euripides, as I showed in Masterpieces of Metonymy (Nagy 2015).[23]. The role of the chorus that is singing and dancing in this drama is twofold: the performers in the chorus here represent not only the girls of Argos in the mythical past but also the girls of Argos who participated in the rituals of the seasonally recurring festival of Hera in the historical present of the drama. In the Electra of Euripides, the male Athenian chorus of his drama is representing a female Argive chorus participating in a contemporary version of Hera’s festival, and this female Argive chorus is in turn representing their prototypical counterparts in the mythical past. Already back then, in that mythical past, a chorus of Argive girls is participating in the festival of Hera. In the Electra of Euripides, there are explicit references to the upcoming choral performance of these mythical girls at Hera’s festival. [24] And the festival itself, as we will now see, is explicitly called a thusiā, meaning literally ‘sacrifice’ (172). Here is the way the word is used in the song that is sung and danced by the chorus of Argive girls:

|₁₆₇ Ἀγαμέμνονοϲ ὦ κόρα, ἤλυθον, Ἠλέκτρα, |₁₆₈ ποτὶ ϲὰν ἀγρότειραν αὐλάν. |₁₆₉ ἔμολέ τιϲ ἔμολεν γαλακτοπόταϲ ἀνὴρ |₁₇₀Μυκηναῖοϲ οὐριβάταϲ· |₁₇₁ ἀγγέλλει δ’ ὅτι νῦν τριταί|₁₇₂αν καρύϲϲουϲιν θυϲίαν |₁₇₃ Ἀργεῖοι, πᾶϲαι δὲ παρ’ Ἥ|₁₇₄ραν μέλλουϲιν παρθενικαὶ ϲτείχειν.

|₁₆₇ O Electra, daughter of Agamemnon, I [= the chorus, speaking as a singular ‘I’] have arrived |₁₆₈ at your rustic courtyard. |₁₆₉ He has come, a milk-drinking man, he has come, |₁₇₀ a Mycenaean, one whose steps lead over the mountains. |₁₇₁ He announces that, on the third day from now, |₁₇₂ a sacrifice [thusiā] is proclaimed |₁₇₃ by the Argives, and that all |₁₇₄ the girls [parthenikai] to Hera must proceed [steikhein].

Euripides Electra 167–174 {461|462}

4§43. This word thusiā here (172) is referring to the ritual centerpiece of the festival, which is the hecatomb, that is, the sacrifice of one hundred cattle. But the same word thusiā is also referring to the entire festival, by way of a special kind of metonymy known as synecdoche, where a part of an entirety of connected parts is substituted for the entirety itself. What is meant, then, in what I have just quoted from Euripides is that each and every girl from each and every part of the Argive world must steikhein ‘proceed’ to Hera—that is, to the festival of Hera. Each girl personally must make the mental act of proceeding to the goddess. Each girl collectively must join in, that is, join the grand procession that will lead to the precinct of the goddess, where the hundred cattle will be slaughtered in ritual sacrifice. We see here a religious mentality that shapes the idea of the pompē ‘procession’ as we just saw it described at 4§41 in the scholia for Pindar Olympian 7.

4§44. It is this procession of girls from Argos that leads to the festival proclaimed by the Argives at line 172 of the Electra. The relevant words, to repeat, are pompē for ‘procession’ and thusiā for ‘sacrifice’. And the word thusiā, as we have just seen, is a metonymic way of saying ‘festival’. After the procession reaches the precinct of Argive Hera, what happens next is the sacrifice of one hundred cattle, followed by festive celebrations. And these festivities will include the choral singing and dancing performed by the girls of Argos. So, the pompē ‘procession’ extends into the choral performance, by way of the sacrifice that will take place after the entry of the procession into the precinct. We see here a validation of the formula proposed by Anton Bierl concerning processions as represented in Greek theater: he argues that any procession that leads into a choral performance will thereby become part of the choral performance. [25] There is a metonymy at work here. [26] Further, in the case of the drama composed by Euripides, Electra is potentially the prima donna who will lead the procession that will be transformed into the choral performance of the Argive girls when they reach the precinct of Hera. In fact, the word that Electra herself uses in referring to the upcoming performance of the girls at the precinct is khoros (χορούϲ 178). For the moment, though, Electra declines the ‘invitation to the dance’ (178–180). [27]

A festival for Hera at Lesbos

4§45. Similarly in the Brothers Song of Sappho, I propose that Sappho herself is potentially the prima donna who must lead a procession to the precinct of {462|463} Hera at Lesbos, and, once this precinct is reached, the procession will then be transformed into a choral performance of girls celebrating a festival that climaxes in the sacrifice of one hundred cattle to the goddess. And the leader of this choral performance must be Sappho herself, just as she must be the leader of the procession that leads up to the performance.

4§46. Such a role for Sappho, as a prima donna who leads the procession to the precinct of Hera and who then leads a chorus of girls who sing and dance there to celebrate a festival held in honor of the goddess, is based on a precedent, as it were, that goes back to the age of heroes. To explain such a precedent, I start with a point of comparison involving the traditions of Argos.

4§47. In the text of a fictional narrative attributed to Dictys of Crete, we find a detail that can be reconstructed as part of a local Argive myth concerning the precinct of Hera at Argos. According to the myth as retold by the fictional Dictys (1.16), it was in this precinct that the hero Agamemnon was chosen to lead the expedition to Troy. [28] Such a formal beginning that takes place at the precinct of Hera, where the festival of the goddess was celebrated by the Argives, must have been a sacrifice, which can be identified with the seasonally recurring thusiā at the festival of Hera in Argos. Here I must highlight again what I already highlighted in the text I quoted from Euripides: the word thusiā refers metonymically to the festival itself, though its basic meaning is ‘sacrifice’.

4§48. This detail about the precinct of Hera at Argos is a most valuable piece of comparative evidence, since it helps us understand what happened once upon a time in the corresponding precinct of Hera at Lesbos—not in the age of Sappho but in the heroic age. As we are about to see, there existed a local myth about what happened there in that precinct, and this myth functioned as an aetiology for a festival—as also for the ritual centerpiece of that festival, which was a sacrifice of one hundred cattle.

4§49. I will postpone until later my working definition of aetiology and, for the moment, I will concentrate instead on the festival that is being aetiologized. I will show that this festival, celebrated in honor of Hera at Lesbos, highlighted a sacrifice of one hundred cattle inside the precinct of the goddess. A reference to both the festival and the sacrifice, I argue, has been preserved in the Alexandrian lexicographical tradition, as represented by Hesychius. In the dictionary of Hesychius (v. 2 p. 652 ed. Latte 1966), we find the entry mesostrophōniai hēmerai, which I translate as ‘days that turn at the middle’ (μεϲοϲτροφώνιαι ἡμέραι), and this entry is defined as follows: ‘these are the days during which the people of {463|464} Lesbos arrange [epiteleîn] a thusiā that is common [koinē] to all of them’ (ἐν αἷϲ Λέϲβιοι κοινὴν θυϲίαν ἐπιτελοῦϲιν). [29] In the wording of this definition, the word thusiā refers not only to the sacrifice but also, again metonymically, to the festival itself.

The festival in Song 17 of Sappho

4§50. I argue that Song 17 of Sappho actually refers to a myth about this festival at Lesbos. The myth is telling about a time in the heroic age when the Atreïdai ‘Sons of Atreus’—that is, Agamemnon and his brother Menelaos—made arrangements for the institution of a festival of Hera to be celebrated inside her precinct at Lesbos after their victory at Troy. Here is the relevant text:

|₁ πλάϲιον δη μ̣[…..]…οιϲ᾿ α̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣]ω |₂ πότνι’ Ἦρα, ϲὰ χ[…..]ϲ̣  ̣ἐόρτ[α] [30] |₃ τὰν ἀράταν Ἀτρ[έϊδα]ι̣ π̣ό̣ηϲαν |₄ τόι [31] βαϲίληεϲ, |₅ ἐκτελέϲϲαντεϲ μ[εγά]λ̣οιϲ ἀέθλοιϲ̣ |₆ πρῶτα μὲν πὲρ Ἴ̣[λιον]· ἄψερον δέ̣ |₇ τυίδ’ ἀπορμάθεν[τεϲ, ὄ]δ̣ο̣ν γὰρ̣ εὔρη̣[ν] |₈ οὐκ ἐδύναντο, |₉ πρὶν ϲὲ καὶ Δί’ ἀντ[ίαον] π̣εδέλθην̣ |₁₀ καὶ Θυώναϲ ἰμε̣[ρόεντα] π̣αῖδα· |₁₁ νῦν δὲ κ[αί….. …] ]…πόημεν |₁₂κὰτ τὸ πάλ̣[αιον {464|465} |₁₃ ἄγνα καὶ κα̣[….. ὄ]χλοϲ |₁₄παρθέ[νων….. γ]υναίκων |₁₅ ἀμφιϲ̣.[…] |₁₆ μετρ’ ὀ̣λ̣[ολύγαϲ]. [32]

|₁ Close by, …, |₂ O Queen [potnia] Hera, … your […] festival [(h)eortā], |₃ which, vowed-in-prayer [arâsthai], [33] the Sons of Atreus did arrange [poieîn] |₄ for you, kings that they were, |₅ after first having completed great labors [aethloi], |₆ around Troy, and, next [apseron], |₇ after having set forth to come here [tuide], since finding the way |₈ was not possible for them |₉ until they would approach you (Hera) and Zeus lord of suppliants [antiaos] |₁₀ and (Dionysus) the lovely son of Thyone. |₁₁ And now we are arranging [poieîn] [the festival], |₁₂ in accordance with the ancient way […] |₁₃ holy [agnā] and […] a throng [okhlos] |₁₄ of girls [parthenoi] […] and women [gunaikes] |₁₅ on either side … |₁₆ the measured sound of ululation [ololūgā].

Sappho Song 17.1–16

4§51. Although the first line of Song 17 here is too fragmentary to be understood for sure, the next line makes it clear that the persona of Sappho is praying to Hera herself, speaking to her about the (h)eortā ‘festival’ (2: ἐόρτ[α]) that is being arranged in honor of the goddess. The speaking Sappho goes on to say that the festival that ‘we’ in the present are arranging (11: πόημεν), as ‘we’ offer supplications to Hera, is being arranged ‘in accordance with the ancient way’ (12: κὰτ τὸ πάλ̣[αιον]) of arranging the festival, just as the heroes of the past had arranged it (3: π̣ό̣ηϲαν). In these contexts, I am translating the word poieîn ‘make’ {465|466} in the specific sense of ‘arrange’, with reference to the observance of a ritual. I find in Thucydides (2.15.2) a striking parallel in wording: ‘and the Athenians, continuing what he [= Theseus] started, even now arrange [poieîn] for the goddess [= Athena], at public expense, the festival [heortē] named the Sunoikia’ (καὶ ξυνοίκια ἐξ ἐκείνου Ἀθηναῖοι ἔτι καὶ νῦν τῇ θεῷ ἑορτὴν δημοτελῆ ποιοῦϲιν). In the case of the (h)eortā ‘festival’ at Lesbos, the heroes who ‘arranged’ it were the Atreïdai or Sons of Atreus, that is to say, Agamemnon and Menelaos, and they made these arrangements primarily for the goddess Hera, who is indicated here by way of the emphatic personal pronoun tói ‘for you’ in the dative case (4: τόι). (In a minute, I will defend this reading tói ‘for you’, which is actually transmitted in the new papyrus fragment.) Similarly, in the wording of the passage I just cited from Thucydides, the seasonally recurring arrangements of the Athenian heortē ‘festival’ known as the Sunoikia are being made ‘for the goddess’ in the dative case (τῇ θεῷ).

4§52. So, what kind of a festival did the Sons of Atreus arrange ‘for’ Hera? To formulate an answer, I start with the word that describes the (h)eortā ‘festival’ at line 2 of Song 17: it is the verbal adjective arātos in the feminine gender, ἀράταν, which I translate for the moment as ‘vowed-in-prayer’ and which is derived from the verb arâsthai ‘vow-in-prayer’. My initial translation of this adjective arātā as ‘vowed-in-prayer’ is based on the Indo-European linguistic heritage of the verb arâsthai and of its synonym eukhesthai. Most relevant here is a chapter entitled ‘The Vow’ in a book by Emile Benveniste, Indo-European Language and Society, where the analysis focuses on Greek eukhesthai and its Latin cognate, vovēre. [34] The Latin verb vovēre can be translated as ‘vow’ in contexts where someone is praying to a divinity and asking for a favor to be granted, in return for which favor a vow is made to do something that is meant to gratify the divinity. Such a translation also applies in comparable contexts of the Greek verb eukhesthai. So, when you make a vow in a prayer, as expressed by way of the word eukhesthai, you are saying to a divinity that you will do or are doing or have done something in the hope that the divinity to whom you are praying will grant what you are wishing for. For a most pertinent example in the Iliad, I cite a situation where the hero Pandaros is being urged (misleadingly, by Athena in disguise) to make a vow-in-prayer as expressed by the verb eukhesthai (4.101: εὔχεο): this hero, by way of making a vow-in-prayer to Apollo, would be vowing that he would perform an animal sacrifice (4.102) in the hope that the god would grant him what he is wishing for, which is a safe homecoming {466|467} (4.103). Pandaros then goes ahead and makes a vow-in-prayer (4:119: εὔχετο), vowing that he will in fact perform an animal sacrifice (4.120) in hopes of a safe homecoming (4.121). So, as Benveniste says about the meaning of eukhesthai—and his formulation applies also to the synonym arâsthai—”the prayer is not distinguished from the vow: it is one and the same operation.”[35] Or, as I would prefer to say it, the wish-in-prayer is not distinguished from the vow-in-prayer. I can paraphrase in terms of the Latin noun vōtum, translated as ‘vow’, which is a derivative of the Latin verb vovēre, translated as ‘vow’. When you pray to a divinity, the word for what you vow to do is vōtum, but the word for what you wish for is likewise vōtum. [36] In the case of the hero Pandaros in the Homeric Iliad, his wish—and therefore his prayer—is a failure, since he will soon be killed on the battlefield (5.290–296).

4§53. Here I must pause to adjust the formulation of Benveniste. As Leonard Muellner has shown, the English translation ‘vow’ for such words as eukhesthai works only in situations where the human who prays to a divinity is announcing an act that will happen in the future.[37] But the fact is, the act of gratifying a divinity can happen in the present or even in the past. What you announce in prayer does not have to be a promise about the future: it can also be an announcement about the present or even about the past. [38] So, the translation ‘vow-in-prayer’ for eukhesthai—and for arâsthai—does not cover the full range of meanings for these verbs. From here on, accordingly, I will translate these verbs simply as ‘announce-in-prayer’, not ‘vow-in-prayer’. And I must emphasize that, in each case of an announcement-in-prayer, the other side of the coin is a wish-in-prayer.

4§54. With this background in place, I return to the noun (h)eortā ‘festival’ at line 2 of Song 17 of Sappho, and to the verbal adjective arātāthat describes this festival at line 3 (ἀράταν). Now translating arātā as ‘announced-in-prayer’, I interpret the wording here to mean that Agamemnon and Menelaos, the two Sons of Atreus, had once upon a time announced-in-prayer the celebration of the festival or eortā that is still being celebrated in Sappho’s song. And, by virtue of making this announcement-in-prayer, these two heroes were simultaneously making a wish-in-prayer. So, what did they wish for? The wording makes it quite clear that their wish was to find the best way to make a safe homecoming, literally, ‘to {467|468} find the way’ (7: [ὄ]δ̣ο̣ν … εὔρη̣[ν]). Thus the verbal adjective arātā here refers simultaneously to the festival that the heroes announced-in-prayer and to the safe homecoming that they wished-in-prayer.

4§55. Accordingly, I disagree with the idea that the adjective arātā (ἀράταν) at line 3 of Song 17 of Sappho is combined here with a supposedly enclitic toi (τοι) at line 4, as if the combination had meant ‘wished by you’, that is, by the goddess Hera. Such an idea is advocated by Martin West, who emends the wording π̣ό̣ηϲαν τόι as written in the text of the new papyrus and reads instead π̣ό̣ηϲάν τοι. [39] And I defend the accentuation that is actually preserved in the new papyrus, τόι. [40] As I will argue, we see here an emphatic use of the pronoun, ‘for you’, not an enclitic use. This non‑enclitic and emphatic tói ‘for you’ (τόι) at line 4 goes with the verb poēsan ‘arranged’ (π̣ό̣ηϲαν) at line 3, indicating that the Sons of Atreus arranged the festival for the goddess Hera.

4§56. If we look for other attestations of the enclitic dative toi (τοι) in combination with this adjective arāto-, we find that such a dative can refer to the human who offers an announcement-in-prayer, not only to the divinity who might have wished to receive such a prayer. In Homeric diction, we can see situations where this adjective arāto- describes what is wished for—or wished away—by way of an announcement-in-prayer. In positive contexts, for example, I cite the compound form polu‑arētos in Odyssey 6.280, with reference to a god whose coming is wished-for in prayer. [41] And here is an even more telling example, where Eurykleia is narrating what she as the nurse of the infant Odysseus had once upon a time said to the boy hero’s grandfather, Autolykos:

|₄₀₃ Αὐτόλυκ’, αὐτὸς νῦν ὄνομ’ εὕρεο, ὅττι κε θεῖο |₄₀₄ παιδὸς παιδὶ φίλῳ· πολυάρητος δέ τοί ἐστι. {468|469}

|₄₀₃ Autolykos! You yourself must find a name, whatever name you give him, |₄₀₄ for the dear child of your child, since he is the one who has been very much wished-for [polu-ārētos] by you [toi].

Odyssey 19.403–404

4§57. The enclitic dative toi here (404: τοι) refers to the maternal grandfather himself, who had been very much wishing for a grandchild. As we can see most clearly from this Homeric example, the dative refers to the human who makes an announcement-in-prayer, not to the divinity who is offered that prayer.

4§58. I should add that, when a divinity actually grants something that is wished for in an announcement that is made in prayer, this granting of a wish does not come without an obligation to return the favor, as it were, in terms of the system of gift-giving that is inherent in any prayer. So, the thing that you wish for may have to be dedicated to the divinity who granted you the wish. Let us return to the example of polu‑arētos in Odyssey 19.404: here we see that Odysseus, as the maternal grandchild that Autolykos had always wished for, will have to become, as soon as he is born, a devotee of the divinity who granted the wish to the grandfather. In this case, that divinity was Hermes, to whom Autolykos had offered sacrifices of sheep and goats (19.396–398).

4§59. In this example, we see most clearly a situation where the sacrifice that was announced in prayer was an event that happened in the past—not an event that was promised for the future. I emphasize here once again the importance of the fact that whatever you announce in prayer does not have to be a promise about the future: it can be, to repeat, an announcement about the present or even about the past. That is why, as I already argued, the translation ‘vow-in-prayer’ for eukhesthaiand arâsthaidoes not cover the full range of meanings for these verbs. And that is why I have substituted the translation ‘announce-in-prayer’, the other side of which is ‘wish-in-prayer’.

4§60. A moment ago, I used the expression return the favor in referring to the consequences of a situation where a divinity heeds a prayer offered by a human, thus doing a favor for the human. In such a situation, the human will feel obligated, despite the inferiority of humans to divinities, to return the favor. Conversely, however, as we will soon see, the divinity to whom a human prays is not obligated to heed a prayer. So, the divinity is not obligated to return the favor of, say, a sacrifice that is announced-in-prayer. The making of a sacrifice that you announce in prayer—whether that sacrifice takes place in the past, present, or future—does not guarantee that you will get your wish from the divinity to whom you are praying.

4§61. Applying these comparanda to Song 17 of Sappho, let us consider again the wording at lines 2–4: |₂πότνι’ Ἦρα, ϲὰ χ[  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣]ϲ̣  ̣ἐόρτ[α] |₃ τὰν ἀράταν Ἀτρέϊδαι̣ π̣ό̣ηϲαν |₄ τόι βαϲίληεϲ. I now fine-tune my translation: ‘|₂ O Queen [potnia] Hera, … your […] festival [(h)eortā], |₃ which, announced-in-prayer [arâsthai], the Sons {469|470} of Atreus did arrange [poieîn] |₄ for you, kings that they were …’. So, the (h)eortā ‘festival’ (2: ἐόρτ[α]) was arātā ‘announced-in-prayer’ (3: ἀράταν), and the Sons of Atreus ‘arranged’ it, poēsan (3: π̣ό̣ηϲαν), for the goddess Hera, that is, tói ‘for you’ (4: τόι). This form tói, as I have argued, is non‑enclitic and emphatic.

4§62. If, on the other hand, we were to accept West’s interpretation, the text would read: |₃ τὰν ἀράταν Ἀτρέϊδαι̣ π̣ό̣ηϲάν |₄τοι βαϲίληεϲ, and the supposed meaning would be ‘which [= the festival], wished by you [= Hera], the Sons of Atreus, kings, made’. As I argue, however, the interpretation ‘wished by you’, where the supposedly enclitic toi ‘you’ refers to a wish that is supposedly made by Hera, is unjustified. Also, it would be difficult or perhaps even impossible to justify the postponed word-order of such an enclitic toi.

4§63. For the moment, in any case, I prefer to follow the reading of the text as written in the new papyrus fragment. In terms of this reading, as we have seen, the use of poieîn in the active voice (3: π̣ό̣ηϲαν) means that the Sons of Atreus ‘arranged’ the festival ‘for’ the goddess Hera in the dative, that is, ‘for you’ (4: τόι), and this syntactical construction corresponds to the use of the active voice of poieîn that we already saw in the wording of Thucydides (2.15.2) regarding the festival ‘for’ the goddess Athena, likewise in the dative: ‘and the Athenians, continuing what he [= Theseus] started, even now arrange [poieîn] for the goddess [Athena], at public expense, the festival [heortē] named the Sunoikia’ (καὶ ξυνοίκια ἐξ ἐκείνου Ἀθηναῖοι ἔτι καὶ νῦν τῇ θεῷ ἑορτὴν δημοτελῆ ποιοῦϲιν). [42]

A sacrifice of one hundred cattle as the centerpiece of the festival for Hera

4§64. As I reconstruct it, the seasonally recurring festival for Hera at Lesbos would have centered on a grand sacrifice, comparable to the sacrifice of one hundred cattle for the festival of Hera at Argos. I will argue that the centerpiece of the festival of Hera at Lesbos was a hecatomb, comparable to the centerpiece of the festival of Hera at Argos. And a word that suits the essence of such a festival is thusiā, which as we have already seen means simultaneously ‘sacrifice’ and ‘festival’. I repeat here the precious information we find in the dictionary of Hesychius, where the term mesostrophōniai hēmerai, which I translated as ‘days {470|471} that turn at the middle’ (μεϲοϲτροφώνιαι ἡμέραι), is glossed as follows: ‘these are the days during which the people of Lesbos arrange [epiteleîn] a thusiā that is common [koinē] to all of them’ (ἐν αἷϲ Λέϲβιοι κοινὴν θυϲίαν ἐπιτελοῦϲιν). We see here a seasonally recurring event of a sacrifice, which is at the core of the festival described in Song 17 of Sappho—a festival that the Sons of Atreus themselves had ‘arranged’, as expressed by the word poieîn ‘make’ at line 3, when the two of them announced-in-prayer the performing of the very first such sacrifice. With regard to this usage of poieîn ‘make’ in the context of ‘arranging’ a festival that centers on a sacrifice, an obvious semantic parallel comes to mind: in Latin, the verb facere can mean not only ‘make’ but also ‘sacrifice’, as we can see most clearly in the case of the derivative noun sacrificium ‘sacrifice’. [43]

4§65. The project of a prototypical sacrifice at Lesbos, as envisioned in Song 17 of Sappho, would have required a great deal of effort, commensurate even with the earlier effort that went into the grand project of conquering Troy. In the case of that earlier effort, the Sons of Atreus had been faced with the megaloi aethloi ‘great labors’ of the war itself (5: μ[εγά]λ̣οιϲ ἀέθλοιϲ̣)—‘and, next’ (6: ἄψερον δέ̣), there was now the later effort, which was the arranging of a grand sacrifice at Lesbos—a sacrifice that was meant to make it possible for the Sons of Atreus to find the best way to achieve a successful homecoming. For the arrangement of such a sacrifice, an announcement-in-prayer would be needed. As I will argue, this prayer originally took place before the Sons of Atreus ever came to Lesbos, while they were still at Troy, but then there was an iteration of the prayer at the time of actually sacrificing one hundred cattle in the precinct of Hera at Lesbos.

4§66. As we see from the wording that survives in Song 17 of Sappho, the Sons of Atreus needed to perform their prayer of supplication to Hera, Zeus, and Dionysus (9–10). And, in terms of my argument, their announcement-in-prayer was correlated with a sacrifice that became the foundation for the festival of Hera at Lesbos. According to the myth that is signaled in Song 17 of Sappho, such a sacrifice, as announced in a prayer expressing a wish to find the best possible way to achieve a homecoming from Troy, became the foundational act for creating the festival of Hera as it is still celebrated in the present, when the speaking persona of Sappho must perform her own prayer of supplication to the goddess Hera (at line 11 of the song).

4§67. It is in the context of this prayer in the present, as actually performed in Song 17 of Sappho, that we can understand the announcement-in-prayer that was once performed by heroes in the heroic age. Once upon a time, according to {471|472} the myth, the Sons of Atreus needed to perform their prayer to Hera, Zeus, and Dionysus, in that order (again, lines 9–10), and, in their prayer, these conquerors of Troy announced the arrangement of a ‘festival’, <em(h)eortā (2: ἐόρτ[α]), which was thus ‘announced-in-prayer’, arātā (line 3: ἀράταν). And it is at this festival that the persona of Sappho is ‘even now’ praying to Hera, nun de (again, at line 11). As Claude Calame observes, ‘the temporal return of the heroic past to the present of the cult performance of the poem is ensured by the expression nun de’. [44] This expression is what I have just translated as ‘even now’ (line 11: νῦν δὲ …).

[In the printed version edited by Bierl and Lardinois 2016, §§68–109 have been excised.]

A different heroic visit to Lesbos

4§68. So far, we have seen in Song 17 of Sappho a myth about a visit to Lesbos by Agamemnon and Menelaos, the Sons of Atreus. This visit, as we have also seen, centered on a sacrifice that needed to be announced-in-prayer—a sacrifice that would in the future become the centerpiece of a seasonally recurring festival that was celebrated at that island in honor of the goddess Hera. To be contrasted, however, is another heroic visit to Lesbos, as narrated at Odyssey 3.130–183. This narrative, as we will see, contradicts in many ways the narrative that we find in Song 17 of Sappho.

4§69. In Odyssey 3.130–183, old Nestor is telling a tale to the young Telemachus about the various homecomings of the Achaeans after they succeeded in conquering the city of Troy. [45] The tale is told from the perspective of Nestor’s own experiences, and we find that he and a group of his fellow Achaeans stopped over at the island of Lesbos on their way home from Troy (169). I will come back later to this detail that we see here concerning a stopover at Lesbos, but first I must focus on the fact that, one time before and one time after this stopover at Lesbos, Nestor and his group participated in making two sacrifices. In the Homeric story as told by Nestor here in Odyssey 3, neither one of these two sacrifices took place in Lesbos. And the Homeric story about the first of these two sacrifices, as we will also see, contradicts in a big way the story about a single sacrifice in Lesbos, as announced-in-prayer by the Sons of Atreus in Song 17 of Sappho.

4§70. The first of the two sacrifices mentioned by Nestor in Odyssey 3 takes place on the island of Tenedos (line 159), which is situated directly to the west of Troy. By contrast, the island of Lesbos is further away, to the southwest of the Trojan coastland. In Odyssey 3, the divine recipients of the sacrifice at Tenedos are designated only in general terms, as ‘the gods’ (again, line 159). Then, continuing their voyage back home from Troy, Nestor and his group set sail from Tenedos, and their next stopover is the island of Lesbos (line 169).

4§71. As I already said, I will in due course analyze the significance of this detail in Odyssey 3 about a stopover at Lesbos. For now, however, I will simply keep following the thread of the narrative. After their stopover at Lesbos, Nestor and his group continued their sea voyage back home. Next, they sailed over the open sea, with no more stopovers, until they reached the city of Geraistos, at the southern tip of the island of Euboea (line 177). By now the homecoming of this group of heroes was nearly complete, since the island of Euboea is situated right next to the European mainland. And here, at Euboea, Nestor participated in the second of the two sacrifices to which I have been referring (lines 178–179). This second sacrifice involving Nestor was meant as a signal of thanksgiving for the successful homecoming of his group of Achaean voyagers, and the divine recipient of the sacrifice here is specified as the god Poseidon (line 178), whom Nestor and his fellow Achaeans honored by slaughtering, according to his tale, a multitude of bulls (again, line 178–179).

4§72. So, the second sacrifice attended by Nestor and his group, which took place on the island of Euboea, was a success. But the first sacrifice, which he had also attended and which had taken place on the island of Tenedos, was a failure. The failure, as narrated by Nestor in Odyssey 3, can be linked with a quarrel that broke out, evidently in the context of the feasting that followed this first sacrifice. And who quarreled with whom? The narrative answers the question: the two heroes who quarreled with each other were Nestor and Odysseus (lines 161–166).

4§73. This quarrel between Nestor and Odysseus cannot be understood without first considering an earlier quarrel that is central to the narration of Odyssey 3, and the narrator is once again Nestor. According to the tale as Nestor tells it, the two Sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaos, had quarreled with each other right after their victory at Troy, and, as a result of this quarrel, all the Achaeans had split into two groups, so that half of them followed Menelaos as he sailed off from Troy to the island of Tenedos while the other half stayed with Agamemnon at Troy (lines 130–158). In terms of this story, Agamemnon intended to perform a sacrifice of one hundred cattle to the goddess Athena before leaving Troy(lines 143–144), but Menelaos, leading half of the Achaeans, had sailed off together with Nestor and Odysseus and Diomedes before such a sacrifice could take place (lines 153–154). It was only after Menelaos and his half of the Achaeans stopped over at the nearby island of Tenedos that they arranged for their own sacrifice there (line 159). And it was there at Tenedos that a second quarrel broke out—the quarrel between Nestor and Odysseus (again, lines 161–166).

4§74. This second quarrel in the tale told by Nestor in Odyssey 3 resulted in a splitting of the group that had sided with Menelaos after the original splitting of all the Achaeans into one separate group siding with Menelaos and another separate group siding with Agamemnon. What resulted from the new split after the quarrel between Nestor and Odysseus was that Odysseus, together with his followers, now sailed off from Tenedos back to Troy in order to rejoin Agamemnon there (lines 160–164), while Nestor together with Diomedes sailed on from their stopover at the island of Tenedos and arrived with their followers at the next stopover, at the island of Lesbos (lines 165–169). When Nestor and Diomedes were already at Lesbos (again, line 169), they were joined there by Menelaos, who arrived later (line 168).

4§75. And here I stop to highlight the big contradiction between the story as told here in the Homeric Odyssey and the story as told in Song 17 of Sappho. In the Odyssey, we see that Menelaos came to Lesbos, but there is no mention here of Agamemnon. In Song 17, by contrast, it seems that both brothers came to Lesbos.

Variations on a theme in Odyssey 3 and 4

4§76. At this point, I am ready to shift focus. Now I start to concentrate on the island of Lesbos as we see it signaled in the tale told by Nestor in Odyssey 3 (line 169). Here I bring into the analysis a relevant detail that we encounter further on in the Homeric narrative, in Odyssey 4, where we get to know more about the adventures of Agamemnon and Menelaos after Troy. In Odyssey 4, it is Menelaos himself who is telling the boy Telemachus a tale about these adventures and, in this tale, there is a detail about Lesbos that contradicts the tale told by Nestor in Odyssey 3.

4§77. While telling his tale to Telemachus in Odyssey 4, Menelaos expresses a wish that the boy’s father, Odysseus, will return to Ithaca and will defeat the suitors of Penelope—just as this hero of the Odyssey had once upon a time defeated an opponent named Philomeleides in a wrestling match that had taken place on the island of Lesbos (lines 342–344).[46]

4§78. In terms of what Menelaos says here in Odyssey 4, he too was at Lesbos when Odysseus performed his heroic feat there. After all, according to the narrative in Odyssey 3, Menelaos had sailed from Tenedos to Lesbos—and so too had Nestor and Diomedes, who were already at Lesbos by the time Menelaos arrived there (again, lines 168–169). But the problem is, Odysseus himself did not sail from Tenedos to Lesbos in the narrative of Odyssey 3: rather, as we saw earlier, Odysseus together with a sub‑group of Achaean followers had already sailed from Tenedos back to Troy in order to rejoin Agamemnon, who was still there (lines 160–164), while Nestor and Diomedes together with their Achaean followers sailed on from their stopover at the island of Tenedos and arrived at the next stopover, which was the island of Lesbos (lines 165–169). There, at Lesbos, Nestor and Diomedes were joined by Menelaos, who as we have seen arrived later (lines 168–169). In short, then, the parting of ways for Odysseus in Odyssey 3 had already happened on the island of Tenedos, when he had left Nestor and Diomedes and Menelaos in order to rejoin Agamemnon. In Odyssey 4, by contrast, Odysseus seems to be still there in Lesbos when Diomedes and Nestor and Menelaos are there. And that is how Menelaos could have witnessed the victory of Odysseus in a wrestling match at Lesbos.

Two variant myths in Odyssey 3 and Odyssey 4

4§79. I will now argue that there were two variant myths at work in Odyssey 3 and 4, and that these myths could never be completely reconciled with one another. Nor, as I will also argue, did they ever really need to be reconciled. In Homeric poetry, there is a built-in awareness of mutually contradictory local variations in mythmaking, and there are many examples where the poetry shows this awareness by ostentatiously including, without overt self-contradiction, details from recessive as well as dominant versions of any given myth. A striking example is Odyssey 4.512–522, with reference to the final phase of the sea voyage of Agamemnon as he sails his way back home after the Trojan War. At first, the winds carry him around the headlands of Maleiai, bringing him toward Spartan territory, but then, before he can land there, the winds correct themselves, as it were, and they now carry him in a different direction, toward Argive territory, which is where he finally lands. This way, the Spartan myth that localizes the home of Agamemnon at Amyklai in Spartan territory is recognized—before it is overruled by a rival myth, native to the city of Argos, and this contradictory myth localizes the home of Agamemnon at Mycenae, in Argive territory. In Homeric poetry as we know it, the Argive version of the myth is dominant, while the Spartan version is recessive.[47]

4§80. Keeping in mind the Homeric capacity to track such variations, let us consider the myth, as we see it at work in Odyssey 3, about a grand sacrifice that took place on the island of Tenedos. Of the two Sons of Atreus, only Menelaos was present, while Agamemnon had stayed behind at Troy and was arranging a correspondingly grand sacrifice back there, to be attended by his half of the Achaeans. That sacrifice was intended for the goddess Athena. As for the sacrifice at Tenedos, as I already noted, the divine recipients are not named. And, at this competing sacrifice on the island of Tenedos, arranged by Menelaos and attended by his half of the Achaeans, a quarrel broke out between Nestor and Odysseus, with the result that Odysseus and his followers went back to Agamemnon. After Tenedos, the only Achaean leaders who sailed on homeward with their followers were Nestor and Diomedes—to be joined later by Menelaos.

4§81. From here on, I refer to this “Tenedos version” as Myth One. But there is also a Myth Two, which is the the “Lesbos version.” According to Myth Two, as we see it at work under the surface in Odyssey 4, there was a grand sacrifice that took place on the island of Lesbos, not on the island of Tenedos. At Lesbos, Odysseus was still together with Nestor and Diomedes—to be joined later by Menelaos. Unlike Myth One as we read it in Odyssey 3, which is a myth originating from Tenedos, this second variant myth originates from Lesbos. A signature of this Myth Two in Odyssey 4 is the reference, initiated by the speaking persona of Menelaos, to that primal wrestling match between Odysseus and Philomeleides on the island of Lesbos (again, lines 343–344). In fact, there are traces of this Myth Two in sources external to Homeric poetry. As we learn from Hellanicus of Lesbos (FGH 4 F 150), the people of Lesbos had their own local stories about Philomeleides: he had been a king of theirs in the age of heroes, and he used to challenge visitors to engage with him in a wrestling match—but then his reputation for invincibility was undone by Odysseus, helped by Diomedes, when these heroes visited Lesbos.[48]

4§82. I have so far left out a further detail in Myth Two as I have reconstructed it. According to this myth, which would be compatible with the myth as we see it at work in Song 17 of Sappho, Menelaos was not the only one of the two Sons of Atreus who visited Lesbos. Also visiting was his brother Agamemnon.

4§83. We have already seen that Myth One, compatible with the mythological traditions of Tenedos, situates the quarrel between Menelaos and Agamemnon at Troy, even before Agamemnon arranges for a sacrifice of one hundred cattle there. But now I argue that Myth Two, compatible with the mythological traditions of Lesbos, situates the quarrel of Menelaos and Agamemnon not at Troy—and certainly not at Tenedos—but rather at Lesbos. In Myth Two, as we are about to see, both Sons of Atreus visited Lesbos, and they quarreled there with each other. Further, we will see that such a quarrel between Menelaos and Agamemnon at Lesbos happened not before but after a grand sacrifice of one hundred cattle there. And, even further, we will see that the quarrel was linked with the ultimate failure of that sacrifice.

Failure for ritual in the past time of myth, success for ritual in its own present time

4§84. The clearest sign of failure, in terms of the narrative embedded in Song 17 of Sappho, is the wish that we see being formulated in heroic times—when it was announced-in-prayer that a festival is to be arranged at Lesbos. The (h)eortā ‘festival’ (2: ἐόρτ[α]) that was arātā ‘announced-in-prayer’ (line 3: ἀράταν)—in the context of an animal sacrifice, as I reconstruct it—was instituted in hopes of ‘finding the way’ back home from Troy (7: [ὄ]δ̣ο̣ν … εὔρη̣[ν]). Hera, as the primary divinity to whom it was announced-in-prayer that there would be a seasonally recurring festival at Lesbos, would be heeding the Sons of Atreus, who had prayed to her, imploring her to help them find their way back home safe and sound. But did she heed their prayer?

4§85. In the mythical world of heroes, a wish expressed by a hero who makes an announcement-in-prayer to a divinity is often not heeded by the divinity. For example, at Iliad 2, lines 402–429, when Agamemnon sacrifices an ox to Zeus (lines 402–403, 422), he makes a wish-in-prayer, as expressed by the verb eukhesthai (line 411), that he will conquer the city of Troy (lines 414–415) and kill Hector together with as many other enemies as possible (lines 416–418)—all within the space of one single day (line 413). But Zeus refuses to bring this prayer to fulfillment (line 419)—even though the god accepts the offering of the sacrifice (line 420) and even though Agamemnon and his guests go ahead and cook the meat after killing the ox, dividing the beef among themselves and then feasting on it together (lines 421–429). Although the narrative leaves it open whether, one fine day, Agamemnon will still succeed in his wish to conquer the city (lines 419), it is made clear that the present wish-in-prayer, as performed by the hero on the occasion of this particular sacrifice, is a failure (again, line 419). To paraphrase in Latin terms: the vōtum as a ‘wish-in-prayer’ is not granted here. And we have already seen another relevant example in the Iliad: when the hero Pandaros makes his announcement-in-prayer, as expressed by the verb eukhesthai in Iliad 4 (line 119), he says that he will perform an animal sacrifice (line 120) in hopes that Apollo, the god to whom he is praying, will grant him what he is wishing for, which is a safe homecoming (line 121). But the wish—and therefore the prayer—is a failure, since Pandaros will soon be killed on the battlefield, in Iliad 5 (lines 290–296). To paraphrase again in cognate Latin terms: the vōtum as an ‘announcement-in-prayer’ is a failure here because the same vōtum as a ‘wish-in-prayer’ is not fulfilled: the hero Pandaros will never return home safe and sound.

4§86. Similarly, in terms of my reconstruction of the announcement-in-prayer made by the Sons of Atreus in Song 17 of Sappho, the sacrifice that was announced-in-prayer by these heroes was a failure, since their wish to find the safest way back home was not granted to either one of them. In the case of Agamemnon, we will see that he was killed after having sailed home safely. As for Menelaos, he will be sailing around aimlessly for eight years before he finally finds his way back home. At least, that is what we read in the version we are about to consider in the Homeric Odyssey.

4§87. Before I can proceed with my reconstruction, I must first situate its relevance to Song 17 of Sappho. In this song, I argue, we see a reference to a sacrifice of one hundred cattle in the precinct of Hera at Lesbos, and this sacrifice is viewed, I also argue, as a failed ritual in the heroic past of a myth. In the myth, there is an announcement-in-prayer about performing the sacrifice, which will turn out to be a failure, whereas the seasonal reperforming of this sacrifice at the same place during the festival of Hera is expected to be a successful ritual in the present time of reperformance as signaled in the song. In Song 17, as we have already seen, the persona of Sappho is praying to Hera herself, speaking to her about the (h)eortā ‘festival’ (line 2: ἐόρτ[α]) that is being arranged in honor of the goddess. The speaking Sappho goes on to say that this festival, which ‘we’ in the present are arranging ( line 11: πόημεν) as ‘we’ offer supplications to Hera, is being arranged ‘in accordance with the ancient way’ (line 12: κὰτ τὸ πάλ̣[αιον) of celebration. In terms of the reading that we find in the papyrus, both Agamemnon and Menelaos had arranged (line 3: π̣ό̣ηϲαν) such a festival in ancient times by virtue of having announced-in-prayer the arrangement of such a festival in the first place. These conquerors of Troy needed to offer their prayer to Hera, Zeus, and Dionysus (lines 9–10), and, in that prayer, they were to announce the arrangement of the (h)eortā ‘festival’ (line 2: ἐόρτ[α]), which was thus arātā ‘announced-in-prayer (line 3: ἀράταν). It is at this festival that the persona of Sappho is ‘even now’ praying to Hera, nun de (line 11). And, in terms of my reconstruction, the centerpiece of such a seasonally recurring festival at Lesbos was a hecatomb, that is, the sacrificial slaughter of one hundred cattle.

4§88. So, the central question is this: if such a ritual of sacrificing one hundred cattle was a failure in the past time of the myth, how could it become a model for the success of that ritual as it exists in its own present time?

4§89. Such an idea of failure in myth and success in ritual is typical of an aetiology. And here I have reached the point where I offer a working definition, postponed till now. By aetiology I mean a myth that explains and even confirms the stability of a ritual in the present by narrating a primordial event of instability for that ritual as performed in the mythical past. My formulation here is a compressed version of a more elaborate explanation originally developed by Walter Burkert[49] and further developed by myself, [50] which I now restate: an aetiology focuses on a foundational catastrophe in the mythologized past that explains and thus motivates continuing success in the ritualized present and future. [51]

4§90. An example that I have studied elsewhere in some detail is a complex of rituals and myths involving the god Apollo and the hero Pyrrhos at Delphi, where the overall ritual of slaughtering sheep and distributing in an orderly way their sacrificial meat inside the precinct of Apollo stands in sharp contrast with a myth, as reflected in Pindar’s Nemean 7 and Paean 6, about a disorderly distribution that resulted in the slaughtering of Pyrrhos himself when the hero arrived at Delphi to make sacrifice inside the precinct of the god. [52]

4§91. For another example of such an aetiology, I cite a story as retold by Herodotus (1.31.1–5) about a priestess of Hera and her young sons, named Kleobis and Biton. The mother and the two sons, all three of them, are involved as major “characters” in an aetiological myth about the ritual practice known as the hecatomb, which as we have seen was a sacrificial slaughtering of one hundred cattle in the precinct of the goddess Hera at the climax of the festival celebrated in her honor at Argos. Also involved as major ‘characters’ in the story are two sacrificial oxen. The two boys, described as āthlophoroi ‘prize-winning athletes’, willingly took the place of the two sacrificial oxen, chosen to pull the wagon carrying the priestess across the plain of Argos—over a distance of 45 stadium-lengths—along a sacred way leading up to the precinct of Hera (1.31.2). The oxen had been late in arriving at the starting-point of the procession (again, 1.31.2),and this lateness, in terms of the story, is the aetiological explanation for their replacement by the two athletes. If these two oxen had not been late, they would have been slaughtered along with the other ninety-eight oxen that had been chosen for the mass sacrifice of one hundred cattle at the finishing-point of the procession, inside the precinct of Hera. At the feast that followed the sacrifice inside the precinct, the two boys died a mystical death after having pulled the wagon of the priestess from the starting-point all the way to this finishing-point of the procession (1.31.5). [53] Thus, by way of this death that they shared with each other, the boys became sacrificial substitutes for the two premier victims of the animal sacrifice.[54]

Homeric traces of a failure to perform a sacrifice

4§92. With these examples of aetiology in mind, I focus on a passage in Odyssey 4 where Menelaos, narrating for Telemachus and the assembled company the tale of his own homecoming from Troy, explains why the gods had temporarily checked the winds that could bring him back home in the final phase of his sea voyage (lines 351–362). At one point in the tale, Menelaos is stranded on the island Pharos, offshore from Egypt (lines 354–360). And, in telling this part of the tale, the explanation that he gives for his temporary failure to sail on and to reach his homeland is this: because (line 352: ἐπεί) he had not performed a sacrifice of one hundred cattle to the gods. Here is the wording:

|₃₅₁ Αἰγύπτῳ μ’ ἔτι δεῦρο θεοὶ μεμαῶτα νέεϲθαι |₃₅₂ ἔϲχον, ἐπεὶ οὔ ϲφιν ἔρεξα τεληέϲϲαϲ ἑκατόμβαϲ· |₃₅₃ οἱ δ’ αἰεὶ βούλοντο θεοὶ μεμνῆϲθαι ἐφετμέων.

|₃₅₁ In Egypt did they hold me up, the gods did, though I sorely wanted to make a homecoming [neesthai] back here [deuro = at home, where I am speaking now]. |₃₅₂ Yes, they held me up, since [epei] I did not perform for them a perfect sacrifice of one hundred cattle [hekatombai]. [55] |₃₅₃ The gods always wanted their protocols to be kept in mind.

Odyssey 4.351–353

4§93. By contrast with this temporary failure of Menelaos in his homecoming, Agamemnon had already succeeded in sailing home, and Menelaos himself mentions this detail as he tells his own tale in Odyssey 4. In telling the tale, the explanation that Menelaos gives for his brother’s successful sea voyage is this: because the goddess Hera had saved Agamemnon. Before I quote the relevant Homeric passage, I note here the background: Proteus had told Menelaos about this salvation of Agamemnon from the sea, and that is how Menelaos knows about it. As he retells the tale to Telemachus, Menelaos quotes the words of Proteus about the success of Agamemnon at sea, to be contrasted with the temporary failure of Menelaos himself. Here, then, are the words of Proteus:

|₅₁₂ ϲὸϲ δέ που ἔκφυγε κῆραϲ ἀδελφεὸϲ ἠδ’ ὑπάλυξεν |₅₁₃ ἐν νηυϲὶ γλαφυρῇϲι· ϲάωϲε δὲ πότνια Ἥρη.

|₅₁₂ But your brother [= Agamemnon] escaped from the forces of destruction, and he slipped away |₅₁₃ in his hollow ships. Hera had saved [sōzein] him.

Odyssey 4.512–513

4§94. As we learn, then, from the words of Proteus here in Odyssey 4, Agamemnon was in fact saved at sea, since his voyage by sea was successful. But then he was killed after he landed near home, ambushed by Aigisthos, and so the rest of his voyage, by land, became a failure (lines 514–537). After treacherously hosting him at a dinner, Aigisthos had slaughtered Agamemnon as if that hero were some sacrificial ox that is being fed in a manger (lines 535). By contrast, the voyage of Menelaos by sea was ultimately successful, because he finally got around to making a sacrifice of one hundred cattle in Egypt (lines 581–586). In making this sacrifice, Menelaos was following the instructions of Proteus (lines 472–480), and, this way, he appeased the anger of the gods (lines 583). Now Menelaos could at long last sail back to his homeland, safe and sound (lines 584–586).[56]

4§95. We have seen, then, from the narrative of Menelaos in Odyssey 4, that Agamemnon was saved at sea by the goddess Hera (again, lines 512–513). But why had Hera saved him? It was because, I argue, Agamemnon had at least tried to make a perfect sacrifice of one hundred cattle at Lesbos. By contrast, Menelaos had somehow failed to do his part in the corresponding sacrifice. In terms of my interpretation, based on the wording of Song 17 of Sappho, both Sons of Atreus had made an announcement-in-prayer about performing a sacrifice at Lesbos, but only Agamemnon succeeded in following through on that announcement.

4§96. I have already quoted the passage in Odyssey 4 (351–353) where Menelaos says that the final phase of his sea voyage as he headed back home was held up by the gods precisely because he had not made a sacrifice of one hundred cattle. From the context, it is clear that this failure that made the gods so angry was a sin of omission, not commission. And his sin, I argue, was that he somehow failed to perform a sacrifice of one hundred cattle at Lesbos. But later on, when Menelaos does finally get around to performing a sacrifice of one hundred cattle in Egypt (lines 581–586), his performance is successful, and thus he finally appeases the anger of the gods (lines 583).

4§97. The reader’s first impression may be that the sin of omission on the part of Menelaos, that is, his failure to perform a successful sacrifice of one hundred cattle, happens in Egypt: after all, the finding of a solution for the sin happens at this place—when Menelaos finally gets around to performing such a sacrifice. But such a first impression is wrong, I think, since Egypt was merely the last possible place as an occasion for such a sin of omission. There were many other places that Menelaos had visited before he ever reached Egypt, and Egypt had been for him merely the final stopover in the course of a most problematic overall sea voyage back home from Troy. Yes, the gods were in the process of punishing Menelaos in Egypt for his sin of omission when we see them interfering there with his sea voyage. And yes, the gods kept on interfering until Menelaos finally made the sacrifice, in Egypt, which was the place that turned out to be his point of departure in the very last phase of his sea voyage. But, as we will now see, the gods were already interfering with Menelaos in earlier phases of his sea voyage, and so the divine punishment for his sin of omission can be viewed as an ongoing series of misfortunes that kept on interfering with his travels after Troy.

4§98. The first such misfortune is already narrated by Nestor in Odyssey 3, concerning the death, at Cape Sounion, of the hero Phrontis, who had been steering the ship of Menelaos (lines 276–283). That death, caused by the god Apollo (lines 279–280), now holds back Menelaos from sailing ahead. Only after he conducts a proper funeral for his comrade (lines 284–285) does he recommence his sea voyage. Then, as Menelaos sails past the headlands of Maleiai, his ships are blown off course: some are swept away to Crete, where they run aground and are shattered (lines 286–299), while five of them reach Egypt (lines 299–300). [57] In sharp contrast, the hero Nestor has a safe and swift sea voyage back home to Pylos (lines 182–183), having evidently rounded successfully the headlands of Maleiai.[58] Meanwhile, once he reaches Egypt, Menelaos takes to plundering and looting there, and he amasses vast treasures (301) as ‘he was wandering around with his ships’ (lines 302: ἠλᾶτο ξὺν νηυϲί). Later, in Odyssey 4, we learn from the narrative of Menelaos that his sea voyage had reached not only Egypt but also other exotic places, including Cyprus and Phoenicia (line 83), even Libya (line 85). After experiencing all these adventures, he was still just ‘wandering around’ in an aimless way (lines 81 and 83: ἐπαληθείϲ, 91: ἠλώμην). As Menelaos himself remarks, he spent eight years just wandering around (lines 82).

4§99. Already in the narrative of Nestor in Odyssey 3, the aimlessness of the sea voyage of Menelaos is anticipated: whereas Agamemnon got back home from Troy relatively soon, only to get killed by Aigisthos, Menelaos kept on wandering from one place to the next in his many sea voyages, and the word for his directionless maritime wanderings is plazeto ‘he was veering’ (line 254: πλάζετ’). Comparable, of course, are the even more extensive veerings of Odysseus in the overall Odyssey, as expressed by the same word plazesthai ‘veering’ already at the beginning of the epic: Odysseus is a hero ‘who veered [plangthē] in very many ways’ (lines 1.1–2: ὃς μάλα πολλὰ | πλάγχθη).

4§100. So, where did all the veering begin for Menelaos? Where did his sea voyage start to go off course? According to one version of the myth about this hero’s travels by sea after Troy, as I will now argue, the veering can be traced all the way back to something that happened at Lesbos. I focus here on a detail we find in the tale told by Nestor in Odyssey 3. In that tale, Menelaos was late in arriving at Lesbos:

|₁₆₈ ὀψὲ δὲ δὴ μετὰ νῶϊ κίε ξανθὸϲ Μενέλαοϲ, |₁₆₉ ἐν Λέϲβῳ δ’ ἔκιχεν δολιχὸν πλόον ὁρμαίνονταϲ

|₁₆₈ He came late, golden-haired Menelaos did, after the two of us [= Nestor and Diomedes]. |₁₆₉ It was at Lesbos that he [= Menelaos] caught up with us, as we were planning the long part of our sea voyage.

Odyssey 3.168–169

4§101. I interpret this wording to mean that Menelaos arrived too late to participate fully in a sacrifice of one hundred cattle at Lesbos. And the place for this sacrifice to happen would have been the precinct of Hera on that island. From the standpoint of the local myth that originated from Lesbos, as I have argued with reference to Song 17 of Sappho, both Agamemnon and Menelaos had announced-in-prayer, already at Troy, the arrangement of a festival for Hera at Lesbos, and what was wished-for in return was to find the best possible way to achieve a safe homecoming from Troy. So, in terms of my argument, what was announced-in-prayer was the performing of a sacrifice as the centerpiece of the festival to be arranged, but only one of the Sons of Atreus did his part in at least trying to make the sacrifice a success. That was Agamemnon. As for Menelaos, he somehow failed to do his part. And, in terms of my reconstruction, it was because he arrived too late for the sacrifice. Similarly, as we see in Odyssey 4, Menelaos arrived too late in his homecoming: by the time he got home, he was too late to save his brother—and he was too late even to avenge his brother’s death, since Orestes, son of Agamemnon, had already done so by killing Aigisthos (lines 546–547).

4§102. This theme of failing by being late is an essential piece of my overall reconstruction of the myth about a sacrifice of one hundred cattle at Lesbos—a sacrifice that is featured as the climax of the festival that was announced-in-prayer by the Sons of Atreus. In terms of this reconstruction, Agamemnon sailed to the island and arranged to sacrifice one hundred cattle to Hera there, but Menelaos joined him only after the sacrifice was already in progress, since he did not arrive at Lesbos on time. In terms of this reconstruction, the quarrel between the Sons of Atreus must have happened during the feast that followed the sacrifice at Lesbos, just as the quarrel between Nestor and Odysseus happened at the feast that followed the sacrifice at Tenedos.

4§103. Menelaos seems to be idiosyncratic in his arrivals at sacrifices. For a striking example, I return here to the passage in Iliad 2, lines 402–429, where Agamemnon sacrifices an ox to Zeus (lines 402–403, 422) and makes a wish-in-prayer, as expressed by the verb eukhesthai (411), that he will conquer the city of Troy (lines 414–415) and kill Hector together with as many other enemies as possible (lines 416–418). To attend this sacrifice as well as the feast that follows the sacrifice, Agamemnon invites six heroes (lines 404–407). But the hero Menelaos is not included in this group of six. Nevertheless, Menelaos does manage to attend, arriving as the seventh hero, without having been invited to the sacrifice (lines 408–409): rather, he comes automatos, which is conventionally interpreted to mean ‘of his own accord’, or, to put it into popular idiom, ‘automatically’ (line 408). But the reason that is given here to explain why Menelaos comes automatos is uncanny: it is because, the narrative says, Menelaos can read the mind of his brother (lines 408–409). The ability of Menelaos to read the mind of Agamemnon indicates a special meaning for the adjective automatos here, as I will now explain.

4§104. On the one hand, if Menelaos comes to the feast ‘on his own’, then we can expect his mind to be ‘operating by itself’—which is the meaning built into automatos as a compounding of the element auto- ‘self’ with the element ma-t-, derived from the root *men-/*mn- meaning ‘mind’. So, Menelaos has a mind of his own. On the other hand, however, something unexpected is going on here: this mind of Menelaos, exceptionally, can read the mind of the brother, and so automatos in this context means not only ‘having a mind of his own’ but also ‘having the same mind’ as the brother has. [59] In terms of this interpretation, Agamemnon and Menelaos have the same mind because they share their own selves with each other. [60]

4§105. At Lesbos, by contrast, it seems that the mental link of Menelaos with his brother has somehow been broken. That is why he fails to arrive on time. And now the quarrel between Menelaos and Agamemnon ensues. So, who is to blame? Perhaps it was Menelaos, who was late. Or perhaps it was Agamemnon, who might have forgotten to invite Menelaos, assuming that his brother was still reading his mind.

4§106. But what was the quarrel about, anyway? Here I must add one last relevant detail that I have found in Odyssey 3. As Nestor is recounting the moment when Menelaos arrives late at Lesbos (lines 168–169), he himself adds the detail that I have in mind here: the fact is, Nestor and Diomedes and the other Achaeans who were there at Lesbos were already ‘deliberating’ (169: ὁρμαίνονταϲ) about two alternative ways of continuing their sea voyage. I argue that, in the version of the myth originating from Lesbos, Agamemnon was also part of these deliberations, and then the latecomer Menelaos joined in as well. I must stress that, although Menelaos was late for the sacrifice at Lesbos, he would have been there for the feasting that happened after the sacrifice. That was when, in terms of my reconstruction, the deliberations took place—and that was when the quarrel between the Sons of Atreus broke out in the version of the story that originated from Lesbos.

4§107. In these deliberations, as narrated in Odyssey 3, about two alternative ways of sailing home, one of the two ways was to take the sea route north of the island of Chios, thus venturing into the open sea and heading straight for the island of Euboea (lines 170–171). The alternative way was to take the sea route south of Chios (line 172). That was the safer way. Nestor goes on to say that he and Diomedes and their followers, before deciding which sea route to take, had consulted a divinity, not named, who advised that they should head straight for the distant island of Euboea, thus taking the more direct sea route (lines 173–178). In this version of the story as transmitted in Odyssey 3, Menelaos and his followers sailed along with Nestor and Diomedes (lines 276–277). Or, to say it more precisely, Menelaos sailed with them at least as far as Cape Sounion.

4§108. Here I reconstruct another aspect of the alternative version of the story, originating from Lesbos, that told about the deliberations following the sacrifice performed by Agamemnon at Lesbos. After the deliberations, Agamemnon did not sail along with Nestor and Diomedes, and, instead, he took the more indirect sea route after he left Lesbos, while Menelaos, unlike Agamemnon, had taken the more direct sea route, choosing the same way that was chosen by Nestor. In terms of this alternative version, I argue, the deliberations about choosing between more direct and less direct sea routes led to a quarrel between Agamemnon and Menelaos, who disagreed about which way was the right way. I see an irony built into the idea that the setting for the quarrel would have been the sacrifice at Lesbos—and that Menelaos had been late in arriving at that ritual event. Further, as we have already seen, he will also be late—eight years too late—in arriving back home, even though he chooses the more direct route from Lesbos.

4§109. By contrast with Agamemnon, who was saved at sea by Hera because he had at least tried to make a perfect sacrifice to her—at Lesbos, according to the Lesbian tradition as I reconstruct it—Menelaos got no such direct help from the goddess. After he sailed off from Lesbos, as we see from the narrative of Odyssey 4, his sea voyage did not take him back home right away, since he was diverted many times to many different places—though the final phase of his sea voyage, from Egypt back to his homeland, turned out to be successful. In the end, Menelaos succeeded because he finally got around to making a perfect sacrifice of one hundred cattle. As we saw, it happened in Egypt (lines 581–586), following the instructions of Proteus (lines 472–480). This way, Menelaos appeased the anger of the gods (line 583), and now he could at long last sail back to his homeland, safe and sound (lines 584–586).

In the printed version of this essay, edited by Bierl and Lardinois 2016, my argumentation after §§68–109 is resumed.

A “smoking gun” in the Homeric narrative

4§110. For me the ‘smoking gun’ in the Homeric narrative about the sea voyages of Agamemnon and Menelaos after Troy in Odyssey 3 and 4 is the action taken by the goddess Hera. As we have seen it said explicitly in Odyssey 4.512–513, Hera acts as the savior of Agamemnon in the course of his own final sea voyage. The salvation is temporary, since Agamemnon is killed after he makes his landing, but this salvation-at-sea is explicitly highlighted in the Odyssey. By contrast, the corresponding sea voyage of Menelaos fails to bring him back safe and sound to his homeland right away. This contrast between success and failure in the sea voyages of the Sons of Atreus is correlated, I argue, with a contrast between the complete and the incomplete performance of a sacrifice to Hera at Lesbos. The successful sea voyage of Agamemnon matches his observance of the sacrifice, whereas the unsuccessful sea voyage of Menelaos matches a non‑observance.

4§111. The fact that the narrative of Odyssey 4 shows Hera as the savior of Agamemnon at sea signals a Lesbian origin for this part of the overall Homeric narrative—but only for this part. The other parts of the narrative are adjusted to fit other versions that originate not from Lesbos. A salient example is the fact that the savior of Nestor in Odyssey 4 is certainly not Hera but Poseidon, who is the principal divinity of the sea in the overarching Homeric narrative. That is why, as we saw in Odyssey 3, Nestor arranges for a sacrifice of bulls to Poseidon as his act of thanksgiving to that god for letting him sail safely from Lesbos to Euboea (lines 178–179). {472|473}

4§112. I argue, then, that the role of Hera as a savior of Agamemnon at sea signals, exceptionally, the connection of the narrative in Odyssey 4 with the worship of Hera at Lesbos. And I must add that, from the new evidence of the Brothers Song, we can see clearly that Hera was worshipped in Lesbos as a divinity of the sea. In this song of Sappho, her persona speaks of praying to Hera by imploring the goddess to save her brother at sea—and to save also his ship and its cargo and thus even the wealth of his family (lines 5–6 [1–2], 9–13 [5–9]). And I highlight here the independent evidence showing that Hera was worshipped in her function as a divinity of the sea elsewhere as well in the Greek-speaking world. [61]

Praying before sacrificing

4§113. A question remains: if Menelaos failed in the performance of the sacrifice at Lesbos, did he fail also in the performance of an announcement-in-prayer that came before the sacrifice? Here I consider two different explanations.

4§114. According to one explanation, Menelaos did indeed fail to perform such a prayer, since he did not attend the sacrifice of the hundred cattle, which would have been preceded by an introductory prayer.

4§115. As for an alternative explanation, which I prefer, it allows us to keep the reading of the text as transmitted in the papyrus. As I read Song 17 of Sappho, Menelaos as well as Agamemnon did plan to make a sacrifice at Lesbos, and that is why we see at line 3 the plural form of the verb π̣ό̣ηϲαν ‘they arranged’, the direct object of which is the relative pronoun referring to the festival that was ‘announced-in-prayer’, ἀράταν. In terms of the syntax, the subject of this verb is Ἀτρέϊδαι̣, a nominative plural referring to ‘the Sons of Atreus’, further defined at line 4 as βαϲίληεϲ ‘kings’ and then further described at line 5 as praiseworthy for such achievements as their victory at Troy. To my mind, the word for ‘kings’ here must refer to Agamemnon and Menelaos together, who conquered Troy together and then set out for Lesbos together: we can see this detail at line 7, where we read τυίδ’ ἀπορμάθεν[τεϲ] ‘having set forth to come here [tuide]’. So the two brothers must have planned together the sacrifice that led to the festival that is described as ‘announced-in-prayer’, ἀράταν. When I say planned together I could also say wished together, in that the sacrifice was wished by the two of them together. But the problem was, the sacrifice was {473|474} not performed by the two of them together. Earlier, I had said that ‘wishing-in-prayer’ is the other side of ‘announcing-in-prayer’ as expressed by verbs like eukhesthai and arâsthai. And now we see that this two-sidedness of prayer can help explain why ἀράταν ‘announced-in-prayer’ both applies and does not apply to Menelaos: this hero wished that Hera would let him find the way for a safe homecoming, but he did not get to perform the final announcement-in-prayer that comes with the wish-in-prayer, since he did not get to participate in the sacrifice where the final announcement was made by Agamemnon. But the wish is there, and Menelaos surely participated in the wish expressed by way of the adjective ἀράταν ‘announced-in-prayer’ that describes the festival that was ‘made’ by both brothers, according to this reading.

4§116. In terms of this explanation, there were at least two phases of the announcement-in-prayer here. First, the two Sons of Atreus jointly made the prayer when they were still at Troy, expressing their shared wish for a safe homecoming and at the same time making a commitment to the sacrifice that would be performed at Lesbos. But then, by the time the sacrifice was finally performed there, it was Agamemnon alone who performed it. And this sacrifice would have been introduced by a reiteration of the announcement-in-prayer that had originally been made at Troy. As I said before, following the formulation of Muellner, what you announce in prayer does not have to be a promise about the future: it can also be an announcement about the present or even about the past. And something that is wished for can be prayed for many times, as we see even from the contexts of polu-arātos, which I have so far translated simply as ‘very much wished-for’. As we see from those contexts, we could also translate ‘very often wished-for’.

Choral performance in the precinct of Hera at Lesbos

4§117. I now turn to the question: how are we to envision the performance of song at the festival founded by the Sons of Atreus? As I will argue, Sappho as the main speaker of Song 17 is the main performer of such a song and, as such, she is speaking for all of Lesbos in the context of a grand sacrifice that replicates the hecatomb that had once been announced-in-prayer by the Sons of Atreus. And such a grand sacrifice is already anticipated, I argue, in the Brothers Song, where the speaking persona of Sappho refers to the procession that will lead to the precinct of Hera as the site of a choral performance that will celebrate the hecatomb.

4§118. I start by highlighting here a relevant detail that we find in the new evidence of the supplemented version of Song 17 of Sappho and in the older evi{474|475}dence of Song 130 of Alcaeus: in both songs, the women of Lesbos made a ritual cry of ololūgā ‘ululation’ in the context of celebrating the festival of Hera in the precinct of the goddess at Lesbos (Sappho 17.15 and Alcaeus 130b.20). As I argued in my previous work on Alcaeus 130, such ululation is an aspect of the choral performance of women who are participating in the festival. [62] And I now add that the actual cry of ululation could signal a climactic moment in an overall choral performance. One such moment is when cattle are slaughtered at a sacrifice. A striking example is the description in Odyssey 3 of a bovine sacrifice arranged by Nestor at Pylos: at the moment when the slaughter actually takes place there, the womenfolk signal that moment by performing a ululation (450: ὀλόλυξαν). [63]

4§119. I conclude, then, that the sacrifice to Hera that takes place in her precinct on the occasion of her festival in Lesbos is a hecatomb, that is, a sacrifice of one hundred cattle. It was this sacrifice that Agamemnon and Menelaos had vowed-in-prayer to perform for the first time, according to the myth retold in Song 17 of Sappho.

4§120. And here I can come back full circle to a myth, originating from Argos, about the precinct of Hera at Argos. According to the myth, as retold in Dictys of Crete (1.16), it was inside this precinct that Agamemnon was chosen to lead the expedition to Troy. This formal beginning within the precinct of Hera, where the festival of the goddess was celebrated by the Argives, must have been a sacrifice, corresponding to the seasonally recurring thusiā at the festival of Hera in Argos. As I have already shown, this word thusiārefers to the festival itself, though its basic meaning is ‘sacrifice’. At Argos, such a sacrifice is what was called a hecatomb, that is, the ritual slaughter of one hundred cattle. In the story as reflected in Song 17 of Sappho, on the other hand, Agamemnon is inside the precinct of Hera at Lesbos, not at Argos. Together with Menelaos, Agamemnon had vowed-in-prayer to perform a hecatomb at Lesbos to signal a correct ending for the war by expressing a formal wish to find the best way home. But, in terms of my reconstruction, Menelaos failed to arrive in time for the actual sacrifice. {475|476}

Looking back diachronically at the precinct of Hera

4§121. In analyzing the aetiological myth that motivated the seasonally recurring festival of Hera at Lesbos, I have taken into account the evidence of the new textual supplements to Song 17 of Sappho together with the evidence of indirect Homeric references to the festival in Odyssey 3 and 4. With this evidence in place, I now proceed to analyze diachronically the basics of what we now know about the venue for the festival, understanding that this venue was the precinct of Hera.

4§122. I start with the order in which the speaking persona in Song 17 of Sappho names the three divinities: they were Hera herself, addressed as ‘you’ (line 9), and then Zeus (again, line 9), and then Dionysus (line 10).

4§123. These three divinities in Song 17 of Sappho are the same three divinities whose sacred space is the temenos ‘precinct’ that we see pictured in Song 129 of Alcaeus. The speaking persona in Song 129, Alcaeus himself, is literally pointing to this temenos (line 2) with the deictic pronoun tode ‘this here’ (lines 1–2: τόδε …τέμενοϲ) as he identifies the three divinities that occupy the sacred space of this precinct:

1) The first divinity to be identified is Zeus, who is given here the epithet antiaos (line 5: ἀντίαον), which is the same epithet we saw in Song 17 of Sappho (line 9: Δί’ ἀντ[ίαον]). There I translated this epithet as ‘lord of suppliants’, and now we can see why such a translation applies: a scholion in the papyrus explains this word antiaos here in Song 129 of Alcaeus as meaning hikesios (ἱκέϲιον) which is a classical Greek epithet meaning ‘receiving suppliants’.

2) The second divinity is ‘the Aeolian goddess’, who is addressed as ‘you’ by the speaking persona (line 6: ϲὲ δ’ Αἰολήιαν … θέον). As I have already argued, this ‘Aeolian goddess’ must be Hera herself.

3) The third divinity is Dionysus (line 9: Ζόννυϲϲον), about whom the speaking persona speaks as ‘this one here’ (line 8: τόνδε). [64]

4§124. So, ‘this precinct here’ in Song 129 of Alcaeus (lines 1–2: τόδε … τέμενοϲ) matches the place signaled in Song 17 of Sappho as the setting for a sacrifice once announced-in-prayer by Agamemnon and Menelaos. The prayer of these kings in Song 17 had addressed the same three divinities, offering a supplication (lines 9–10) by announcing-in-prayer (arâsthai) a festival ((h)eortā) to be held at this precinct (line 2), and the kings thus established (poieîn) the festival ‘for you’ (line 4: τόι), that is, for Hera. {476|477} And, just as we saw in Song 129 of Alcaeus, we see also here in Song 17 of Sappho a deictic reference that ties the speaker—in this case, Sappho herself—to the place that Louis Robert (1960) identified as Messon in Lesbos: according to Song 17 of Sappho, it was announced in heroic times that the festival of Hera should take place tuide ‘here’ (line 7: τυίδε). In this context, I draw attention to the fact that Hera, occupying her own place in the sacred space ‘here’, is addressed directly as ‘you’ by the speaking persona of Sappho (again, line 4: τόι, also, at line 11: ϲέ). And the (h)eortā ‘festival’ of Hera is signaled as ‘your’ festival (line 2: ϲὰ … ἐόρτ[α]). As Claude Calame remarks, most incisively, about the use of the grammatical second person here in Song 17 of Sappho, ‘Hera is always present as you’.[65]

4§125. As the eternally present ‘you’ of the sacred precinct, the identity of the goddess Hera subsumes even the identity of her consort, the god Zeus, who is in this context ranked after rather than before Hera in the Brothers Song. Zeus functions as the coefficient of Hera in bringing favorable winds for voyagers at sea (lines 13–20 [9–16]), and, in this role, he is described as basileus Olumpō ‘king of Olympus’ (line 17 [13]: βαϲίλευϲ Ὀλύμπω). By now we can see that even this role of Zeus as basileus ‘king’ is subordinate to the role of Hera as basilēa ‘queen’ (line 10 [6]). Here I return to the reference in Song 130 of Alcaeus to the precinct of Hera as the teikhos basilēion (line 15: τεῖχοϲ βαϲίληιον), glossed as ‘Hera’s wall’ in an adjoining scholion (τὸ τῆϲ ῞Ηραϲ). In the light of this gloss, I had already in Essay 2§2 translated teikhos basilēion as ‘the Queen’s Wall’, not ‘the King’s Wall’.

4§126. So, all aspects of Hera’s precinct at Lesbos are understood primarily in terms of her omnipresence. Even more than that, the entire island of Lesbos belongs to Hera as its queen, and that is why, just as Zeus belongs to Hera as his queen, so also he belongs intimately to the landscape of her island. A case in point is the epithet of Zeus, basileus Olumpō ‘king of Olympus’, in the Brothers Song (again, line 17 [13]: βαϲίλευϲ Ὀλύμπω). The fact is, this Olympus is a mountain local to Lesbos. It is situated to the south of Messon and to the west of Mytilene, and it is still called Olympus to this day (the Modern Greek name remains ῎Ολυμποϲ). Unlike the Panhellenic Olympus of Homeric poetry, which is situated on the mainland of European Greece, this Olympus of Lesbos is part of an integrated local mythological landscape that fits the local ritual landscape of Hera’s precinct (Nagy 2024:62–63).

4§127. I should add that the dyad of Hera and Zeus in the local mythology of Lesbos is a model of divine coefficiency, as we can see even from sources exterior to the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus. A shining example from the early Hellenistic era is a decree recorded in an inscription from the city of Mytilene in Lesbos, {477|478} SEG 36.750, dated to the 330s BCE, [66] where we see that the goddess Hera was predominant among the gods of the city, since even her consort, Zeus himself, is qualified by way of the epithet Hēraios, which means ‘belonging to Hera’ (6–7: τῶι Διὶ τῶι ᾿Η|ραίωι). [67]

4§128. I turn next to the god Dionysus, third in the triad of divinities who figure in Song 17 of Sappho (again, line 10). The relationship of this divinity with the dyad of Hera and Zeus is not clear at first glance, but, in this case as well, I see a pattern of syncretism where the status of Dionysus, like that of Zeus, is subordinated to the predominant status of Hera. A sign of such subordination, as I am about to argue, is the fact that the poetic language of Sappho and Alcaeus as spoken in the precinct of Hera actually integrates the idea of an omnipresent Hera with the idea of a selectively present Dionysus in moments of heightened emotion.

Choral performance by girls and by women and by Sappho herself in the precinct of Hera at Lesbos

4§129. Now that I have considered the omnipresence of Hera as a ‘you’ in the precinct of the goddess at Lesbos, I turn to the ‘we’ who celebrate the festival of Hera on the occasion marked by Song 17 of Sappho. Who are the ‘we’ here? My answer, in general, is that the ‘we’ stands for the people of Lesbos. More specifically, however, the ‘we’ in Song 17 stands for both the speaking persona of Sappho and the attending okhlos ‘throng’ of parthenoi ‘girls’ together with gunaikes ‘women’ (lines 13–15: [ὄ]χλοϲ … παρθέ[νων … γ]υναίκων). I see an imitation of this concept of okhlos ‘throng’ in the Ovidian Letter 15, lines 199–202, referring to a turba ‘throng’ (line 202) of Lesbides ‘Lesbian women’ (199, 120, 121), described as nupturaque nuptaque proles ‘soon-to-be-married and already-married offspring [of the island]’ (line 202). I highlight, as a new piece of evidence, the wording I have just quoted from Song 17 (again, lines 13–15). We see here a collocation of the words for ‘girls’ and ‘women’, situated in a context where the persona of Sappho herself is speaking for all of them. In this role of speaking on behalf of all the women of Lesbos, Sappho is the lead singer of a choral performance at the festival of Hera within a sacred space {478|479} that is evidently the precinct of the goddess. And, as I will argue, this choral performance represents, as it were, not only all the women but also all the people of Lesbos in general. Such is the role of the speaking ‘we’ of Song 17.

4§130. The new piece of evidence, as I have just described it, concerning the participation of girls and women together with Sappho herself at the festival of Hera, can be used to counter an older interpretation of Song 17, according to which this song did not necessarily refer to the festival of Hera as celebrated in the precinct of the goddess. [68] In terms of this older interpretation, the speaking Sappho could have been referring only to girls who were present at the precinct, not to women. But now we see in the supplemented version of Song 17 that the speaking persona of Sappho is in fact referring to the festival of Hera as celebrated in the precinct of the goddess. And now we see also that women as well as girls are pictured as participating in this festival of Hera. Further, the collocation of the word okhlos ‘throng’ with the words parthenoi ‘girls’ together with gunaikes ‘women’ (lines 13–15: [ὄ]χλοϲ … παρθέ[νων … γ]υναίκων) is parallel to what we see in Song 44 of Sappho describing a choral scene of celebration at the wedding of Hector and Andromache. In that song we see the collocation of okhlos ‘throng’ with gunaikes ‘women’ and parthenikai ‘girls’ (44.14–15: ὄχλοϲ | γυναίκων τ’ ἄμα παρθενίκα[ν] τ’ ἀπ[αλ]οϲφύρων). Also, that song shows that the entire aggregate of women and girls, pais okhlos ‘the entire throng’, are participants in the celebration (44.14: παῖϲ ὄχλοϲ). [69]

4§131. Here I return to Songs 129 and 130 of Alcaeus. We see here references to a temenos ‘precinct’ (129.2 and 130b.13: τέμενοϲ) that is xunon ‘common’ (129.3: ξῦνον) to all the people of the island of Lesbos. As we have already seen, Song 130 also says that this precinct is sacred to three divinities: Zeus, Hera, and Dionysus (130b.5–9). Evidently, then, the setting here is the same as the setting in Song 17 of Sappho, which likewise shows that the precinct is sacred to these three divinities (9–10).

4§132. Further, in Song 130 of Alcaeus, we see a reference to Lesbiades ‘women of Lesbos’ (130b.17: Λ[εϲβί]αδεϲ) who are explicitly described as gunaikes ‘women’ (130b.19: γυναίκων). According to the older interpretation that I mentioned a minute ago, such a wording refers to an event involving only women at the precinct—and not to any event involving girls. In terms of this older interpretation, Song 130 of Alcaeus {479|480} supposedly excludes girls just as Song 17 of Sappho supposedly excludes women. But now we know, on the basis of the supplemented version of Song 17, that the event to which Song 17 refers does in fact include women as well as girls, and that this event is in fact the festival of Hera.

4§133. That said, I am ready to argue that Song 130 of Alcaeus, like Song 17 of Sappho, is referring to a choral performance by the women of Lesbos at the festival of Hera that is being celebrated in the precinct of the goddess. As we have already seen, Bruno Gentili (1988) had drawn attention to two words in this Song 130 of Alcaeus that actually refer to choral performance: the first word is ololūgā (130b.20: [ὀ]λολύγαϲ), with reference to the ‘ululation’ of the women of Lesbos, and the second word is the accompanying epithet īrā ‘sacred’ (130b.20: ἴρα[ϲ]).[70] A third word that is relevant here in Song 130 of Alcaeus is another epithet that accompanies ololūgā ‘ululation’: the ritual cry of the women of Lesbos is not only īrā ‘sacred’ (130b.20: ἴρα[ϲ]), it is also eniausiā ‘yearly’ (again, 130b.20: ἐνιαυϲίαϲ). On the basis of these three words, we can see that the ritual described in Song 130 of Alcaeus must have been a part of the seasonally recurring festival of Hera, featuring some kind of choral performance by the Lesbiades ‘women of Lesbos’ (130b.17), as indicated by the reference to ‘the sacred seasonally-recurring ululation’ (130b.20). [71] And now the new textual supplements for Song 17 of Sappho show decisively that girls as well as women participated in choral performance at the festival of Hera. Moreover, these new supplements show also that the choral performance of the Lesbiades ‘women of Lesbos’, as they are called in Song 130 of Alcaeus (130b.17), involves not only the women of Lesbos in general, including the girls, but also, even more important, the speaking persona of Sappho in particular. In Song 17 of Sappho, as we can see in the light of the new textual supplements, this persona speaks for both the women and the girls of Lesbos.

4§134. The newly-supplemented evidence of Song 17 of Sappho, showing the choral performance of girls and women and Sappho herself at the festival of Hera, fits what we already know from the wording of a poem in the Greek Anthology (9.189). This poem refers explicitly to a choral performance led by Sappho herself at the precinct of Hera in Lesbos. Sappho is pictured as the lead singer in a khoros ‘chorus’ (line 3: χορόν) of Lesbides ‘women from Lesbos’ (line 2: Λεϲβίδεϲ) who in turn are pictured as dancing inside a temenos ‘precinct’ sacred to the goddess Hera (line 1: τέμενοϲ … ῞Ηρηϲ). {480|481}

4§135. In my 1993 essay on Songs 129 and 130 of Alcaeus, ‘Alcaeus in sacred space’, I backed up the argument published in the 1960 article of Louis Robert concerning the points of reference that we read in the poem taken from the Anthology. [72] Robert had connected the choral scene as described in that poem with a ritual event we see described in the scholia for Iliad 9.30: ‘the people of Lesbos celebrate a beauty contest [agōn] of women [gunaikes] in the precinct [temenos] of Hera, and it is called the Kallisteia’ (παρὰ Λεϲβίοιϲ ἀγὼν ἄγεται κάλλουϲ γυναικῶν ἐν τῷ τῆϲ Ἥραϲ τεμένει, λεγόμενοϲ Καλλιϲτεῖα). [73] Supporting Robert, I argued that the ritual event of this ‘beauty contest’ at Lesbos was a kind of choral performance in its own right, matching the description of the choral performance in the poem taken from the Anthology. And now, on the basis of the new evidence supplementing the text of Song 17 of Sappho, I argue further that both this beauty contest of the Kallisteia and the choral performance of the Lesbiades in Song 130 of Alcaeus were integral parts of one and the same festival of Hera in Lesbos.

4§136. In making this argument, I now consider yet another reference to such a beauty contest. In the dictionary of Hesychius (volume 3 p. 213 ed. Hansen 2005), we find this entry: ‘pulaiídees: this is the name for those who are judged [krinesthai] (for their beauty) in a beauty contest of women and who win [over the others]’ (πυλαιΐδεεϲ· αἱ ἐν κάλλει κρινόμεναι τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ νικῶϲαι). The wording here is strikingly similar to the wording in Song 130 of Alcaeus, where the female participants in the choral performance taking place at the precinct of Hera are described as ‘women of Lesbos, judged [krinesthai] for their beauty’ (130b.20: Λ[εϲβί]αδεϲ κριννόμεναι φύαν).

4§137. Taking into account such similarities in wording, I now have further reason to argue that the beauty contest of the Kallisteia is a choral event, just as the performance of song and dance by Sappho together with her chorus of Lesbides in the poem taken from the Anthology is pictured as a choral event.

A diachronic view of Hera’s festival at Lesbos

4§138. Essential for my argumentation here is the use of the word that refers to the festival of Hera in Song 17 of Sappho, (h)eortā (2: ἐόρτ[α]). The same word for ‘festival’, in its Attic form heortē, is attested in another reference to the local custom of organizing beauty contests in Lesbos. The reference comes from Theophrastus, Fragment 564 (ed. Fortenbaugh), as cited by Athenaeus 13.610a, where we {481|482} read about ‘judgments regarding women’ (κρίϲειϲ γυναικῶν) held at Lesbos, and where it is specified that the contest is ‘regarding beauty’ (περὶ … κάλλουϲ). In the context of what is also said in Athenaeus 13.610a, which is the text that frames this reference from Theophrastus, other examples of such beauty contests are also cited, and it is made clear that the actual setting for these events is a heortē ‘festival’, as in the case of a seasonally recurring beauty contest held in honor of the goddess Demeter in Arcadia, highlighted in Athenaeus 13.610f (ἑορτῇ).

4§139. Most remarkably, the reference from Theophrastus as cited by Athenaeus specifies that the observance of such a custom, where local women participate in a beauty context, is typical of two ancient Greek communities in particular. Besides highlighting the people of Lesbos as practitioners of beauty contests, the same report highlights, symmetrically, the people of Tenedos: ‘just as it [= the custom] is observed in the regions of the people of Tenedos and of the people of Lesbos’ (Athenaeus 13.610a: καθάπερ καὶ παρὰ Τενεδίοιϲ καὶ Λεϲβίοιϲ).

4§140. Here it becomes vitally important for me to emphasize that the island of Tenedos, like the island of Lesbos, was an Aeolic community. For background, I now refer to a separate project that focuses on the Aeolic traditions of Tenedos. [74] Here I will focus on two details that I highlight from that project.

4§141. The first detail comes from the testimony of Strabo 13.1.32 C596 and 13.1.46 C604. As you travel south along the Asiatic coastline near Troy, passing a site named tò Akhílleion, which means ‘the place of Achilles’, you come to a region named tò Akhaíïon, meaning ‘the place of the Achaeans’. [75] This region, Strabo says, is the peraiā of Tenedos, by which he means the part of a ‘mainland’ that belongs to an outlying island. In this case, the outlying island is Tenedos, and Strabo refers to the city of this island-state as a polis Aiolis ‘Aeolian city’, highlighting its two harbors and a shrine that is sacred to Apollo Smintheus (13.1.46 C604).

4§142. The second detail comes from Pindar’s Nemean 11, a song created for the praise of an aristocrat from the island of Tenedos. According to the song, this aristocrat was descended from ancestors who came from Amyklai with Orestes to settle Tenedos (34), and these settlers of the island are imagined as ‘a bronze-clad horde of Aeolians’ (35: Αἰολέων ϲτρατιὰν χαλκεντέα).

4§143. These two details about Tenedos, in view of the Aeolian traditions of this island, are relevant to the report we read from Theophrastus (again, Fragment 564 as cited in Athenaeus 13.610a) concerning the parallelism between the {482|483} traditions of Tenedos and Lesbos in celebrating beauty contests for women. In view of the existing parallelism, I am ready to argue that the beauty contests held in Aeolian Tenedos were choral events, just as I argue that the beauty contests held in Aeolian Lesbos were choral events. Further, since the choral events at Lesbos were part of a festival that was aetiologized, as I argue, in a myth about a sacrifice arranged by the Achaeans when they visited the island of Lesbos, as mentioned in Song 17 of Sappho, I can also argue for a parallel at Tenedos: there too, the beauty contests would have been choral events that were part of a festival that was aetiologized in a myth about a sacrifice arranged by the Achaeans when they visited the island of Tenedos. And such a pairing of aetiological narratives would correspond to the pairing of epic narratives in Odyssey 3 and Odyssey 4 about the visits of Achaean heroes to the Aeolian islands of Tenedos and Lesbos after their victory at Troy.

4§144. Ultimately, the Homeric narrative privileged the local myth of Aeolian Tenedos over the local myth of Aeolian Lesbos. In Odyssey 3, as we saw, the grand sacrifice that took place after the conquest of Troy is localized at Tenedos, where only Menelaos participated in that sacrifice, while Agamemnon stayed behind at Troy in order to make his own separate sacrifice there and not at Tenedos. In terms of this version, evidently derivable from Tenedos, Agamemnon was planning to make his sacrifice to Athena at Troy. In terms of the version derivable from Lesbos, on the other hand, he was planning to make his sacrifice to Hera at Lesbos.

4§145. By contrast, in Odyssey 4, neither Agamemnon nor Menelaos is shown in the act of making any grand sacrifice that is localized at Lesbos, and the island is mentioned only in the context of accentuating, without explanation, the lateness of Menelaos in arriving at that island. This way, in terms of my argument, Homeric poetry slights the prestige of the grand sacrifice that was annually observed in the precinct of Hera at Lesbos—a prestige that continued to be recognized in Song 17 of Sappho.

A synchronic view of Hera’s festival at Lesbos

4§146. From a diachronic point of view, then, I have argued that the institution of beauty contests was in fact a traditional aspect of the festival of Hera as celebrated at her precinct in Lesbos. Accordingly, I think there is no reason to doubt that the word referring to the festival of Hera in Song 17 of Sappho, (h)eortā (line 2: ἐόρτ[α]), signals a set of ritual events that includes the beauty contests of women. But there is likewise no reason to doubt that this same set of ritual events also includes the choral singing and dancing of girls. From a synchronic {483|484} point of view, as we have already seen in the text of Song 17, the word (h)eortā signals the participation of girls as well as women in the celebration of Hera’s festival.

4§147. And what unifies the roles of girls and women in the course of this celebration is the role of Sappho herself as the speaking persona who leads the choral singing and dancing. The clearest example is Song 17. This song of Sappho, by way of her speaking persona, is presenting itself as a choral event. And, whether or not the girls and the women of Lesbos need to be pictured as performing separately from each other, the figure of Sappho remains the notional leader of the choral singing and dancing performed here by all the women of Lesbos, including the girls. Sappho is speaking for the female choruses of Lesbos, and these choruses are in turn speaking for all of Lesbos.

4§148. As I noted already, I have ever since 1990 argued that Sappho is a choral personality. [76] Such a personality, we now see, comes to life in the context of Song 17 of Sappho, where the speaker is attending the festival of Hera as celebrated in the precinct of the goddess.

Sappho, Alcaeus, and the theology of Hera’s precinct at Lesbos

4§149. Now that we understand more fully the importance of Hera in myths and rituals centering on the precinct of this goddess at Lesbos, I am ready to consider the “theology” of this precinct—as reflected in the poetics of Sappho and Alcaeus considered together. When I say theology here, I mean the system of myths and rituals shared by the overall community that identifies with the precinct of Hera. And, when I say community, I mean what was meant in the songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus, where the precinct of Hera was notionally a common ground for the entire island of Lesbos.

4§150. To anticipate the kinds of misunderstandings that I expect to encounter, I must add here two qualifications, which are both formulated from a diachronic perspective:

1) When I say that the theology of the precinct of Hera at Lesbos is a system, I am keeping in mind the fact that any system changes over time, and that any changes in a system are conditioned by historical vicissitudes. {484|485}

2) Just as the theology of Hera’s precinct is a system, so also the poetics that generated the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus is a system. Further, just as the theology changes over time, so also this poetic system changes over time, and the changes are likewise conditioned by historical vicissitudes.

4§151. These two diachronic considerations affect what I have to say both about the theology of the precinct of Hera and about the poetics of Sappho and Alcaeus. My thesis is this: the theology and the poetics originally coexisted with each other, as systems, but they eventually had a parting of the ways.

4§152. Originally, the theology of Hera’s precinct, which Louis Robert (1960) succeeded in identifying as the sacred space called Messon, not only coexisted with the poetics of Sappho and Alcaeus: more than that, the theology originally interacted with the poetics.

4§153. When I say ‘originally’ here, I have in mind once again the conventional dating for the era of Sappho and Alcaeus, which as we already saw can be placed around 600 BCE. As time went by, however, the system of poetics that we see at work in the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus could start breaking free of its interactive theology as it started spreading, by way of poetic reception and transmission, beyond the historical context of Messon in Lesbos. By the time of Herodotus, who flourished in the second half of the fifth century BCE, the reception and the transmission of songs attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus had already long ago extended to a variety of diverse places, and I list here three examples, in chronological order, from the oldest to the newest:

(1) the island-state of Samos [77]
(2) the interpolitical Greek emporium of Naucratis in Egypt [78]
(3) the city-state of Athens [79]

In the venues of such diverse places, the poetic personae of Sappho {485|486} and Alcaeus could break free of their original venue just as readily as the poetics of their songs broke free. I was saying earlier, for example, that Sappho’s original songs, as performed chorally in the context of Hera’s precinct at Lesbos, were later reperformed monodically at private symposia and at public concerts in Athens, and, as a result, Sappho could now be re‑imagined as a sympotic or a concertizing performer of monody. [80]

4§154. Even if the theology and the poetics were headed for a parting of the ways, the theology could continue to maintain its existence in Lesbos—even a separate existence—during the centuries that superseded an earlier era of closer coexistence between the theology and the poetics. On the basis of ongoing research concerning the myths and rituals connected with the precinct of Hera at Lesbos, we can see that the theology of this precinct lived on, and dynamically so, well into the Hellenistic era of Lesbos. I have already mentioned, as an example from the early Hellenistic era, a decree recorded in an inscription from Mytilene, SEG 36.750, dated to the 330s BCE, where we see that the goddess Hera was predominant among the gods of the city.

4§155. But such a separate existence of the theology as it continued to live on in Lesbos could still retain some measure of symmetry with the separate existence of the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus, which had already found a new life outside of Lesbos. The theology of Lesbos could of course have no control anymore, outside of Lesbos, over the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus that originated from there. But such an eventual loss of control would not stop the songs from pointing back to the old theology—pointing back even to the old landmarks of the precinct of Hera as renewed markers for the here and now of an ongoing poetic imagination.

4§156. In the case of Alcaeus, his Song 130(b) may be an example of such pointing back, where the speaking persona actually visualizes the choral performance of the women of Lesbos at the festival of Hera in the precinct of the goddess, highlighting their ritual cry of ululation, ololūgā(line 20).

4§157. As I suggested in Essay 3, the visualization of such a choral event in Song 130(b) of Alcaeus is voiced by a speaking persona that is not only choral but also comastic, and such a comastic voice is connected with the worship of Dionysus.[81] Here I return to the fact that Dionysus, along with Zeus, shares in the occupancy of Hera’s precinct at Lesbos, as we see from the explicit wording of Song 129 of Alcaeus (lines 1–9). Such a theological {486|487} coexistence of Dionysus and Hera at the precinct of Hera corresponds, I argue, to the performative coexistence of comastic and choral voices as represented by Alcaeus and Sappho respectively. In the case of Song 130(b) of Alcaeus, for example, the voice of Alcaeus, speaking to his comrades in comastic performance, can simultaneously speak about a choral performance of local women in the context of one and the same festival that is being celebrated in one and the same precinct. Thus the context of comastic performance, which is sacred primarily to Dionysus, can be syncretistic with the context of choral performance, which is sacred primarily to Hera. And such performative syncretism is made possible by the theological syncretism of the precinct in which the performances take place.

4§158. In terms of such theological syncretism, I am now ready to argue that the poetic language of Sappho and Alcaeus, as spoken in the precinct of Hera, integrates the idea of an omnipresent Hera with the idea of a selectively present Dionysus in moments of heightened emotion. In the case of Song 130(b) of Alcaeus, for example, the comastic voice signals not only the presence of Dionysus but also the omnipresence of Hera—by way of pointing to the choral performance of the local women of Lesbos in the precinct of the goddess. And the speaking persona of Alcaeus in Song 130(b) is visualizing such a choral performance in a context where he, addressing his comrades in his own comastic voice, expresses his own highly emotional state of mind as a way of acknowledging most dramatically the presence of the god Dionysus. [82]

4§159. The presence of Dionysus comes alive not only in comastic performance. The god can cross over into choral performance, as when the persona of Sappho in Song 1 speaks of her erotic passion as a kind of maenadic possession, describing her own thūmos ‘heart’ as mainolēs ‘frenzied’ (line 18: μαινόλαι θύμωι). We can appreciate the heightened emotional effect in this context when we consider the fact that this word mainolēs ‘frenzied’ was a ritual epithet of Dionysus (Cornutus On the nature of the gods 60, ed. Lang). [83] {487|488}

The power of mimesis in the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus

4§160. The presence of such a Dionysiac theme in a song of Sappho shows that choral songmaking can actually make a mimesis of themes that belong to comastic songmaking. I am using the modern word mimesis here in the ancient sense of the Greek word mīmēsis, which, as I argued in Essay 3§9, simultaneously conveyed the primary idea of a dramatic ‘re‑enactment’ as well as the secondary idea of a mechanical ‘imitation’. Relevant to these two meanings of mīmēsis is what I argued in my essay “The Delian Maidens and their relevance to choral mimesis in classical drama.” (Nagy 2013) concerning the mimetic power of the chorus in general, as indicated by use of the verb mīmeîsthai ‘make mimesis’ in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (163) with reference to a chorus of Delian Maidens, who figure as the local Muses of Delos, sacred island of Apollo. [84]

4§161. Conversely, as I have argued at length in my original essay titled “Did Sappho and Alcaeus ever meet?”, which is Essay 3 here in Sappho 0, the comastic songs of Alcaeus can make a mimesis of themes that belong to the choral songs of Sappho. [85] And such a pattern of mimesis only intensifies in a later era when the choral and the comastic songs of Sappho and Alcaeus respectively are transformed into monodic songs performed at private symposia and at public concerts. So, it should come as no surprise that we can find examples of monodic mimesis when we trace the reception of Sappho and Alcaeus forward in time, into the classical era of songmaking in fifth-century Athens. [86]

4§162. In the context of Athenian reception, I must add, the figures of Sappho and Alcaeus can now even ‘meet’ each other at symposia and at concerts, as we see when we consider a suggestively maenadic picture of the two of them interacting with each other in a simultaneously sympotic and concertizing duet performance: this picture of the pair, as we saw in Essay 3, graces one side of a red-figure vase of Athenian provenance, dating from around 480–470 BCE, while the other side features a symmetrical pairing of Dionysus and Maenad.[87] {488|489}

A salient example of choral mimesis in a song of Sappho

4§163. Moving backward in time, I now return to the original reception of Sappho and Alcaeus, which needs to be viewed in the context of Hera’s precinct at Lesbos. In this context, as I have argued, the speaking voice of Sappho maintains a choral personality that is still actively engaged in the overall myths and rituals connected with the precinct. As I prepare to bring my essay to a close, I highlight one particular example where this choral personality asserts itself in a most salient way. The example comes from the Brothers Song of Sappho, where her speaking voice says that she needs to be sent off to pray to basilēa Hēra ‘Queen Hera’ (line 10 [6]: βαϲί̣λ̣η̣αν Ἤ̣ραν). As we have already seen, it is in the precinct of Hera that Sappho will pray for the safe return of her brother Kharaxos from his sea voyage. Even as she prays, as we have also seen, she is wishing that the brother is sailing his way back home (lines 11–12 [7–8]). In this personal moment, then, Sappho reveals her sisterly affection for her brother, despite all the frustrations. And such a self-revelation can be seen as a masterpiece of mimesis, where a choral voice re‑enacts a personal experience.

4§164. But the experience of Sappho here in the Brothers Song is not only personal. It is also public. The whole song is staged as a choral performance, which is public, and the speaker will be speaking as a choral personality in the precinct of Hera, which is a public place that is notionally common to all the people of Lesbos. So the personal dimension of Sappho as a caring sister who retains her affection for her brother must be viewed together with her public dimension as a choral personality who speaks for the entire community in the sacred precinct of the goddess Hera. Both the personal and the public dimensions of Sappho are re‑enacted in the mimesis of choral performance.

4§165. In brief, then, the emotions of Sappho as a sister in the Brothers Song are not only personal but also public, since her personal life is channeled by the poetics of choral performance, which is public. This is what I had meant when I chose the wording a poetics of sisterly affectin the title of my essay.

The name of Sappho

4§166. The poetics of sisterly affect are so deeply rooted in the songs of Sappho that even her identity as a choral personality is shaped by such poetics. I say this because the name of Sappho seems to be a function of her poetic role as a sister. On the basis of linguistic evidence concerning the form Sapphō, I propose that her name is derived from a word that actually means ‘sister’. And, in line with my argument about the poetics of sisterly affect in the songs of Sappho, I {489|490} propose further that this word for ‘sister’ is a term of affection, a baby word that derives from affectionate baby talk. [88]

4§167. I start by considering a pattern of alternation, attested in Greek epigraphical texts stemming from the Roman era, in the formation of names given to women. My point of reference is the name Sappho, which I consider here in contexts where the naming apparently has nothing to do with the famous Sappho. [89] For example, we find a name like Aurēliā Sapphō(Αὐρηλία Ϲαπφώ) [90] coexisting with names like Aurēliā Apphion (Αὐρηλία ᾿Απφίον) [91] and Aurēliā Apphiā (Αὐρηλία ᾿Απφία). [92] Such coexistence is most suggestive. As we know from the Greek lexicographical tradition, the noun apphion(ἀπφίον) is a neuter diminutive variant of the onomatopoetic form appha(ἄπφα), which means ‘sister’. [93] Clearly, both appha (ἄπφα) and apphion (ἀπφίον) are onomatopoetic baby words, meaning something like ‘little girl’. [94] Another derivative of appha (ἄπφα) is apphiā (ἀπφία), which can be explained as a feminine adjective. So, we can see that the names Apphion (᾿Απφίον) and Apphiā (᾿Απφία) are based on these baby words apphion (ἀπφίον) and apphiā (ἀπφία) respectively. And such baby words can apply not only to sisters in particular but also to beloved little girls in general—or even to beloved women. For example, the words apphion (ἀπφίον) and apphiā (ἀπφία) are both explained by lexicographers as hupokorismata ‘terms of endearment’ (ὑποκορίϲματα) referring to a ‘young mistress of the household’ (νέαϲ δεϲποίνηϲ). [95] Another traditional way of defining the diminu{490|491}tive apphion (ἀπφίον) is to say that it is a hupokorisma ‘term of endearment’ (ὑποκόριϲμα) for a girl or woman who is an object of sexual desire (ἐρωμένηϲ). [96] Lastly, the word apphō (ἀπφώ), morphologically symmetrical with the name Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ), is explained by lexicographers as another word for ‘sister’.[97] Here I return to such variations as Aurēliā Apphion (Αὐρηλία ᾿Απφίον) and Aurēliā Sapphō (Αὐρηλία Ϲαπφώ): these names are as symmetrical with each other as are the nouns apphion (ἀπφίον) and apphō (ἀπφώ), both of which could mean ‘sister’.

4§168. What is still missing in this set of linguistic evidence is a common noun shaped *sapphō (*ϲαπφώ), which would mean ‘sister’. (When I say common noun here, I mean a noun that is not a name, as opposed to a proper noun, which is a name.) In the case of a proper noun like Apphion (᾿Απφίον), however, we know for sure that it is based on the neuter diminutive common noun apphion (ἀπφίον), meaning ‘little sister’ or ‘little girl’. So, I am ready to argue that the proper noun Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ) was likewise based on a similar common noun *sapphō (*ϲαπφώ), so far unattested, which would be a variant of the attested common noun apphō (ἀπφώ), meaning ‘sister’.

4§169. But the question remains: why is the form Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ) attested only as a proper noun? My answer is that the form Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ) survived phonologically as a proper noun only because it was a functional variant of another proper noun, Psapphō (Ψαπφώ), which is attested as a variant form of Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ) in the textual tradition of Sappho. If Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ) had not been a functional variant of Psapphō (Ψαπφώ), it would have become *Apphō (*᾿Απφώ) at an early stage in the history of the Greek language when word-initial s- (as in *s-apphō) became h- (as in *h-apphō), which in turn became simply a glottal stop (as in –apphō) by way of “psilosis”. I propose, then, that the form Psapphō was in fact a playfully affectionate phonetic variant of the form Sapphō. The variation of Psapphō / Sapphō (Ψαπφώ / Ϲαπφώ) is comparable to such variations as psitta / sitta (ψίττα / ϲίττα), which are onomatopoetic calls. [98] We {491|492} read in the Onomasticon of Pollux (9.122.3, 9.127.1) that psitta Maliades psitta Rhoiai psitta Meliai (ψίττα Μαλιάδεϲ ψίττα Ῥοιαί ψίττα Μελίαι) is a game played by parthenoi ‘girls’ (as distinct from gunaikes ‘women’). According to Pollux, the Maliades and the Rhoiai and the Meliai are nymphs, and girls call out their names, punctuated by the intervening calls of psitta, in footraces that they run, urging each other to speed ahead. Also, in Theocritus 8.69, a herdsman calls out sitta (ϲίττα) to his herd, and the scholia (5.3b) explain that sitta (ϲίττα) as well as a variant form psitta (ψίττα) is a sound made by a herdsman when he calls out to his herd.

4§170. The point is, just as the variant form psitta (ψίττα) prevents, by analogy, a phonological change in the variant form sitta (ϲίττα), which would otherwise be expected to change from sitta (ϲίττα) to *hitta (*ἵττα) to *itta (*ἴττα), so also the variant Psapphō (Ψαπφώ) prevents, again by analogy, a phonological change in the variant Sapphō (Ϲαπφώ), which would otherwise be expected to change from *sapphō (*ϲαπφώ) to *happhō (*ἁπφώ) to apphō (ἀπφώ) in the case of common nouns—but not in the case of hypocoristic names where the alternation of Psapphō / Sapphō (Ψαπφώ / Ϲαπφώ) is maintained. [99]

4§171. I conclude, then, that the name Sapphō, like the names Apphion and Apphiā, was originally an onomatopoetic baby word derived from terms of endearment addressed to a sister. For an interesting parallel in English usage, as attested in some regions of the United States, I point to such women’s names as Sissy, even Sister.

4§172. In the case of ordinary women who happened to be called Sapphō in the Greek-speaking world, there would be of course nothing extraordinary about their name if it really meant ‘Sister’. Such a meaning becomes extraordinary, however, when we find it embedded in the poetics of a choral personality who, once upon a time, called herself by the name of Sapphō. Hers was an extraordinary persona who could speak to all the people of Lesbos, unveiling her sisterly affections just as memorably as she veiled her womanly desires.

Endnotes for Essay Four

[The abbreviations in these endnotes (such as N = Nagy, HC = Homer the Classic, and so on) are tracked in the Bibliography at the end of the whole book. In cross-references, within the endnotes, to Essays Two and Three, I will write simply “E2” and “E3”.]

1. The relevant texts were first published by Obbink 2014 and Burris, Fish, and Obbink 2014.

2. Essay 3§8.

3. It is possible, of course, that [ὀν]ίαν … λύγραν is a genitive plural, not an accusative singular.

4. Ferrari 2014:10 argues that the μιν here refers to the courtesan, not the brother. See also Obbink 2014:41.

5. Obbink 2014:32.

6. Especially N 2015.10.22.

7. Saussure 1916:117.

8. On the four factors of composition, performance, reception, and transmission in the case of the poetry attributed to Hesiod, I cite N 2009a. For similar arguments applied in the case of the poetry attributed to Archilochus: N 2008b. More on the concept of reception: HC 314 = 2§277.

9. As I noted from the start, this argument goes all the way back to PP (Nagy 1996a) 60.

10. N 1990a (PH), 1993, 1994–1995, 1996a (PP), 2004.

11. In Essay 3, however, I have not yet used the terms diachronic and synchronic.

12. A case in point is the representation of Sappho and Alcaeus in the vase painting analyzed at Essay 3§§66–75. On citharodic traditions in performing the songs of Sappho: N 2011b:155–158, following Power 2010:258–263.

13. I first used the term choral personality in N 1990a, PH 371 = 12§62; more in PH 370 = 12§60, with reference to Calame 1977:367–377 (also 126–127). On the relevant work of Lardinois 1996, I note the remarks of Calame 2009:5. More also from Ferrari 2014:17. Toward the end of Essay 4 here, at 4§161 note 85, I offer concluding remarks about this term choral personality as a hermeneutic model.

14. I build here on my earlier formulation at Essay 3§7, along with note 12 there.

15. N 2004, with special reference to the insights of Rösler 1980 and 1985 concerning the poetics of (h)etairoi ‘comrades’.

16. More in Essay 3§§8–94.

17. More in Essay 3§§8–94.

18. Robert 1960. His article is prominently featured in a collection of influential French research papers translated into English, edited by Loraux, Nagy, and Slatkin 2001:240–248. In the first footnote there, grecques needs to be corrected to anciennes.

19. N 1993, 1995, 2004.

20. Caciagli 2010:228, 238; relevant is Liberman 1999 I 61n127.

21. N 1993; this essay is not mentioned by Caciagli 2010, who cites only one of my relevant works on Sappho and Alcaeus, N 2007/2009, rewritten here as Essay 3. At a later point, I will have to disagree slightly with what Caciagli says I argue in N 2007/2009.

22. N 1993; I elaborate further in Essay 3 above.

23. What follows here recapitulates what I say in MoM 2015 at 4§§149–150 concerning relevant passages in the Electra of Euripides (especially lines 167–174, 178).

24. For more on the self-representation of the chorus as chorus in the Electra of Euripides: Baur 1997.

25. Bierl 2009:57n152, 107, 272–273, 284, 294–295, 318–319; also Bierl 2011.

26. MoM 2015 at 4§150.

27. For more on the Electra of Euripides: Zeitlin 1970.

28. HPC 294 = II§421.

29. There may be a connection between the semantics of mesostrophōniai and Messon: Robert 1960:303–304, also Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti 2014:28n13.

30. Ferrari 2014:16 proposes to read ἐόρτ[αν], but this alternative reading does not affect my interpretation here.

31. West 2014:4 suggests that we read π̣ό̣ηϲάν τοι, not π̣ό̣ηϲαν τοί. But I defend the accentuation preserved in the new papyrus, τόι. This reading τόι (with the acute accent preserved in P.GC inv. 105 fr. 2) differs slightly from the reading τ’οι as accepted by Obbink in Chapter 1 of Bierl and Lardinois 2016. I interpret the acute as a marker of a rise in the melodic contour, and such a rise here indicates an emphatic use of the pronoun.

32. On this restoration, I follow Ferrari 2014:18.

33. In the analysis that follows, I will fine-tune this translation ‘vowed-in-prayer’ for arātā(n), which is a verbal adjective of the verb arâsthai ‘pray’.

34. Benveniste 1973 part 6 sub‑part 4.

35. Again, Benveniste 1973 part 6 sub‑part 4.

36. In the light of this Indo-European semantic background, we can better understand the following attestation of the verb arâsthai in the diction of Sappho: ‘they wished [arâsthai] all the best for the bridegroom’ (141.6–7: ἀράϲαντο δὲ πάμπαν ἔϲλα | γάμβρωι). In other words, they wished-in-prayer that the best possible things should happen to the bridegroom.

37. Muellner 1976:55–56

38. For a survey of Homeric examples: Muellner 1976:36–37, 55–56.

39. West 2014:4; also Ferrari 2014:17.

40. The acute accent appears in the new P.GC inv. 105 fr. 2, but not in the older PSI 123 and P.Oxy. 1231.

41. In negative contexts where something is wished-away, not wished-for, the non‑compound form arātos is more usual (as in Iliad 24.741); but polu-arātos too is attested in negative contexts (as in Theognis 1.819). Such uses of arātos, derived from arâsthai, correspond to some specialized uses of euktos, derived from eukhesthai ‘pray’, as we see in the gloss of Hesychius: ἀπάρατον· ἀπευκτόν, where both forms refer to something to be wished away; I emphasize the importance of the comments made in DELG under the entry εὔχομαι. This example can be added to the discussion of Neri 2014:15–16 regarding the attested uses of arâsthai.

42. This context of poieîn in the active voice with heortē ‘festival’ as direct object is I think different from contexts of poieîsthai, in the middle voice, again with heortē as direct object, as in Herodotus 1.150.1 and Plato Republic 1.327a. In those two cases, the emphasis is on the participation of the community in celebrating a festival, whereas, in the case of poieîn in Thucydides 2.15.2, the emphasis is on the actual arranging or organizing of the festival.

43. Benveniste 1973 part 6 sub‑part 1.

44. Calame 2009:6.

45. Nestor’s tales of homecoming in Odyssey 3 reflect poetic traditions of great antiquity, which are analyzed most incisively and intuitively by Frame 2009:180–193.

46. The lines here at Odyssey 4.342–344 are repeated at 17.133–135, where Telemachus retells to Penelope the story told to him by Menelaos.

47. My formulation here is indebted to the perceptive analysis of Brillante 2005, especially pp. 13–14.

48. On Philomeleides of Lesbos, I have more to say in N 2008a:57.

49. Burkert 1985:105–107.

50. PH 118, 125–130; 141–142; 386, 395–397 = 4§5, §§12–20; 5§§9–10; 13§11, §§31–35.

51. N 2011a §68. Comparable is the relevant formulation of Bierl 2016: 320: “In archaic poetry ritual often frames and interacts with myth. Myth usually tells narratives about deeds that fail, whereas in the complementary ritual they are felicitously achieved.”

52. N 2011a §§67–68, 70–72.

53. MoM 2015 at 4§142*1, with references to further commentary.

54. The analysis that I cited in the previous note provides documentation of the ritual practice of choosing two premier animal victims out of a mass of animals destined for slaughter at a sacrifice. Here is a question that may arise: if the two oxen had really been destined for sacrifice, how would the priestess expect to get back to Argos from the precinct of Hera? My response is that such a question is based on a false assumption, since any procession that proceeded from its point of origin to its point of climax would not retrace its steps on the way back to the point of origin. Rather, the participants in the procession would disperse after the climactic sacrifice, and they would find their way back home on their own. I cite as an example Xenophon of Ephesus 1.3.1, where we see a specific reference to the dispersal of a procession to the precinct of Artemis after the participants arrive at the precinct and complete the sacrifice.

55. Although I consistently interpret hekatombē as a sacrifice of one hundred cattle in Homeric contexts, as here, there are some cases where the sacrifice is scaled down, referring not to cattle but to other sacrificial animals. In Iliad 4.102, for example, the hekatombē involves sheep, not cattle.

56. In the Iliad, 5.714–717, Hera remarks to Athena that the two of them had promised to Menelaos a safe homecoming after the conquest of Troy.

57. The details here are parallel to what is narrated in the epic Cycle (Nostoi, retelling by Proclus, p. 108 lines 20–23 ed. Allen).

58. I follow here the acute analysis of Frame 2009:184 n. 79.

59. There is an allusion in Plato Symposium 174b–d to this passage in Iliad 2.402–429. On the basis of Athenaeus 1.8a, we can reconstruct a relevant proverb, to which Plato’s text is also alluding. This proverb can be reconstructed as αὐτόματοι δ’ ἀγαθοὶ ἀγαθῶν ἐπὶ δαῖτας ἴασι ‘automatically do the noble go to the feasts of the noble’. In such a context, I add, not only does each noble person have ‘a mind of his own’: that mind is also the ‘same’ mind that the other noble persons have. The point is, ‘like-minded’ or ‘same-minded’ people congregate with each other automatically at dinners.

60. On twin-like mythological patterns in Homeric descriptions of Agamemnon and Menelaos, and how these patterns affect their behavior and even their thinking: Frame 2009:177, with a further reference at pp. 72–73n156. Also, as Frame pp. 209–215 demonstrates, Menelaos in the Iliad consistently fails to take the initiative whenever he undertakes an activity together with his brother. In such situations, Menelaos is recessive in his twinned thinking, while Agamemnon is dominant.

61. Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti 2014:28, with reference to de Polignac 1997; also Caciagli 2010:236.

62. I first made this argument in N 1993:222–223.

63. For more on ritual ululations performed by women, I recommend the seminal observations of Burkert 1983:5, 12, 54 and 1985:56, 72, 74.

64. On the epithet ōmēstēs ‘having to do with the eating of raw flesh’ applied to Dionysus here in Song 129 of Alcaeus (9: ὠμήϲταν): Henrichs 1981.

65. Calame 2009:6.

66. The text is printed by Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti 2014:28–30, with commentary.

67. I read with interest the commentary of Pirenne-Delforge and Pironti 2014:30 on the syncretism of Zeus and Hera as reflected in the concept of Zeus Hēraios. I would add that there is further evidence of such syncretism in Homeric poetry, as in the epithet of Zeus as posis Hērēs ‘husband of Hera’ (Iliad 7.411, etc.: πόϲιϲ ῞Ηρηϲ).

68. For background: Caciagli 2010:239 and 2011:155–156.

69. It may be that the actual groupings of women and girls are separate from each other in the rituals of participation. In Song 17, I note the form ἀμφιϲ̣[…] (line 16): as Leonard Muellner points out to me, this form may mean ‘separately’ here. I see a comparable situation in Song 44, where the ritual actions of the daughters of Priam are signaled by the expression χῶριϲ δ’ αὖ (line 16), meaning ‘separately’.

70. Gentili 1988:220, 306n30. In N 1993:222, I highlight the argumentation of Gentili.

71. N 1993:222–223. This argument is recapitulated in HPC 238 = II §§201–292.

72. N 1993:222, with reference to Robert 1960.

73. N 1993:222.

74. HPC 184–185 = II §§133–135.

75. Already at the first mention of Akhaíïon, Strabo combines the name with the article tò (13.1.32 C506; see also 13.1.46 C604, 13.1.47 C604).

76. Again I cite PH 370 =12§60, with reference to Calame 1977:367–377 (also 126–127); also Lardinois 1996 and the remarks of Calame 2009:5; also Ferrari 2014:17.

77. On the Samian transmission of the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus: Essay 3§§47–60.

78. A related point of interest is the reception of the songs of Sappho at Naucratis, especially by way of Samos and Lesbos. On the roles of Samos and Lesbos (Mytilene) in the Hellēnion at Naucratis, the primary source is Herodotus 2.178.2 (there is a useful commentary by Lloyd 2007:373 on the importance of the Samian presence at Naucratis). In N 2015.07.01, I argue that the reportage of Herodotus 2.134–135 on the songs of Sappho about her brother’s affair with the courtesan Rhodōpis shows an awareness of such a reception. Likewise aware was a historian who slightly predated Herodotus, namely, Hecataeus of Miletus, who, as I also argue in N 2015.07.01 is the missing link in what Herodotus says about the courtesan Rhodōpis. The lore about this courtesan is evidently linked to Naucratis, and this lore is relevant to the reception of Sappho at Naucratis. Such a reception needs to be viewed in the context of ongoing traditions in the sympotic performance of Sappho’s songs. In this regard, I think that the conflation of lore about Rhodōpis and Dōrikhã can be traced back to Hecataeus. Most relevant here is a reference we read in Athenaeus 9.410e to the remarks of Hecataeus (FGH 1 F 358) about Sappho F 101.

79. On the Athenian transmission of the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus: Essay 3§§24, 45; also N 2010.

80. More in Essay 3§74 and following; also Bierl 2010.

81. Essat 3§15n27, with reference to a most helpful consultation with Anton Bierl (per litteras 2006.08.22), some of whose relevant observations I quote there.

82. As I argued in N 1993:223–225 (also in HPC:237–238 = II §§287–288), the emotional self-dramatization of Alcaeus in Song 130—as also in Song 129—is a function of his status as a cult hero who is imagined as speaking from the dead to his former comrades about future generations of women who are singing and dancing in choral performance to celebrate the goddess Hera in her precinct. Elsewhere too in archaic Greek poetry, as in Theognis 1209–1210, we see comparable situations where an alienated poet is imagined as speaking from the dead: N 1996:212–213, with references to parallel situations in Celtic traditions.

83. Essay 3§§132–133.

84. In N 2013:250, with reference to the relevant work of Peponi 2009, I make this comment: “In an effort to clarify further, I propose that the various people in the varied audience attending a performance by the Delian Maidens are not just virtual performers: they are potential performers in their own right, because it is their own various choral traditions that the Delian Maidens can perform by virtue of their divine status as models of all varieties of choral performance.”

85. Essay 3§§19–22. At this point in my argumentation, I propose to correct a misunderstanding that might have been created, unintentionally, in the article of Caciagli 2010:228 (n6) and 248 (n75): I need to put on record that I did not argue, in N 2007/2009, that Sappho and Alcaeus personally ‘met’ at Messon in Lesbos. Such a ‘meeting’ is made possible, I argued, in the context of the reception that we can trace diachronically for the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus.

86. Essay 3§§23–32. I add, in HPC 238 = II §293: “All this is not to say that the poetic medium of Sappho was choral. My point is simply that the poetry of Sappho is cognate with choral lyric poetry—not only in form but also in content [N 1993:223n7]. Technically, Sappho’s poetry can be described as monodic—provided we understand this term not as an antithesis but as a complement to the term choral.” In support of this formulation, I quoted from PH 371 = 12§62: “I understand the monodic form [of Sappho] to be not antithetical to the choral but rather predicated on it. A figure like Sappho speaks as a choral personality, even though the elements of dancing and the very presence of the choral group are evidently missing from her compositions. Still, these compositions presuppose or represent an interaction offstage, as it were, with a choral aggregate.”

87. I give the citation here again: Munich, Antikensammlungen no. 2416.

88. I use the expression baby word as a parallel to the expression Lallwort as used by Zuntz 1951, who considers and then rejects the possibility that Sapphō is a Lallname. Although there is no proof, Zuntz thinks that this name Sapphō originated from some non‑Greek language of Asia Minor (this theory is noted by Caciagli 2011:271), and that this particular language had an initial s- (as in Sapphō) that was not pronounced the same way as was Greek initial ϲ-. I am grateful to Timothy Barnes for sharing with me his impressions of this learned article by Zuntz.

89. Besides the examples that I am about to mention, there are also other such attestations, as in SEG 39:840.

90. For example: IG XII,4 4:3371 (Paton-Hicks 141); also I.Leukopetra 45, 47, 83.

91. For example: IG XII,4 3:2453; Inscr. di Cos [Fun.] EF 308); TAM II 199.

92. For example: Ephesos 2221; also SEG 57:1494.

93. Eustathius, Iliad commentary 3.591.7 (ἄπφαν τὴν ἀδελφήν); 2.111.14 (οἷον ἄπφαν τὴν ἀδελφὴν Ἀττικῶς μόνη ἡ ἀδελφὴ εἴποι ἄν); also Photius, Lexicon α 2759 (ἄπφα· ἀδελφῆς καὶ ἀδελφοῦ ὑποκόρισμα).

94. DELG under the entry ἄπφα.

95. Pollux Onomasticon 3.74.3

96. Eustathius, Iliad commentary 2.111.17 and 3.591.7.

97. Didymus Caecus (MPG vol. 39, p. 656, line 5).

98. This onomatopoetic alternation psitta / sitta (ψίττα / ϲίττα) is mentioned by Zuntz (1951:17n31), who compares the modern alternation psst! / sst!—but who in the end rejects the relevance of such examples to the alternation Psapphō / Sapphō. Olga Levaniouk has found another example of such onomatopoetic alternation: in the dictionary of Hesychius under the entry sellizesthai, we see an equation being made with psellizesthai (σελλίζεσθαι· ψελλίζεσθαι). The attested meanings of both these words show clearly that they derive from the onomatopoetics of baby talk. For example, Aristotle explicitly uses the word psellizesthai in referring to childish speech patterns (Historia animalium 4.536b8).

99. In the case of the form Psapphō (Ψαπφώ), which reflects the spelling that survives in the textual tradition of Sappho, we might have expected some kind of formulaic alternation with the form Sapphō (Cαπφώ). Within the system of Aeolic songmaking, the placement of Sapphō might have been needed after short word-final vowels in order to avoid ‘making position’, whereas Psapphō could be used wherever there was no need to avoid ‘making position’.

Appendix: more on the name of Sappho

In Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2017.08.32, Alexander Dale (2017.08.21 in my Bibliography for Sappho 0), commented on my proposed etymology for the name of Sappho.  I wrote a response, published in Bryn Mawr Classical Review (Nagy 2017.08.28 in the Bibliography), which I quote here:

Alexander Dale writes: “Nagy’s correlation of the PN [personal name] Σαπφώ with the Lallwort [babble word] ἄπφα entails positing a common noun *sapphō already in Proto-Greek.” I disagree with his reformulation of my argument. A common noun like *sapphō would be a “Lallwort,” yes, but not a “Proto-Greek” Lallwort. The wording misleads here. Like Dale, I think that the imperial-era variations of names such as Σαπφώ and Ἀπφία need to be explained in terms of Anatolian languages, but I disagree when he says that the geographic distribution of these names indicates a “source” that is “Anatolian (non‑Greek)”: rather, I would say that such variations resulted from long-standing linguistic contacts between Greek and non‑Greek cultures in Anatolia. It is nowadays well known that non‑Greek Anatolian languages had been in contact with the Greek language already in the second millennium BCE—so, for a long time before the era of Sappho. I continue to think that there was a lengthy prehistory as well as history of variations involving a form like ἄπφα, which was used either as a Lallwort or as a name derived from such a Lallwort. These variations, especially in the regional context of Anatolia and its environs, could include formations with or without an initial prevocalic s-, or even with an initial ps-. I see nothing that is “proto-Greek,” however, in such variations. I close, for now, with one more relevant observation: the use of such a Lallwort as a name would have been not only an old custom but a “new” one as well. Even today, after all, people whose “PN” is simultaneously a Lallwort would surely know that their personal name is a term of endearment. That is what I am saying also about the name of Sappho: it was a term of endearment. And the meaning of such a Lallwort as ‘sister’ would be secondary.

Essay 5: Sappho, between lyric and epic

5§0. So far, we have viewed the songmaking of Sappho as a medium that is symmetrical, in the world of lyric songs performed by women, with the songmaking of Alcaeus in the corresponding world of lyric songs performed by men. But there is another major correspondence that that we have not yet viewed. The lyric traditions exemplified by Sappho in the world of women’s songs are also symmetrical with the epic traditions exemplified by Homeric poetry.

5§1. I return here to a comment I made in a book titled The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours (Nagy 2013), abbreviated here as H24H. In Hour 4§§15–20, I focus on Song 44 of Sappho, which narrates a scene that has no parallel in the Homeric Iliad. This scene centers on the wedding of Hector and Andromache. At H24H 4§20, I formulate an overall “take-away” from that analysis: “Song 44 of Sappho is an example of epic as refracted in women’s songmaking traditions.” And I simply give a reference there to an earlier analysis that I had attempted, in a book titled Homeric Questions = HQ, Nagy 1996b.

5§2. I now think that the reference I gave in H24H was too brief, too fleeting. I did not fully do justice to a very important point that needs to be made. And the point is, women’s songmaking traditions can be very different, in both form and content, from men’s songmaking traditions.

5§3. I can do no better than quote from Homeric Questions (= HQ = Nagy 1996b), where I focus on the realities of epic songmaking in India today (HQ 56–57):

In the course of [surveying the phenomenon of] occasionality in the living epic traditions of India, we may note in passing that epic, as a form of public activity, is performed almost exclusively by male singers (Blackburn and Flueckiger 1989:9). The rarely found exceptions, however, are particularly revealing. For background to the case about to be cited, we may note that the Ahir caste of Uttar Pradesh appropriates an epic known as the Lorik-Candā (Flueckiger 1989 [hereafter abbreviated “F.”] p. 36); this epic “helps to maintain the Ahirs’ image of themselves as a warrior caste (F. p. 41).” [The quotations from F. continue here.] “It is primarily Ahirs who sponsor performances at occasions such as weddings and the birth of a child. The Lorik-Candā epic is also sung at various festivals, during the harvest season, and at village or town fairs (F. p. 37).” In Chhattisgarh, the corresponding epic is called Candainī, and it is with the background of reference to this tradition that we turn to an exceptional case of performance by women. The researcher reports as follows: “One night as I was recording an elderly Gond (tribal) woman singing a variety of narrative songs, she began singing about the wedding of the epic heroine and her first husband. But the woman did not consider this to be Candainī singing (F. p. 40).” The narrative content in fact corresponds to Candainī, but the form is different: a distinct rāg ‘tune’ and style ([as we read further in] F. p. 40). In this case, we find a striking ancient Greek parallel in Sappho [Song] 44, the so-called “Wedding of Hector and Andromache”: this song, composed in a meter that is cognate with but distinct from the epic dactylic hexameter, deals in a non‑epic manner with themes that are otherwise characteristic of epic (GIM = Nagy 1974:118–139). We have here a particularly striking example of the effects of a given occasion on the very nature of epic composition. Just as the song of Sappho about the Wedding of Hector and Andromache is exceptional in the history of Greek literature, so also the song of the elderly Gond woman proved to be exceptional in one particular researcher’s survey of living Indian oral epic traditions. It may well be worth asking whether this discovery about women’s traditions in India would have been possible if the researcher in this case, Joyce Flueckiger, did not happen to be a woman. The question is whether a woman researcher would be deemed by her women informants to be more suitable for the reception of distinctly women’s traditions.

5§4. The answer to the question I posed here is, obviously, yes. Later on, I had the good fortune of following up with this researcher, Joyce Flueckiger, whom I persuaded to publish a whole book on the subject of “gender and genre” in the living oral traditions of India (Flueckiger 1996 in the Bibliography below). I am proud to have served as the general editor of the Cornell University Press series in which this book was published.

5§5. In general, the research of Joyce Flueckiger raises many other important questions of relevance to the nature of epic as “a comprehensive totality.” In an essay titled “The Epic Hero” (EH=Nagy 2006), I focus on this notion of epic as a notional totality, and I quote here my relevant comments (EH §40):

A typological comparandum for the notion of epic as a comprehensive totality is the case of heroic epics and dramas at festivals in latter-day India: the measure of totality in the performing of these epics and dramas is determined by the ideologies of the festivals that serve as the historical contexts for such performances. Impartial observers of actual performances of epics at festivals in latter-day India have found that there are various different ways of imagining and realizing a notional totality for these epics (Flueckiger 1996:133–134). There are even cases of differences determined by gender: when women instead of men sing the “same” epic, observers have found differences in form (meter, melody, phraseology) and even in content (Flueckiger 1989:36–40; HQ=Nagy 1996b:56–57, as quoted above). There are close parallels to be found in the songs of Sappho about epic heroes like Hector and Andromache (Sappho [Song] 44; again, comments by Nagy 1996b:57). Still, despite all the variables, the actual notion of epic as a totality remains a constant.

5§6. So far, I have focused on comparative evidence for arguing that Song 44 of Sappho shows the existence of ancient Greek traditions of women’s songmaking about the epic past. In terms of that argument, such traditions of women’s songmaking were distinct from but related to traditions of epic—which was a form of poetry produced by men, not by women. But now I take the argument further: Song 44 of Sappho, which has a form conventionally described as lyric, is not only related to the form of epic as exemplified by the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey: more than that, this form of lyric, like the form of epic, originates from an oral tradition.

5§7. In earlier work, I have made such an argument mainly in two pieces of writing as listed in the Bibliography: Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter = GIM=Nagy 1974, Chapter 5, and Pindar’s Homer = PH=Nagy 1990a, the Appendix. The first of these two pieces is an overall summary, while the second adds an essential qualification. I summarize here the argument by dividing it up into ten points, where each point depends on the preceding point. Thus the rest of 5§7 consists of these ten points:

A ten-point argument about Song 44 of Sappho and about Homeric poetry

Point 1. I link the term oral with the idea of formula as defined in Parry 1928a and Parry 1928b, and as redefined in HQ=Nagy 1996b:29.

Point 2. I follow a unified argument made by Lord 1960:47: In an oral composition, everything is formulaic. Lord’s teacher Milman Parry (1928a:10–11 = 1971:8–9) made a comparable observation about ancient Greek oral traditions, with reference to the all-pervasive formulaic system of Homeric poetry. And I follow the various arguments of Parry 1928ab/1930/1932 and of Lord 1960: that Homeric poetry originates from oral traditions.

Point 3. The formulaic structure of the meter that we find in Song 44 of Sappho, glyc^2da, which can be described superficially as a dactylic pentameter, is cognate with the formulaic structure of the epic meter of Homeric poetry, which is commonly described as the dactylic hexameter. So, if the two formulaic structures are cognate, it follows that both originate from oral traditions. That is one of the main points I made in GIM=Nagy 1974, Chapter 5.

Point 4. The meters that contain the formulaic structures of Song 44 and of Homeric poetry, dactylic hexameter and dactylic pentameter, are likewise cognate. That is another one of the main points I made in Nagy 1974, Chapter 5.

Point 5. On the basis of comparable meters that are found in Indo-European languages other than Greek, especially in Indic (Vedic Sanskrit), it can be argued that the meters of both Song 44 and Homeric poetry are Indo-European in origin. That is yet another one of the main points I made in Nagy 1974, Chapter 5.

Point 6. Others too have argued that the meters found in the songs or lyric poetry of Sappho—as also of Alcaeus, and in other Greek lyric poetry—are cognate with the meter of Homeric poetry. Examples include the works of West 1973ab, Berg 1978, Tichy 1981, Haug and Welo 2001. What all these works have in common, despite many incompatibilities in methodology, is a general agreement that the multiple meters of Greek lyric and the single meter of epic are Indo-European in origin. But none of these works addresses this question: does lyric, like epic, have a formulaic structure?

Point 7. The work of Gentili and Giannini 1977 likewise argues that the meters of lyric and epic are cognate—but without positing an Indo-European origin. This work also challenges the positing of any so-called “monogenetic” origin of “epic” meter from any single “lyric” meter. Such a challenge applies to all the works mentioned at Point 6.

Point 8. The same challenge also applies to GIM=Nagy 1974, Chapter 5. But the arguments presented there were then supplemented by the arguments in PH=Nagy 1990a, Appendix, where the dactylic hexameter of “epic” is explained as a convergence of two different formulaic systems contained in two different metrical systems found in “lyric”. Those two metrical systems can be described in terms of the nomenclature applied to studies of the meters found in the lyric poetry of Pindar: “Aeolic” and “dactylo-epitrite”. The “Aeolic” meters of Pindar are cognate with the meters found in the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus, while the “dactylo-epitrite” meters of Pindar are cognate with the meters found especially in the songs of Stesichorus. For more on Pindar’s meters, I cite Barnes 2013; on lyric and epic meters in general, I cite Barnes 2011.

Point 9. The dual “etymology”, as outlined at Point 8, of dactylic hexameter as the singular meter of “epic” accounts for every major word-break pattern in this meter, as argued in PH=Nagy 1996a, the Appendix. By contrast, the other etymologies as attempted in the works listed at Point 6 cannot account for all these breaks.

Point 10. There are similar problems with the “colon-theory” of Fränkel 1960, where the operation of “cola” is not correlated with the operation of “formulae” as described in Parry 1928b and in GIM=Nagy 1974, Chapter 3. Fränkel’s theory cannot account for the full range of formulaic variation in the making of Homeric verse (GMP=Nagy 1990b:29–35; also Clark 1994, 1997).

Three comments on formula and meter, with reference to Song 44 of Sappho and to Homeric poetry

5§8. The ten points that I have just formulated lead to three specific comments about formula and meter.

Comment 1, via PH=Nagy 1990a:49 (= 1§60). The metrical structure of Song 44 is stichic and not strophic. The term stichic refers to a structure that goes from verse to verse, by contrast with. the term strophic, which refers to a structure that goes from stanza to stanza. The stichic rather than strophic meters of “lyric” are actually attested as usable for extended narratives of a type parallel to “epic”, composed in the dactylic hexameter, which is the stichic meter of “non‑lyric” par excellence. A prime example of a stichic structure in “lyric” is Song 44 of Sappho, featuring a narrative that has a heroic setting: this song is composed in a stichic meter, glyc^2da, on which I refer back to PH=Nagy 1996a Appendix. All of Book II of the canonical Sapphic corpus was composed in this meter: Hephaestion 7.7, p. 23.14–17 ed. Consbruch. This meter, glyc^2da, even though it is stichic here, is clearly cognate with various strophic meters of Lesbian “lyric”. An example is glyc^1da in Song 94 of Sappho, on which I refer back to PH=Nagy 1996a, Appendix. Stichic meters of narrative “lyric” such as the glyc^2da of Song 44, conventionally sung to the accompaniment of the lyre, are doubtless more closely related than is the spoken meter of hexameter to the format of the South Slavic guslar who sings to the accompaniment of the gusle. In this connection, I quote West 1973a:188: “If there was epic or heroic balladry in (say) 1600 [BCE], its characteristic verse was most likely the glyconic [= glyc], whose cognates are used in Sanskrit and Slavic epic.”

Comment 2, via GIM=Nagy 1974, Chapter 5, and PH=Nagy 1990a, Appendix. The formulas of Song 44 are cognate with the formulas of Homeric poetry. If we map these formulas within the respective metrical frames of glyc^2da in the case of Song 44 and of pher^3da in the case of one of the two metrical prototypes of dactylic hexameter, we find a general pattern of matching formulas shaped …uu – uu # xx… in Song 44 and …uu – uu || –x# in Homeric poetry. (The symbols here are u = short syllable, – = long syllable, x  = short or long syllable, # = word-break at the end/beginning of two consecutive verses, || = word-break inside a verse.) A prime example is …κλέοc ἄφθιτον # (xx)… in Song 44.4 and …κλέοc ἄφθιτον || ἔcται# in Iliad 9.413–414. Matching the formulaic pattern of pher^3da here in Homeric poetry is the formulaic pattern of pher^1da in Ibycus SLG 151.47, where we find…κλέος ἄφθιτον || ἑξεῖς#. What is most remarkable in such matching patterns is that the wordings fit independently their respective metrical and formulaic frames. To show this independence, I cite the case of …ἐπ’ ἄλμυρον # πόντον… in Song 44.7–8, where the matching phrase …ἁλμυρὸν || ὕδωρ# in Odyssey 9.470 etc. has an underlying variant …ἁλμυρὸν … πόντον, as we can see from expressions like …ἁλμυρὸς ἔτρεφε Πόντος# and …ἁλμυρὸς ἔνδοθι πόντος# in Hesiod Theogony 107 and 964, respectively. In other words it seems that ὕδωρ displaces πόντος in certain environments, not the other way around.

Comment 3, via GIM=Nagy 1974:145. In the case of the correspondence between “lyric” …κλέοc ἄφθιτον # (xx)… in Song 44.4 and “epic” …κλέοc ἄφθιτον || ἔcται # in Iliad 9.413–414, the further correspondence of these phrases with Sanskrit śráva(s) … ákşitam in Rig-Veda 1.9.7 points to an Indo-European heritage for the formulas and meters of ancient Greek verbal art. On the syntax of κλέοc ἄφθιτον | ἔcται # in Iliad 9.413–414 and of śráva(s) … ákşitam in Rig-Veda 1.9.7, I offer both comparative and internal analysis in PH=Nagy 1990a:244–245n126 and GMP=Nagy 1990b:122–127.

A general formulation about formula and meter

5§9. My three specific comments, as I have just presented them, lead to a general formulation about formula and meter. Viewed from the broader perspective of Indo-European poetics, the terms formula and meter can be readjusted to accommodate such broader terms as phrase and rhythm. I have devised a formulation with such a readjustment in mind:

At first, the reasoning goes, traditional phraseology simply contains built-in rhythms. Later, the factor of tradition leads to the preference of phrases with some rhythms over phrases with other rhythms. Still later, the preferred rhythms have their own dynamics and become regulators of any incoming non‑traditional phraseology. By becoming a viable structure in its own right, meter may evolve independently of traditional phraseology. Recent metrical developments may even obliterate aspects of the selfsame traditional phraseology that had engendered them, if these aspects no longer match the meter.

(GIM=Nagy 1974:145; also Allen 1973:13–14, 258; further analysis in GMP=Nagy 1990b:39–42.)

A postscript to the featured image for this essay

5§10. The featured image at the start of this essay is taken from one of the many versions of “Hector and Andromache” as painted by Giorgio de Chirico. This 1926 version is my personal favorite. There is something singularly arresting about the bare back of Andromache, revealed at the tenderly vulnerable moment when she sadly parts with Hector for the very last time.

5§11. I add here as a coda, with the permission of the artist, Fyodor S. Wheeler, a picture that takes a second look at the picture made by De Chirico.

5§12. We see again the vulnerable bareness of the sad woman’s back, but now this woman in the foreground is not Andromache but another sad woman who is looking at a picture of Andromache. This sad woman is Porcia, wife of Brutus. The story is told in Plutarch’s Life of Brutus, and I will quote here my translation of this story, first published in an essay listed as Nagy 2015.08.12 in the Bibliography.

5§13. In Plutarch’s Life of Brutus we see the figure of Porcia expressing her intense feelings of foreboding as she contemplates the doom that awaits her husband at the Battle of Philippi. Instead of lamenting, over and over again, Porcia reverts—over and over again—to a timeless picture of such lamentation, as performed by Andromache in her feelings of foreboding over the impending doom of her husband Hector. Brutus will soon die just as Hector will soon die in the Iliad, and Porcia is having herself a really good cry, just thinking about the sadness of it all while she views an ancient picture of the final parting of Andromache and Hector:

[23.2] ὅθεν ἡ Πορκία μέλλουσα πάλιν εἰς Ῥώμην ἀποτραπέσθαι λανθάνειν μὲν ἐπειρᾶτο περιπαθῶς ἔχουσα, γραφὴ δέ τις αὐτὴν προὔδωκε τἆλλα γενναίαν οὖσαν. ἦν γὰρ ἐκ τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν διάθεσις, προπεμπόμενος Ἕκτωρ ὑπὸ Ἀνδρομάχης κομιζομένης παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ τὸ παιδίον, ἐκείνῳ δὲ προσβλεπούσης. [23. 3] ταῦτα θεωμένην τὴν Πορκίαν ἡ τοῦ πάθους εἰκὼν ἐξέτηξεν εἰς δάκρυα: καὶ πολλάκις φοιτῶσα τῆς ἡμέρας ἔκλαιεν.

[23.2] As Porcia was preparing to return from there [= from the retinue of Brutus heading for Philippi] to Rome, she tried to conceal her extreme emotional state, but a certain painting [graphē] gave her away, in spite of her noble character. The subject [of the painting] was derived from Greek traditions. It showed Hector at the moment when Andromache is saying goodbye to him as he goes off [to war] and she is taking back from his arms their little child while her gaze is riveted on him [= Hector]. [23.3] As Porcia was gazing at all this, the picture [eikōn] of the emotion [pathos] caused her to dissolve into tears, and she kept on revisiting it many times a day and weeping over it.

Plutarch Life of Brutus 23.2–3

5§14. To my mind, a most faithful approximation of the kind of ancient picture that would have evoked the hidden tears of Porcia is this image:

The final parting of Hector & Andromache. After John Flaxman (1755 – 1826) 1 March 1805

5§15. I comment further at 1§§208–211 of my book Homer the Classic, and I epitomize here. The story of Plutarch goes on to compare Porcia with Andromache, who is pictured as the most accomplished singer of laments in Homeric poetry. Andromache was sent back to her weaving after her own final lamenting farewell to Hector. My translation of Plutarch’s story continues:

Ἀκιλίου δέ τινος τῶν Βρούτου φίλων τὰ πρὸς Ἕκτορα 
τῆς Ἀνδρομάχης ἔπη διελθόντος·

Ἕκτορ, ἀτὰρ σύ μοί ἐσσι πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ
ἠδὲ κασίγνητος, σὺ δέ μοι θαλερὸς παρακοίτης
[Iliad 6.429–430]

μειδιάσας ὁ Βροῦτος “ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐμοί γ’” εἶπε “πρὸς Πορκίαν ἔπεισι φάναι τὰ τοῦ Ἕκτορος·

<ἀλλ’ εἰς οἶκον ἰοῦσα τὰ σαυτῆς ἔργα κόμιζε,>
ἱστόν τ’ ἠλακάτην τε καὶ ἀμφιπόλοισι κέλευε·
[Iliad 6.490–491]

σώματος γὰρ ἀπολείπεται φύσει τῶν ἴσων ἀνδραγαθημάτων, γνώμῃ 
δ’ ὑπὲρ τῆς πατρίδος
ὥσπερ ἡμεῖς ἀριστεύσει.” ταῦτα μὲν ὁ τῆς Πορκίας υἱὸς ἱστόρηκε Βύβλος.

And when Acilius, one of the friends of Brutus, quoted the verses spoken by Andromache to Hector,

Hector, you are for me my father and my mother the queen
and my brother as well as my vibrant partner in lovemaking

[Iliad 6.429–430]

Brutus smiled and said: “But it does not even occur to me that I should say to Porcia the verses spoken by Hector:

But you [= Andromache] go back to the household and attend to your own work,
that is, the loom and the shuttle, giving orders to the handmaidens [who work for you].

[Iliad 6.490–491]

[Plutarch continues quoting the words of Brutus…] Even if she may not be physically up to performing deeds of valor that equal those of men, when it comes to her powers of mind, she can perform the greatest deeds of valor just like me.” This story about Porcia was told by her son Bibulus.

Plutarch Life of Brutus 23.3–6

5§16. The idea of being sent back to your weaving is equated in this story with the idea of being sent back, again and again, to weaving the original picture, which is a tapestry that recounts the sorrows of war as experienced by Andromache.[3] We see here a poetics of retrospection, which is already at work in Homeric poetry. In an exquisite moment, we see Andromache herself returning again and again to the original picture of her last farewell to Hector:

ἐντροπαλιζομένη, θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυ χέουσα

She was turning her head back again and again, shedding tears thick and fast.[4]

Iliad 6.496

5§17. Andromache and Hector have just parted for the last time, turning away from each other and heading in opposite directions. He is going off to die while she is going back to her weaving. As she is being led away, Andromache keeps turning her head back again and again, entropalizomenē, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the receding view of her doomed husband.[5]

5§18. Just as Andromache is shaping her last mental image of her last parting with Hector, so also the poetry of epic is shaping the last mental image of Andromache in its own act of retrospective, of returning to the fixed image. Every time Homeric poetry is performed, it can return once again to the picture of Andromache in the act looking back to see if she can capture one last glimpse of Hector. It is a world of tears, and there is a world of beauty in these tears. To quote Virgil (Aeneid 1.462), sunt lacrimae rerum ‘there are tears [lacrimae] that connect with the real world [res plural], and things that happen to mortals touch [tangere] the mind [mens]. To look back on this world is to look back on perfection, in all its frozen beauty. Homeric poetry is like that: it looks back on its own crystallized perfection.

Essay 6: Sappho and mythmaking in the context of an Aeolian-Ionian poetic Sprachbund.

6§0. Once again this time, my starting point here is Song 44 of Sappho, “The Wedding of Hector and Andromache.” My focus, this time, is on Aeolian myths about a walled city by the name of Thēbē, located on the Mainland of Asia Minor, south of Mount Ida. In what follows, I will examine the existence of distinctly Aeolian myths about this city, which is actually mentioned in Song 44 of Sappho. And I will argue that these myths can be linked to Aeolian mythologizing about another walled city, ancient Troy, located northwest of Mount Ida. As we will see, the proud old city of Troy, better known as Ilion in the historical period of the ancient world, was appropriated and re‑mythologized by Aeolians whose cultural identity can be reconstructed by studying the poetic world of Sappho and Alcaeus (on this general subject, I cite the pioneering work of Antonio Aloni 1986, 1989, 2006). Before I proceed with my own argumentation, however, I must offer some background on Ilion and the Aeolians, and I must also explain what I mean by the term “Aeolian-Ionian Sprachbund” as I use it in the title of this essay.

Ilion and the Aeolians

6§1. After a major destruction of the citadel at old Troy sometime around the beginning of the 12th century BCE, which marks the end of a phase that archaeologists recognize as Troy VIIa, the importance of the site was radically diminished, and things stayed that way through the phase known as Troy VIIb, lasting into the 10th century BCE. After Troy VIIb comes Troy VIII, which marks a “Greek era” extending all the way to the so-called “Roman era” that is Troy IX. In the earliest phase of Troy VIII, from the 10th to the mid‑7th century BCE, a small population was occupying the area of the citadel, and, on the western side of the citadel wall, they left behind some archaeological remains of a “place of memory” that must have commemorated in some way the epic traditions of the Trojan War (Aslan and Rose 2013:11). At a later phase of Troy VIII, in the mid‑7th century BCE, there was a destruction, to be followed in the late 7th century by a reoccupation. From this time onward, in the latest phase of Troy VIII, we see the beginnings of the historical period. By now the old Troy is on its way to becoming the new Troy, that is, New Ilion (on the historical and archaeological reality of the New Ilion, I cite the overview of Rose 2006). As I show in Homer the Preclassic (Nagy 2010|2009), which I continue to abbreviate as HPC, the city of old Troy—in its reinvented phase as New Ilion—was Aeolian. That is, the city was occupied by an Aeolian population who were speakers of the Greek dialect known as Aeolic—and who were rivals of another Greek-speaking population, the Ionians, whose dialect is known as Ionic (HPC 131–132 = I §§1–5).

6§2. Here I use the words Aeolic and Ionic as linguistic terms referring to Greek-speakers who differentiated themselves culturally as Aeolians and Ionians. I provide details in an extensive essay (Nagy 2011b, republished online as Nagy 2023.08.22 ) where I argue for the historical existence of a Sprachbund linking the Aeolic and the Ionic dialects of Asia Minor, despite the intense political and cultural rivalries that preoccupied the Aeolian and the Ionian speakers of these dialects.

The concept of Sprachbund

6§3. The general comments I present here on the concept of Sprachbund are derived from an essay (Nagy 2016.05.19 §10b) where I review some relevant observations of Roman Jakobson (starting in 1931). As he observes (Jakobson 1949), whenever two given languages make contact with each other, whatever changes are caused by such contact need to be seen in terms of the overall structures of both languages. Thus the changes, in terms of Jakobson’s concept of Sprachbund, are mutual. And the changes are mutual not only linguistically but even culturally. So, the concept of Sprachbund can be applied not only to linguistic contact but also, more generally, to cultural contact. And, further, any such contact needs to be viewed as a historical contingency, which requires historical analysis. Diachronic analysis is in this case insufficient, since it cannot predict history (Nagy 2011a §16). That is why I describe as historical the comparative method required for the study of changes resulting from intercultural contact. The historical method depends on synchronic analysis of the parallel structures being compared. But it cannot depend—or at least it cannot fully depend—on diachronic analysis, which cannot independently account for historical contingencies (again, Nagy 2011a §16).

The argument about Aeolian identity

6§4. In my ongoing commentary on the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey (Nagy 2022.12.01), I argue that the Aeolian identity of Thēbē and of other such cities in the region of Mount Ida and beyond can be reconstructed on the basis of Homeric references to these places. For this argument to work, I have to show that Homeric poetry, as a system, evolved by way of contacts between Aeolian and Ionian poetic traditions—contacts that can best be explained in terms of an already pre‑existing Aeolian-Ionian poetic Sprachbund.

6§5. In terms of my argument, the references made in Homeric poetry to the Aeolian identity of cities like Thēbē are only latent. That is because the formulaic system of Homeric poetry—what Milman Parry once described as Homeric diction—is primarily Ionic, though it is also secondarily Aeolic. As I show in my essay, already cited, on the Aeolic component of Homeric poetry (Nagy 2011b), the diction of this poetry is dominantly Ionic, and it is only recessively Aeolic. By contrast, we see an inverted relationship in the formulaic system underlying the songs of Sappho (and Alcaeus), to which I will hereafter refer short-hand as Sapphic diction. Here is my working formula: Sapphic diction is dominantly Aeolic and recessively Ionic.

6§6. Relevant here is my earliest publication on the Aeolic dialect of Sappho, listed in the Bibliography as Nagy 1974. In Chapter 5 of that book, I concentrated on the metrical and phraseological parallelisms between what we find in the predominantly Aeolic dialect of Song 44 of Sappho and what we find in the predominantly Ionic dialect of Homeric poetry. In analyzing these parallelisms, I explained them as cognate structures—in other words, as structures that can be reconstructed backward in time to a common linguistic origin. So, just as the Aeolic dialect and the Ionic dialect can be reconstructed backward in time to a common language that is conventionally known as “Common Greek,” so also the predominantly Aeolic diction of lyric songs attributed to Sappho and the predominantly Ionic diction of epic poetry attributed to Homer can be reconstructed backward in time to a common poetic language. But now I extend the argument. The parallel forms that we find in the lyric songs of Sappho and in the epic poetry of Homer are not only cognate, resulting from a common linguistic origin. These Aeolian lyric and Ionian epic traditions result also from mutual contact between the two cognate poetic traditions, and such mutuality can best be explained as a poetic aspect of Aeolic-Ionic Sprachbund. Such a Sprachbund, moreover, operated not only on the level of form in language but also on the level of content in myth as a special language. I posit here a “contractual” sharing of myth. In a related essay (Nagy 2011c), I studied a comparable pattern of cultural “sharing,” with reference to myths attested in the sixth and the fifth centuries BCE about the heroic lineage of the Aiakidai ‘descendants of Aiakos’. In that case, the “contractual sharing” involved the island-state of Aegina and other states, some of which were political rivals or even enemies of Aegina.

Some details about Thēbē

6§7. The Aeolic form Thēbā, which is the place-name of the city of Thēbē, is actually attested in Sappho 44.6, Θήβαc ἐξ ἰέραc Πλακίαc τ’ ἀ[π’ ἀι]ν<ν>άω ‘from sacred [(h)ierā] Thēbā and from the region of Plakos, with its ever-flowing springs’. The epithet (h)ierā ‘sacred’ here corresponds to the epithet hierē ‘sacred’ as applied to the same city in Homeric poetry, at Iliad 1.366, where we read ἐc Θήβην ἱερὴν πόλιν Ἠετίωνοc ‘to Thēbē, the sacred [hierē] city of [the king] Ēëtiōn’. The name for this city, located to the south of Mount Ida, is attested also in an elliptic plural construction at Iliad 22.479, Θήβῃcιν ὑπὸ Πλάκῳ ὑληέccῃ ‘at Thēbai [= Thēbē together with its territories], under the heights of Plakos, with all its forests’. Foregrounded in the Iliad is the heroic feat of Achilles in destroying the walls of this city when he conquered it as well as another city, Aeolian Lyrnessos, which was likewise located to the south of Mount Ida. Here is what we read about these feats of Achilles in Iliad 2.691: Λυρνησσὸν διαπορθήσας καὶ τείχεα Θήβηc ‘[Achilles], having destroyed Lyrnessos and the walls of Thēbē’. Elsewhere in the Iliad, at 6.416, the spectacular view of the city wall is highlighted: Θήβην ὑψίπυλον ‘Thēbē, with its lofty gates’. Also highlighted, at 6.396–397, is the view of the overlooking mountain named Plakos, which was a smaller peak of the mountain range that is known after its greatest and highest peak, that is, Mount Ida, situated to the north of Mount Plakos. I quote here the precise Homeric wording at 6.396–397: ὑπὸ Πλάκῳ ὑληέσσῃ | Θήβῃ Ὑποπλακίῃ ‘under the heights of Plakos, with all its forests, at Thēbē, [which is the city that they name as] Hypo-Plakiē, [meaning] under-the-heights-of-Plakos’. A parallel view, as we saw a moment ago, is highlighted in Sappho 44.6, Θήβαc ἐξ ἰέραc Πλακίαc τ’ ἀ[π’ ἀι]ν<ν>άω ‘from sacred [(h)ierā] Thēbā and from the region of Plakos, with its ever-flowing springs’.

6§8. Such details in Song 44 of Sappho, I argue, are cognate with the corresponding details that we find in Homeric poetry. In terms of my argument, the distinctly native Aeolian details in Sappho’s songs are not at all “borrowed” from corresponding details we find in Homeric poetry. In other words, the cultural/linguistic identity of any one of the details we have seen so far in Sappho’s songs is distinctly Aeolian/Aeolic and thus home-grown, as it were. On the other hand, again in terms of my argument, the Ionian/Ionic references to these same details in the Homeric Iliad are not really “borrowings,” either. Rather, such references are inheritances from earlier phases of the same or nearly same Aeolic songmaking traditions that primarily shaped Sappho’s songmaking. In the case of the prehistoric figure of Homer, by contrast, this earlier form of songmaking—which I continue to call Homeric poetry—had been shaped only secondarily by Aeolic songmaking traditions, In this case, the primary source of linguistic and cultural shaping was Ionic, not Aeolic. But even here, the secondary source of shaping, which can be traced back to the Aeolic dialect and to the culture of the Aeolians, was a cognate source, not a “borrowing.” So, even in this case, I resist the term “borrowing”—if the underlying assumption, in using such a word, is that some poet is taking something out of one poetic text and putting it into another poetic text. From the standpoint of oral poetics, a word that would be far more apt than “borrowing” here is the word exchange, in the sense of a mutual “borrowing” between pre‑attested phases of Homeric diction on the one hand and, on the other hand, what I have been calling “Sapphic diction.” We are dealing here, I argue, with the dynamics of Sprachbund between pre‑attested phases of Ionian and Aeolian oral poetry in a geographical context of regional proximity between Ionians inhabiting the central latitudes of territories bordering on the East Side of the Aegean Sea and Aeolians inhabiting the more northern latitudes. And, in terms of my argument, such a pre‑attested exchange of poetic traditions would have led to attested patterns of recessive “Aeolicisms” in the predominantly Ionic diction of Homeric poetry, the textual record of which allows us to reconstruct earlier phases of linguistic evolution that match what I describe as correspondingly earlier phases to be reconstructed on the basis what little we have left of Sappho’s songs.

6§9. Despite the meager textual evidence, though, I should note that we can still find recessive “Ionicisms,” at least residually, in the Aeolic diction of Sappho. For an instructive example, I highlight two attestations, in Sappho’s Song 44, of line-final dative plurals in -οιc. In this song, we find line-final dative φίλοιc at line 12 and line-final dative θέοιc at line 21. In the Aeolic dialect of poetry attributed to both Sappho and Alcaeus, we expect line-medial dative -οιcι but line-final dative -οιc, as for example at line 15 in Song 130b of Alcaeus, where we find both the line-medial and the line-final forms coexisting in a single phrase, …cυνόδοιcί μ’ αὔτοιc#, with line-medial cυνόδοιcι but line-final αὔτοιc. There is a comparable pattern, as noted by Denys Page (1955:208), in the Ionic dialect of poetry attributed to Archilochus and Anacreon, where we find line-medial dative -οιcι but line-final dative -οιc.

On recessive Aeolicisms in Homeric poetry

6§10. I now take a closer look at examples of recessive “Aeolicisms” in Homeric poetry. From here on, however, I will no longer frame this word within quotation-marks, since my aim is to show that traces of Aeolic dialect and of Aeolian culture in Homeric poetry are verifiable both linguistically and historically. That is what I mean when I say Aeolicisms: they are genuine traces of Aeolic dialect or of Aeolian culture. Such Aeolicisms are all relevant, directly or indirectly, to the genuinely Aeolian details we have already read about the city of Thēbē and about other such Aeolian locales. In the following sub‑paragraphs, numbered  #A through #J, I begin my argumentation with special reference to my online commentary on the Iliad and Odyssey (Nagy 2022.12.01), where I provide an “anchor comment” on Iliad 9.128–131 and 270–272.

#A. The story that is being told at 9.128–131 and retold at 9.270–272 centers on one single stunning event: Achilles captured the entire island of Lesbos. By implication, this island became Aeolian precisely because it was captured by the principal hero of the Aeolians.

#B. The vastness of this story is even broader in scope, since we can see in the Iliad occasional references to other such conquests accomplished by Achilles. Most prominent are the Iliadic references to his capturing of two cities located on the Aeolian mainland of Asia Minor: they are Lyrnessos and Thēbē.

#C. In the Iliad, the conquering of Lyrnessos by Achilles and his capturing of the woman Briseis there are mentioned for the first time at 2.690–691. What then follows at 2.691 is a mention of his conquering the walled city of Thēbē as well. Thēbē is mentioned already at 1.366: it was there that Achilles captured another woman, Chryseis, when he conquered that city, 1.366–369. (For background on Briseis and on Chryseis, I strongly recommend the work of Dué 2002 and 2006.)

#D. Another native of Thēbē was Andromache, who had already been married off to Hector at Troy before the beginning of the Trojan War: she was taken captive only later, after Troy was captured, and she was then allotted as a war-prize to the son of Achilles, Neoptolemos. That story is told in an epic that was part of the Epic Cycle and was known as the Iliou Persis ‘Destruction of Ilion’, attributed to Arctinus of Miletus (the retelling is by Proclus, p. 108 line 9 ed. Allen 1912).

#E. The conquests of Aeolian territories by Achilles in the heroic age, especially his capture of the entire island of Lesbos, can be interpreted as a charter myth that aetiologizes a “colonization,” sometime in the post-heroic age, of East Aeolian territories by West Aeolian migrants originating from Thessaly and other regions of the European mainland. I focus here on the European region of Thessaly, which was the reputed birthplace of Achilles (Nagy 2011b:171–173).

#F. In speaking here of East Aeolian territories, I am of course referring to the islands of Lesbos and Tenedos, together with the facing coastland of northern Asia Minor. The “colonization” of this area has conventionally been described as the “Aeolian Migration,” and the term migration here matches neatly the appropriate Greek word, apoikiā, as used in Strabo 9.2.3 C401 and elsewhere (Nagy 2011b:161). I will have more details to offer, at 6§13, about such an Aeolian Migration.

#G. The reference at 9.129 of the Iliad to captive women from Lesbos, who were captured by Achilles when he captured the entire island, can be correlated with the poetic traditions of Lesbos as later attested in the songs of Sappho and Alcaeus, both dated around 600 BCE. These poetic traditions, which are decidedly Aeolian, derive not only from the island of Lesbos but also from the island of Tenedos and from the mainland of northern Asia Minor facing these two islands (HPC 184–185 = II §§134–135).

#H. Traces of these Aeolian poetic traditions can be seen in the Iliadic references to such figures as Briseis, Chryseis, Andromache, and the seven unnamed captive women from Lesbos. All these figures derive from Aeolian poetic traditions, and the same can be said about the figure of Achilles himself: in terms of his poetic heritage, he is Achilles the Aeolian (Nagy 2011b:171–172.)

#I. But there is an important difference to be highlighted here: Achilles is a West Aeolian from European Thessaly, while the captive women in the Iliad are all East Aeolians who lived on the mainland of northern Asia Minor and on the offshore islands of Lesbos and Tenedos.

#J. By studying the Ionian poetic traditions of epic as exemplified by Homeric poetry, we can reconstruct how this epic tradition, in earlier phases of its evolution, was influenced by Aeolian poetic traditions, both West Aeolian and East Aeolian. One difficulty, however, is that such traditions, as reconstructed for earlier phases of Homeric poetry, are not attested in the form of surviving texts. But there are of course attestations, dating back to around 600 BCE, in the form of texts attributed to Sappho and Alcaeus (HPC 149 = II §§47–49, 241 = II §301; also BA 140–141 = 7§29).

6§11. Earlier, at #G of 6§10, I was already speaking of a “correlation,” in the predominantly Ionian poetics of the Homeric Iliad, between Ionian and Aeolian perspectives concerning the relationship of West Aeolians and East Aeolians. But such a correlation, as we will see, can reveal hostility between East and West. And then the question will be, how can a correlation be negative as well as positive? Here is where we can look for answers in the operation of a cultural as well as linguistic Sprachbund that connects Ionian and Aeolian poetic traditions, The Sprachbund can be seen as an operative connectivity between enemies as well as allies. As I noted already, Sprachbund as a system can operate even between enemies, not only between non‑enemies. And, as we are about to see, there is evidence for a pattern of hostility between Ionians and East Aeolians. Further, we will also see that the predominantly Ionian poetic tradition of the Homeric Iliad is clearly taking sides, as it were, in favor of the West Aeolians against the East Aeolians.

6§12. Just as the myths of the West Aeolians picture their heroes as colonizers of territories to the East, across the Aegean Sea, where East Aeolians lived, so also the Ionian epic tradition of Homeric poetry, as ultimately curated in Athens, takes sides against these same East Aeolians by describing them as pre‑Aeolians who became Aeolians only after their territories were conquered by West Aeolians, notably by Thessalian Achilles. As we can learn, however, from copious evidence assembled by Roger Woodard (2025:7, 18–19), the East Aeolians were already inhabitants of their territories long before the mythologized time when the West Aeolians supposedly conquered and colonized these territories situated on the East Side of the Aegean Sea.

6§13. More needs to be said about myths that defined the ethnic identity of Ionians and Aeolians, even of East Ionians and West Ionians. In particular, I will need to focus on various different definitions of identity where myths tell about a migration of elite adventurers who cross the Aegean Sea, from the West Side to the East Side, with the supposedly noble purpose of colonizing territories situated on the East Side, Such myths, which are sometimes taken to be historical facts, are generally known as stories about an Aeolian Migration and an Ionian Migration. At Points #E and #F in 6§10, I already mentioned, in general, myths that told about the colonization of the Aeolian islands of Lesbos and Tenedos. In what follows, I will concentrate specifically on the relevant myths about Lesbos.

On myths that tell about the colonization of Lesbos

6§14. In some versions of myths about an Aeolian Migration, the island of Lesbos is the first point of contact made by migrants from the West Side with the East Side of the Aegean Sea. In terms of such myths, then becomes a new starting-point for further conquest and colonization. It is from there that the colonists then proceed to push ahead to the Asiatic mainland, narrowly separated from that island. A most striking example is a narrative, attested in the Herodotean Life of Homer, where it is claimed that even Homer himself was a native Aeolian. I summarize here the basics (following a much fuller analysis in HPC 141 = II §28):

One hundred thirty years after the Capture of Troy, Aeolian cities were founded on the island of Lesbos (sections 540–543), which had previously been a-polis, that is, ‘without any city’ (543).

Twenty years after this set of settlements on the island, the major Aeolian city of Cyme was founded on the mainland (543–544).

Eighteen years after this founding, the major Aeolian city of Smyrna was founded by Cyme and, in this year, Aeolian Homer was born in Aeolian Smyrna (545–547); thus the birth of Homer is dated 168 years after the Capture of Troy (552–553).

Six hundred twenty-two years after the birth of Homer, Xerxes crossed the Hellespont from Asia Minor to Europe (547–550).

6§15. There is a logic built into the fact that Lesbos is mythologized here as the very first point of contact in the claimed colonization of the East Side of the Aegean Sea by Aeolians who are crossing over this sea from the West Side. In the four sub‑paragraphs that follow, #A through #D, I offer some background before I proceed with an explanation of the logic I see here.

#A. If you look at a map of Lesbos, you can see that the island is separated from the mainland by narrow straits, and the narrowest parts of these straits correspond to the location of two major cities on the island. One is the city of Mytilene, located in the southeastern part of the island, while the other of the two is Methymna, located in the northern part.

#B. On the mainland across the narrow strait from the city of Mytilene, directly to the East of this island city, far off to the East, is ancient Pergamon.

#C. On the mainland across the narrow strait from the city of Methymna, directly to the North of this island city, far off to the North, is ancient Troy. Close by, across this same narrow strait, right after you cross over from the island to the mainland, is the headland of Lektos. As I noted already at 3§58, the heights of this headland slope upward—up toward the Northeast—all the way up to the highest peak of Mount Ida.

#D. In line with what I was already starting to suggest at 3§58 above, either one of these two island cities of Mytilene and Methymna could be imagined as the point of departure and the point of return in the myth about old Phaon the Ferryman, who used to ferry his passengers across a narrow strait from island to mainland and back. This Aeolian myth, as we saw earlier (at 2§36, 2§61b, 3§58), figures prominently in the poetic tradition of  Sappho (F 211 ed. Voigt, paraphrased at 2§61b).

6§16. With this background in place, it becomes evident, yes, that the island of Lesbos was geographically central to most of the territories inhabited by East Aeolians. The island had special access to the vast region commonly known as the Troad, a landscape visually dominated by the grand citadel of Troy, which as we have seen was situated directly to the North, and it also had special access to another vast region, commonly known as Mysia, visually dominated by another citadel, Pergamon, which as we have also seen was situated directly to the East.

6§17. But the island of Lesbos was central to these vast regions not only geographically but also politically. As we will now see, there was once an era, a historically attested era, when this island, under the leadership of its primary city, Mytilene, politically dominated the surrounding regions of the Troad and Mysia. More than that, the island of Lesbos once dominated not only the political landscape of these regions but also their epic landscape, since the Troad was the stage, as it were, for an epic narrative about the Trojan War. Besides the epic traditions about the war at Troy in the Troad, that is, at Ilion, where the pre‑eminent Iliadic hero of the war was Achilles, we find analogous epic traditions about an earlier war at Teuthrania in Mysia, and, in that war as well, the pre‑eminent epic hero was Achilles, as narrated in the Epic Cycle (Cypria, retelling by Proclus, p. 101 lines 4–11 ed. Allen).

On the ownership of Homeric poetry by Aeolians

6§18. With this background in place, I am ready to focus on a basic historical fact about the island of Lesbos. It has to do not only with political ownership of territories. It has to do also with the ownership of the poetry that was rooted in those territories. We have already seen that the island of Lesbos had owned, once upon a time, not only the Troad and Mysia, visually dominated by their proud old citadels of Ilion and Pergamon, but now we are about to see something new. The fact is, the island of Lesbos had also owned, once upon a time, the epic poetry of these regions, and thus it had even owned, as it were, the principal hero of that poetry, Achilles himself.

6§19. Before elaborating further on what I have just presented as a historical fact, I need to review some salient points I have already made about this island of Lesbos. We have by now seen that this island had once been, in effect, a powerful island-state with wide-reaching political control over the vast Aeolian regions situated across from the narrow straits that surrounded it. As an island, Lesbos was effectively a fortress, protected from the mainland but not at all isolated from its vast regions populated by Aeolian people—especially the regions of the Troad and Mysia. And here I return to a further point, made even earlier: we have also already seen that such people were not only speakers of the Aeolic dialect. They were also self-identified as an ethnic group, that is, as the Aeolians who were the proud speakers of their Aeolic dialect. Correspondingly, the epic traditions of these Aeolic-speaking people, including the people of Lesbos, were likewise Aeolian, and their principal hero, Achilles, was Aeolian as well. Even their Homer was a native Aeolian.

6§20. In the context of viewing the cultural pre‑eminence of Lesbos as an island-state that once defined the ethnic identity of East Aeolians, I have noted, in the course of a detailed analysis (HPC 142 = II §30), a relevant formulation by Strabo (13.2.1 C616), who describes this island as a single unified state that claimed to be the metropolis or ‘mother city’ of the Aeolian cities on the Asiatic mainland. And there is a comparable description in the Herodotean Life of Homer (sections 540–543) where, as I noted earlier at 6§14, it is claimed that the cities on the island of Lesbos were the first Aeolian communities to be founded by West Aeolian colonizers, and that this founding of cities happened one hundred thirty years after the Capture of Troy. In that sense, Lesbos was thus the epicenter of the so-called Aeolian Migration.

6§21. This narrative in the Life of Homer is to be correlated with a complementary narrative that I have already highlighted at #E and #F in 6§10: this narrative is a myth that we find folded into the overall epic narrative of the Homeric Iliad, at 9.128–131 and 270–273, where Achilles is said to have captured the entire island of Lesbos at the same time when he had captured the nine beautiful women in the same narrative—and that time was of course well before the Capture of Troy. So, I can now amplify what I was already arguing at #E of 6§10. Basically, the conquests of Aeolian territories by Achilles in the heroic age, especially his capture of the entire island of Lesbos, can be interpreted as a charter myth that aetiologizes a “colonization,” in the post-heroic age, of East Aeolian territories by West Aeolian migrants originating from Thessaly and other regions of the European mainland. I focus here on the European region of Thessaly, which was the reputed birthplace of Achilles (Nagy 2011b:171–173). Such a charter myth could belong to both West and East Aeolians, if they could still be seen as Aeolians unified in their ownership of Homer and of Homer’s primary hero, an Iliadic Achilles.

On the ownership of Homeric poetry by Ionians and, ultimately, by Athenians

6§22. So, yes, the Aeolians had once owned both Homer and his Iliadic Achilles. But, sadly for them—at least, sadly for the East Aeolians—they lost, already in a pre‑classical era, that ownership. And this was because they lost an essential part of Iliadic territory in the Troad. They lost control over the tomb of Achilles. And they lost this ownership to newcomer Ionians, led by the city-state of Athens. That city, which claimed to be the metropolis or ‘mother city’ of Ionians, had sent military forces across the Aegean Sea from its own European homeland, and those forces had succeeded in occupying a region of the Troad that was visually dominated by a citadel named Sigeion that loomed over a city by the same name, Sigeion. On high, at the citadel, on the summit of the heights of Sigeion, according to traditions accepted by both the invading Athenians and the invaded Aeolians, loomed the tomb of Achilles.

6§23. So, we arrive at a second historical fact, to be added to the first. The first fact, as we have seen, had to do with the ownership of Iliadic Achilles by the Aeolians. The second fact, as we will now see, has to do with a new ownership of this hero—this time, by the Athenians. Here I offer an epitome of an extensive analysis (HPC 142–145 = II §§30–40).

II§30. In analyzing the conflict between Lesbos and the Athenians over the ownership of the Iliadic hero Achilles—and of Homeric poetry itself—I first have to reiterate what I mean when I say “Lesbos.”  As we have seen, the island of Lesbos was politically organized as a federation of five cities, visualized by Strabo (13.2.1 C616) as a single unified state that claimed to be the metropolis or ‘mother city’ of the Aeolian cities on the Asiatic mainland.

II§31. This federation of cities on the island of Lesbos was dominated by one city in particular, Mytilene, as if all five cities had become united as a single unified city: the special political term for this union was sunoikisis, as we learn from Thucydides 3.3.1.

II§32. Already in the earliest historical times that we can reconstruct for this part of the Greek-speaking world, in the late seventh century BCE, the control exercised by the city of Mytilene over the island of Lesbos and its mainland territories in Asia Minor was threatened by the city of Athens. The threat was intensified in the sixth century, in the era of the tyrants of Athens, the Peisistratidai. As I explain more fully in Chapter 1 of HPC, a pre‑democratic Athenian empire was already evolving and expanding in the era of these tyrants, and a prime objective of their expansionism was to control Ionian territories situated on the East Side of the Aegean Sea, both on the central coastline of Asia Minor and on the outlying islands there. And another prime objective was to control Aeolian territories farther to the north, which had been controlled up to that time by the Aeolian city of Mytilene. As I argued Chapter 1 of HPC, a vital aspect of Athenian imperial interests was the appropriation of Homer as a symbol of Ionian cultural identity. But there was also another vital aspect, that is, the appropriation of Troy, which was in that era a symbol of Aeolian cultural identity. As we will see, the Athenians’ appropriation of an Aeolian Troy resulted in their appropriation of an Aeolian Homer as well.

II§33. As we have seen, the territory of Troy in northern Asia Minor had been inhabited by Aeolians—and dominated by the Mytilenaeans—but then the Athenians took the spectacular initiative of attempting to occupy this territory. Such attempts started toward the end of the seventh century BCE. The choicest part of this territory was the citadel of Sigeion and its city. The city had been built near the northern end of the heights known as the Sigeion Ridge, which extends along the Aegean coastline of Asia Minor overlooking the entrance to the Hellespont. The Sigeion Ridge, some ten kilometers in length, extends from the promontory at the Bay of Beşike in the south all the way to the promontory of Sigeion (Kum Kale) in the north. Modern historians describe Sigeion as the first overseas possession of Athens. As I argue, the initiative of possessing Sigeion transcended the objectives of wealth and power. There was also the objective of prestige—the prestige of poetry. At stake was the poetic territory that was Troy, and the ideology underlying the prestige of this Iliadic space turns out to be relevant to some of the oldest recoverable phases of content in Homeric poetry.

II§34. The city of Sigeion, dominated by the citadel housing the tomb of Achilles, had been controlled by the Aeolian city of Mytilene in Lesbos before it was captured from the Mytilenaeans by Athens. The capture must be seen against the backdrop of a protracted war between Mytilene and Athens over the possession of Sigeion, and the city seems to have changed hands more than once in the course of this war. The general outlines of the ongoing conflict emerge from the accounts of Herodotus (5.94–95), Strabo (13.1.38–39 C599–600), and Diogenes Laertius (1.74), as analyzed by Antonio Aloni (2006:87–92).

II§35. In these accounts, the earlier years of the war between Mytilene and Athens over Sigeion are dominated by such celebrated protagonists as Alcaeus of Mytilene, Pittakos of Mytilene, Phrynon of Athens, and Periander of Corinth, who can all be dated to the late seventh and early sixth century BCE. In the poetry of Alcaeus as read by Herodotus, Sigeion is pictured as already belonging to Athens: Herodotus notes that Alcaeus himself says in his own poetry that his armor was captured from him by the Athenians in a battle against the Mytilenaeans, and that it was displayed by the enemy inside the Athēnaion ‘sacred space of Athena’ in Sigeion (5.95.1). This space can be dated as far back as 600 BCE (Frame 2009 §3.74).

II§36. At some point during the ongoing war between Mytilene and Athens over Sigeion, this city and its environs must have reverted to Mytilene before reverting once again—and this time finally—to Athens. Herodotus specifies that Sigeion had to be recaptured from the Mytilenaeans by the Athenians under the leadership of Peisistratos, who installed his son Hegesistratos as the tyrant there (5.94.1). Herodotus goes out of his way to emphasize that this reversion of Sigeion from Mytilene to Athens in the era of Peisistratos was indeed final.

II§37. I leave it open whether the very first attempts to seize Sigeion from the Aeolians can be attributed to the Athenians specifically or, more generally, to the Ionians as represented especially by the city of Miletus, which claimed special ties to Athens as its notional metropolis or ‘mother city’ (on the special ties between Athens as notional mother city and Miletus as notional daughter city, I refer to the work of Frame 2009 Chapter 10). In any event, these early attempts in the seventh century BCE could be viewed retrospectively as a purely Athenian initiative in the later era of the Peisistratidai.

II§38. It is in this context that we must view the retrospective statement made by Herodotus (5.95.2) about a time when the city of Sigeion had already been taken away from Mytilene and awarded to Athens as the result of an arbitration conducted by the tyrant Periander of Corinth. From the overall narrative of Herodotus (5.94–95), we can see what was really at stake in the arbitrated dispute between the two cities over the possession of Sigeion—a dispute that continued all the way to the time when Peisistratos finally succeeded in securing permanent Athenian control over the city. In the course of describing the rival claims and counterclaims in this continuing dispute between Mytilene and Athens, Herodotus makes it clear that these two rival cities equated the possession of the territory of Sigeion with the possession of the epic of the Trojan War. At stake was the poetic space of the Trojan War, to which Herodotus refers as hē Ilias khōra—simultaneously the territory of the epic of Troy (that is, of the Iliad) as well as the territory of the city of Troy (that is, of Ilion):

οἱ μὲν ἀπαιτέοντες τὴν χώρην, Ἀθηναῖοι δὲ οὔτε συγγινωσκόμενοι ἀποδεικνύντες τε λόγῳ οὐδὲν μᾶλλον Αἰολεῦσι μετεὸν τῆς ᾿Ιλιάδος χώρης ἢ οὐ καὶ σφίσι καὶ τοῖσι ἄλλοισι, ὅσοι Ἑλλήνων συνεπρήξαντο Μενέλεῳ τὰς Ἑλένης ἁρπαγάς.

They [= the Mytilenaeans] were demanding the return of the territory [khōra], but the Athenians rejected the demand, trying to demonstrate by way of what they said that the Aeolians were no more entitled to the Iliadic territory [hē Ilias khōrā] than were they [= the Athenians] and all the other Hellenes who had joined forces in avenging Menelaos for the abduction of Helen.

Herodotus 5.94.2

II§39. As the wording of Herodotus makes clear, the city of Mytilene in Lesbos claimed to be representing all Aeolic-speaking Greeks in claiming possession of the Iliadic territory of Sigeion in the Troad. By contrast, the city of Athens claimed to be representing all Hellenes who took part in the Trojan War. From the standpoint of both sides, then, the dispute was about the ownership of territory, yes, but also about and the poetry that came with the territory. The territory was hē Ilias khōrā ‘the Iliadic territory’.

II§40. That the Aeolians equated Sigeion and its environs with ‘the Iliadic territory’ is also evident from information dating back to the earlier Aeolian phase of Sigeion. As we read in Strabo (13.1.38 C599), the Mytilenaeans under the leadership of one Archeanax built the walls of the city of Sigeion from the stones of the ruined walls of the ancient city of Troy.

Aeolian Migration, Ionian Migration

6§24. I now follow up with a second epitome, this time derived from a lengthy essay where I analyze ancient Greek myths about migrations (Nagy 2023.09.04). My epitome here focuses on just one part of the analysis, Part III, which is about the myth known as the Aeolian Migration, already signaled at Points #E and #F at 6§10 above. The further points I make in this second epitome are numbered as sub‑paragraphs #A through #N.

#A. As we learn from a stylized account by Philostratus (late second  / early third century CE) in his Heroikos (52.3–54.1), the tomb of Achilles in the Troad was a landmark that signaled the hero cult of this Aeolian hero. In general, as we also learn from Philostratus, the region of Troy was a place where the heroes of the Trojan War could be worshipped as cult heroes. And the worshippers included not only the local population of East Aeolians. As I show in the essay I just cited (Nagy 2023.09.04), the worshippers also included West Aeolians. To be more specific, these West Aeolians were Thessalians, whose form of worship was the ritual act of sacrificing two bulls at the tomb of Achilles in his role as their very own cult hero. From the detailed description given by Philostratus, we can see that the sacrifice performed by the Thessalians was as an act of ritualized stealth. Why the stealth? It was because the Thessalians, as West Aeolians, were at this time considered to be enemies by the East Aeolians, who were now in complete control of the entire region of the Troad in the era described by Philostratus. Relevant here is the idea that the Thessalians, as West Aeolians, were not only enemies of East Aeolians, in terms of the myth underlying the ritual of sacrifice-by-stealth. They were also allies of the city-state of Athens in terms of historical realities that can be dated back to an earlier era, back to a time when Athens was dominated by dynasts known as the Peisistratidai, who held power in the city during most of the second half of the sixth century BCE. Herodotus (5.63.3) highlights an ongoing alliance between these dynasts of Athens and the dynasts who ruled West Aeolian Thessaly during that same earlier era.

#B. In terms of Thessalian myth, the homeland of Aiolos, a prototypical king who was the notional ancestor of all the Aioleîs ‘Aeolians’, was Thessaly, as we read in the Library of “Apollodorus” (1.7.3 p. 57 ed. Frazer 1921). In other words, West Aeolian myth claimed that the royal ancestor of all Aeolians was a prototypical Thessalian.

#C. By extension, the Thessalians claimed to be prototypes of the East Aeolians who inhabited the island of Lesbos and, by further extension, of the East Aeolians who inhabited the Asian coastland. By even further extension, Thessaly could be viewed as a point of origin for the Aeolian Migration—the same concept that I have already introduced at #E and #F in 6§10. That is, Thessaly could be credited with the mythologized colonization of the Aeolian cities located on the island of Lesbos and, by the furthest extension, of the Aeolian cities located on the Asian mainland.

#D. In a parallel pattern of mythmaking, the Athenians figured themselves as prototypes of the Ionians who inhabited the central mainland of Asia Minor and the outlying islands in the context of their own Athenian myths about an Ionian Migration—just as the Thessalians figured themselves as prototypes of the Aeolians who inhabited the northern mainland of Asia Minor and the outlying islands, especially Lesbos, in the context of their own Thessalian myths about an Aeolian Migration.

#E. What I have just formulated here about the Aeolian Migration can be reconciled with two references in the Iliad, as noted at 6§10 #A, where the narrative refers to the capture of Lesbos, the whole island, by a single hero, Achilles of Thessaly (9.128–131, 270–273). Going beyond what I argued earlier, I now argue that the story of this capture was not only an old charter myth that accounted for an early claim on Lesbos made by the Thessalians. Now the story could also account for a much later claim that the Thessalians could make in the specific historical context of an alliance between dynasts of Thessaly and the dynasts of Athens, the Peisistratidai, in the second half of the sixth century BCE.

#F. Such later interpretations of this charter myth were strongly influenced by a salient historical fact, reported by Herodotus (5.94–95) and by other sources, as noted in my epitome at 6§23 above (with reference to HPC 143 = II§34). To repeat here, the fact is that the city of Athens had taken military action in occupying parts of the region of Troy, and, in the process, they had taken possession of Sigeion, a site venerated as the sacred place where Achilles was buried in his tomb. At a much later period—it is not known exactly when—Sigeion was destroyed, as we know from Strabo (13.1.31 C595, commentary in HPC 177 = II§112), and by that time, Athens had in any case already lost control of territories in the region of Troy. But things were different during the earlier period, as described by Herodotus, when Sigeion was still occupied by the Athenians.

#G. As I noted at 6§23 (II§33), Sigeion was located at the northern end of the Sigeion Ridge, which had once been an area occupied by Mytilene. As we have seen, this seaside city of Mytilene in Lesbos, separated by a narrow strait from the Asiatic mainland, had dominated, in an earlier era, not only all of Lesbos but also most of the mainland, including the Sigeion Ridge. But then, in the later era described by Herodotus, as we have also seen, Mytilene had already lost control of the city of Sigeion. The city was now owned by the city of Athens.

#H. Here I return to the narrative of Herodotus, at 5.94.2, where he tells about the dispute about Sigeion between representatives of Athens and Mytilene. Both sides, as we saw, were presenting arguments and counterarguments in their dispute over the rightful ownership of Sigeion. As I already emphasized at 6§23 (II§38), where I quoted the wording of Herodotus, Homeric poetry was cited by both sides as testimony that was meant to validate their rival claims to ownership of this Trojan territory. At this point I find it most relevant to cite an expression, hē Ilias, as used by Herodotus in another context, at 5.122.2, where he says, merely in passing, that the territory of Ilion was inhabited by Aioleîs ‘Aeolians’.As we have seen, Herodotus also uses this very same expression hē Ilias in the context that we are now considering, at 5.94.2, where two sides are presenting arguments about the rightful ownership of Sigeion. In this case, the expression hē Ilias clearly refers to a territory belonging not only to Ilion but also to the Iliadic tradition of poetry. As we have seen, Herodotus is recasting the arguments of Athens on one side and, on the other side, of Mytilene. Athens is claiming to be the leading state of the Ionians while Mytilene, as the leading city of the island of Lesbos, is claiming to be the leading state of the East Aeolians. As we have also already seen, the two states have already fought in many wars over the possession of Sigeion, this most prominent site in the region of Troy, since it was here that the tomb of Achilles was located. The two states are submitting their dispute to inter‑state arbitration, and now the Aeolians of Mytilene are demanding that the Athenians give back to them the territory of Sigeion and its environs, which had been appropriated by the invading Athenians.

#I. As the wording of Herodotus indicates in what I quoted at 5.94.2, the city of Mytilene in Lesbos claimed to be representing all Aeolic-speaking Hellenes in arguing for repossession of the Iliadic territory of Sigeion in the Troad. By contrast, the city of Athens claimed to be representing all Greek-speakers—named Hellenes here—who took part in the Trojan War as narrated in Homeric poetry. From the standpoint of both sides, then, the disputed territory of Troy was a matter of poetic as well as political ownership.

#J. From the political standpoint of the Athenians in their argumentation as dramatized by Herodotus, ownership of Homeric poetry about the Trojan War was linked generally to ownership of Trojan territory. From this standpoint, ownership of Iliadic poetry was open to all Greek-speakers whose ancestors had fought on the Achaean side and against the Trojans in the Trojan War. And I note again that the Athenian term for Greek-speakers, as reported here by Herodotus, is ‘Hellenes’. But what about other Greek-speakers, that is, what about other ‘Hellenes’? What about the Greek-speaking East Aeolians who inhabited Lesbos and all the other territories of Aeolian Asia Minor, including the Troad? These Greek-speakers were inhabitants of territories that Achilles had conquered before the Trojan War. That West Aeolian hero was not only conquering East Aeolian territories but also capturing their women as war-prizes for the Achaeans. What about all these Greek-speaking East Aeolians? Well, the answer, from an Athenian point of view, would be this: the East Aeolian populations conquered by the West Aeolian Achilles were not really Aeolian after all. So, they must have been pre‑Aeolians—or non‑Aeolians or even non‑Greeks? Such a denialist attitude is actually built into Ionian traditions of Homeric poetry as curated by the state of Athens—as I already noted at 6§12.

#K. From the political standpoint of the East Aeolians, on the other hand, ownership of Homeric poetry about the Trojan War was linked specifically to Aeolians as the original owners—whether they were East Aeolian or West Aeolian. As I argue more extensively in another essay (Nagy 2023.08.22 §128), the sharing of myths about Troy by Asiatic and European Aeolians meant that each one of the those two sides could accept the Aeolian identity of the other side—even despite historical episodes of mutual hostility. Again, we see the dynamics of what I have been calling the phenomenon of Sprachbund. Correspondingly, in the case of a sharing of myths about Achilles by Asiatic Aeolians and European Athenians, the Aeolian identity of the hero could  again be accepted by both sides.

#L. In this contxt, further comment is needed on the parallelism we have already seen between the old claim of the Thessalians, that they were the originators of an Aeolian Migration, and the far newer claim of the Athenians, that they were the originators of an Ionian Migration. In the case of the Athenian claim, it can be dated to the relatively late era of the Peisistratidai, those dynasts who dominated Athens in the second half of the sixth century. And I find it most significant that those same dynasts of Athens had allied themselves with dynasts who ruled Thessaly during that same relatively late era, as we know from Herodotus (5.63.3).

#M. Also in that same era, in the second half of the sixth century, public performances of Homeric poetry were being institutionalized by the Peisistratidai at the festival of the Panathenaia in Athens (HPC 233 = II §279). Accordingly, I argue for a convergence in the dating of Homeric reception in Athens and the dating of mythologized Athenian claims about their leadership, back in mythical times, of the Ionian Migration. The claim of the Thessalians about their own leadership of the Aeolian Migration would have evolved far earlier, but even that old claim could later be appropriated by the Athenians as parallel to their own claim about an Ionian Migration. Such an Athenian appropriation can be dated, again, to the second half of the sixth century BCE.

#N. The lateness of the Athenian claim about the Ionian Migration supports, I conclude, the overall argument made by Roger Woodard (2025:18–19) concerning the relative lateness of an Ionian presence in Asia Minor. Unlike the myths about the Aeolian Migration, which ignore an Aeolian presence in Asia Minor despite all the evidence indicating that the Aeolians were already there in the late second millennium BCE, the far later myths about an Ionian Migration point to a different historical reality. As Woodard shows, an old Ionian city like Miletus—very old, from the standpoint of the historical period of the first millennium BCE—was still an Aeolian city back when, in the late second millennium BCE, and it must have turned Ionian only in a far later era, the so-called Dark Age—just as Aeolian cities like Smyrna and Sigeion turned Ionian in even later years, that is, in the initial phases of the historical period that followed such a Dark Age.

Essay 7: Epilogue

7§0, I bring this book to a close by pondering, one last time, the relationship of Sappho’s Song 44 with the Homeric Iliad as we know it. Given that there are traces of a poetic Sprachbund linking the predominantly Aeolic diction of Sappho with the predominantly Ionic diction of “Homer,” can we say that this Homer is “our” Homer? I mean, is this the Homer we find in the textual tradition that has come down to us?

7§1. When I first wrote about this question, half a century ago, I was tempted to identify Sappho’s Homer with “our” Homer. I paraphrase what I had said in Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter (GIM=Nagy 1974:138–139):

I see a deliberate irony built into the epithet conferred on Hector and Andromache in Song 44 of Sappho, line.34: θεοεικέλοιc (theoeikelois) ‘god-like’, in line-final position. Already in line 21 of Sappho 44, the variant epithet [ἴ]κελοι θεοι[c] (ikeloi theois) ‘like unto the gods’ was deployed, again in line-final position. This inverted repetition and the metrical identity of the two phrases (⏑ ⏑ – ⏑ ⏓) suggest that something is afoot. The epic hexameter preserves the epithet θεοείκελοc (theoeikelos) ‘god-like’ in the predictable equivalent position: θεοείκελοc – ⏓#, as in the Hymn to Aphrodite 279:

γηθήcειc ὁρόων μάλα γὰρ θεοείκελοc ἔcται
You will delight at the sight, for he will be very god-like.

In our Iliad, there are just two attestations of θεοείκελοc (theoeikelos), again in the same position. Both attestations (1.131, 19.155) refer to the same man: θεοείκελ’ Ἀχιλλεῦ. The man is Achilles, killer of Hector. So, in Song 44 of Sappho, an epithet that is reserved for Achilles in our Iliad is instead the epithet for Hector and Andromache. And this epithet for the wedded pair is the very last word in this song celebrating their _{138|139} joyous wedding.

7§2. Back in 1974, I had thought that the irony here depended on an interaction between Song 44 of Sappho and “our” Iliad. From what I have learned over the years since 1974, however, I now think that the lyric tradition of such a song was interacting with an oral epic tradition that was predominantly Aeolic and only recessively Ionic—not like the epic tradition that shaped “our’ Iliad, which was predominantly Ionic and only recessively Aeolic. That is what I have been arguing throughout this book.

7§3. But my new way of thinking still leaves me with mixed feelings. I personally can only wish that Song 44 of Sappho, preserved for us as a text by way of papyri dug up in Egypt, were not so full of holes. I only wish that this song of Sappho was not so fragmentary—that we could somehow recover further stretches of text that would help us know more about the poetics of this song. One thing I would be especially eager to know is whether Hector and Andromache were ever quoted in this song about the happy day of their wedding. An almost whimsical new question I have in my mind is this: would these lovers be saying sweet words to each other, words that could be quoted by Sappho in her song?

7§4. Even if that were an impossibility, to find such words come to life, I can console myself by knowing that sweet words are in fact being spoken by this doomed pair of lovers on another occasion. I am thinking here of course about Iliad 6. We can read in our text of “our” Homer the words that Hector and Andromache are actually saying to each other on that sad day when they are having their last chance to speak with each other ever again. That day marks the time when Hector and Andromache are saying goodbye for the very last time, and we already know that they will never ever have a chance to say goodbye again. And, this time, what they are saying is being quoted by the Iliadic Homer, whose own spoken words of epic poetry were in preclassical and classical times lovingly curated by the city-state of Athens in the form of seasonally recurring rhapsodic performances at the grandest festival of the Athenians, the Panathenaia, where they were celebrating the birthday of their goddess Athena. Thanks to the curatorial efforts of the Athenians, a multitext of Homer, further curated in postclassical times by the librarians at Alexandria, has survived to our times, so many centuries later, and that is why we can still read and re‑read the final words of Hector and Andromache as quoted by “our” Homer, the Singer of Tales, who was quoting these words when he sang his Homeric Iliad.

7§5. I keep speaking of poetry that is “quoting” words that were spoken once upon a time in the world of gods and heroes. But I will no longer frame this word “quote” within quotation marks, since I am speaking of a different kind of quotation, which is not textual. The Homeric poetry that is quoting what is spoken is also spoken, not yet written. Homer himself is speaking when he is quoting the gods and heroes who are speaking in his poetry. And the speakers are all-important, as we see from the fact that so much of the Homeric Iliad is taken up by quotations of words spoken by the gods and heroes who populated the epic world.

7§6. But then we must ask a basic question about these words that are being quoted. What did these words sound like? My answer to such a question is simple, even if it based on the complex and most laborious exposition that I have inflicted on my readers in the essay that preceded this epilogue. The simple answer is that the words that are quoted did sound naturally Greek, just as the poetry that quoted the Greek sounded like the same kind of Greek. But then things get more complicated, and my answer has to be reformulated.

7§7. Hector and Andromache would have spoken to each other in the Aeolic dialect if they had been quoted in Song 44 of Sappho. So, they would have spoken in Greek, but in a dialect of Greek, Aeolic. What did that sound like? Here the answer is more difficult, especially since Aeolic was a dialect that already went extinct long before other ancient Greek dialects disappeared. In any case, Sappho herself in her own post-heroic days would have been a speaker of that kind of Aeolic Greek, Aeolic Greek, as it existed around 600 BCE.

7§8. And what about Homer? Well, he was a speaker of Ionic, not Aeolic. That is, the Homer who was owned by the Ionians spoke the Ionic dialect, though the earlier Homer who was owned by the Aeolians spoke Aeolic. So, when Homer is quoting Hector and Andromache speaking to each other in “our” Iliad 6, what language are they speaking there? Well, that would be a hybrid poetic language, mostly Ionic, with a touch of Aeolic.

7§9. But then, what would such a hybrid poetic language sound like? Here is where the science of linguistics can help create reconstructions, however imperfectly. And the essential fact about such a language, spoken by an Ionian Homer in the act of quoting the Aeolian speakers Hector and Andromache as they speak to each other, was its rootedness in the Aeolic dialect once spoken at Troy—even if that poetic language of the Aeolians was later superseded by the poetic language of the Ionians. Yes, the inhabitants of the Troad in the days of Sappho—and even before—would have been speakers of Aeolic, of Aeolic Greek. Their language was Greek, which was the language of Aeolians, all Aeolians, including East Aeolians, even if the denialism of later Ionian poetics could picture an Aeolian diva like Andromache as a pre‑Aeolian, even as a non‑Aeolian, maybe even as a non‑Greek.

7§10. But Andromache was Greek. That is to say, Andromache was imagined as speaking Greek, already in the Aeolian phase of her heroic identity. And so too was Hector: he too was Greek. Both Andromache and Hector were natives of the Troad. As natives, both of them were East Aeolian Trojans, and both of them, like all Trojans, were the enemies of the Achaeans in the Trojan War. We are used to saying, as the Athenians once did when they were debating the East Aeolians of Mytilene, that the Achaeans, as ‘Hellenes’, were the Greeks and that the Trojans were non‑Greeks. This book, before we say goodbye for now to Hector and Andromache, is saying that this doomed couple, as proud East Aeolians, were just as Greek as the Achaeans.

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—. 2013. “Maenadism as Self–Referential Chorality in Euripides’ Bacchae.” Choral Mediations in Greek Tragedy, ed. R. Gagné and M. G. Hopman, 211–226. Cambridge. Abridged version of Bierl 2011.

—, and A. Lardinois, eds. 2016. The Newest Sappho (P. Obbink and P. GC Inv. 105, frs. 1–5). Leiden.

—. 2016. “‘All you Need is Love’: Some Thoughts on the Structure, Texture, and Meaning of the Brothers Song as well as on Its Relation to the Kypris Song (P. Sapph. Obbink),” pp. 302–336 in Bierl and Lardinois 2016.

—. 2021. Sappho: Lieder. With translation and commentary. Ditzingen (the “Reclam” series).

Bierl, A., and A. Lardinois, eds. 2016. The Newest Sappho (P. Obbink and P. GC Inv. 105, frs. 1-5). Leiden.

Bowra, C. M. 1935 / 1961. Greek Lyric Poetry: From Alcman to Simonides. ed. 1 / 2. Oxford.

Brillante, C. 2005. “Il controverso νόϲτοϲ di Agamennone nell’Odissea (iv 512–522).” Aevum Antiquum 5:5–25.

Burkert, W. 1979. “Mythisches Denken.” Philosophie und Mythos, ed. H. Poser, 16–39. Berlin / New York.

—. 1983. Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth. Translation by P. Bing. Berkeley and Los Angeles. Originally published 1972 as Homo Necans. Berlin.

—. 1985. Greek Religion. Translation by J. Raffan. Cambridge MA. Originally published 1977 as Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche. Stuttgart.

Burris, S., J. Fish, and D. Obbink. 2014. “New Fragments of Book 1 of Sappho.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 189:1–30.

Caciagli, S. 2010. “Il temenos di Messon: uno stesso contesto per Saffo e Alceo.” Lexis 28:227–256.

—. 2011. Poeti e Società. Comunicazione poetica e formazioni sociali nella Lesbo del VII/VI secolo a.C. Amsterdam.

Calame, C. 1974. “Réflexions sur les genres littéraires en Grèce archaïque.” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 17:113–123.

—. 1977. Les choeurs de jeunes filles en Grèce archaïque I: Morphologie, fonction religieuse et sociale. II: Alcman. Rome.

—. 1989. “Apprendre à boire, apprendre à chanter: L’inférence énonciative dans une image grecque.” La part de l’œil 5:45–53.

—. 1995. “From Choral Poetry to Tragic Stasimon: The Enactment of Women’s Song.” Arion 3.2:136–154.

—. 2001. Choruses of Young Women in Ancient Greece: Their Morphology, Religious Role, and Social Function, translated by D. Collins and J. Orion, ed. 2 of Calame 1977 vol. I. Lanham MD. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Calame.Choruses_of_Young_Women_in_Ancient_Greece.2001/.

—. 2008. Sentiers transversaux: Entre poétiques grecques et politiques contemporaines, ed. D. Bouvier, M. Steinrück, and P. Voelke. Grenoble.

—. 2009. “Referential Fiction and Poetic Ritual: Towards a Pragmatics of Myth (Sappho 17 and Bacchylides 13).” Trends in Classics 1:1–17.

Campbell, D. A. 1982. ed. Greek Lyric I: Sappho Alcaeus. Cambridge MA / London.

Carson, A. “The Justice of Aphrodite in Sappho 1.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 110 (1980): 135–42. Recast 1996 in Sappho: Contemporary Approaches, ed. E. Greene, 226–233. Berkeley and Los Angeles.

Clay, D. 2011. “Sappho, Selanna, and the poetry of the night.” Giornale Italiano di Filologia 2:3–11. A rewriting of his 1970 article, “Fragmentum Adespotum 976.” Transactions of the American Philological Association101:119–129.

Culler, J. 2015. Theory of the Lyric. Cambridge MA.

Dale, A. 2017.08.21. Review of Bierl and Lardinois 2016. Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2017.08.32. http://www.bmcreview.org/2017/08/20170832.html?showComment=1503931355269#c5367783009603636431.

Daniel, R. W., and F. Maltomini, eds. 1990. Supplementum Magicum I. Papyrologica Coloniensia 16.1. Opladen.

Davison, J. A. 1958. “Notes on the Panathenaia.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 78:23–41 = 1968:28–69.

—. 1968. From Archilochus to Pindar: Papers on Greek Literature of the Archaic Period. London.

DELG = Chantraine, P. 2009. Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque: histoire des mots, ed. J. Taillardat, O. Masson, and J.-L. Perpillou, with a supplement Chroniques d’étymologie grecque 1–10, ed. A. Blanc, Ch. de Lamberterie, and J.-L. Perpillou. Paris.

Dué, C. 2002. Homeric Variations on a Lament by Briseis. Lanham MD. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Due.Homeric_Variations_on_a_Lament_by_Briseis.2002.

Dué, C. 2006. The Captive Woman’s Lament in Greek Tragedy. Austin TX. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Due.The_Captive_Womans_Lament_in_Greek_Tragedy.2006.

Edmunds, L. 2012. “Deixis and everyday expressions in Alcaeus frs. 129 V and 130b V.” In Bers, Elmer, Frame, and Muellner 2012.

EH = Nagy 2006 (“The Epic Hero”).

Ferrari, F. 2014. “Saffo e i suoi fratelli e altri brani del primo libro.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 192:1–19.

Figueira, T. J., and G. Nagy, eds. 1985. Theognis of Megara: Poetry and the Polis. Baltimore.

Frame, D. 2009. Hippota Nestor. Hellenic Studies 34. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/frame-douglas-hippota-nestor-2/.

Franklin, J. C. 2016. Kinyras: The Divine Lyre. Hellenic Studies Series 70. Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/franklin-john-curtis-kinyras-the-divine-lyre/.

Frontisi-Ducroux, F. 1995. Du masque au visage: Aspects de l’identité en Grèce ancienne. Paris.

Frontisi-Ducroux, F., and F. Lissarrague. 1983. “De l’ambiguité à l’ambivalence: un parcours Dionysiaque.” Annali del Seminario di studi del mondo classico: Sezione di archeologia e storia antica 5:11–32.

Frontisi-Ducroux, F., and F. Lissarrague. 1990. “From ambiguity to ambivalence: A Dionysiac excursion through the ‘Anakreontic’ vases.” Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, ed. D. M. Halperin, J. J. Winkler, and F. Zeitlin, 211–256. Princeton.

Gentili, B. 1985. Poesia e pubblico nella Grecia antica. Da Omero al V secolo. Rome and Bari.

—. 1986. “Il coro della tragedia greca nella teoria degli antichi.” Teatro e pubblico nell’antichità (Atti del Convegno Nazionale Trento 25–27 April 1986) 27–44.

—. 1988. Poetry and Its Public in Ancient Greece: From Homer to the Fifth Century. Translation, with an introduction, by A. T. Cole. Baltimore and London.

GIM = Nagy 1974 (Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter).

GMP = Nagy 1990b / second editon 2025 (Greek Mythology and Poetics). Although the numberings of the footnotes in the new GMP 2025 remain the same as in the print version of the original GMP 1990b, the numberings of the pages in GMP 2025 differ from the numberings in GMP 1990. To keep track of the differences, the second edition traces new page-numberings as well as the original page-numberings of GMP wherever cross-references are made in the footnotes. Accordingly, all cross-references to page-numberings in the new GMP 2025 include the old page-numbers of GMP 1990 as well as the new page-numbers of GMP 2025. The formatting for such cross-references in the footnotes of GMP 2025 follows this protocol: “see p. xxx in GMP 1990 = p. yyy here” or “see pp. xxxff in GMP 1990 = pp. yyyff here”. As for cross-references to GMP in Sappho 0, I cite here only the old page-numbers “xxx” (and not the new page-numbers “yyy”).

GO = Nagy 1994 (“Genre and Occasion”)

Greene, E. 1996a. ed. Reading Sappho: Contemporary Approaches. Berkeley.

—. 1996b. ed. Re‑Reading Sappho: Reception and Transmission. Berkeley.

H24H = Nagy 2013 (The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours)

Hansen, P. A., ed. 2005. Hesychii Alexandrini Lexicon v. 3, Π–Σ. Berlin and New York.

Harvey, A. E. 1955. “The Classification of Greek Lyric Poetry.” Classical Quarterly 5:157–175.

Henrichs, A. 1981. “Human Sacrifice in Greek Religion: Three Case Studies.” Le sacrifice dans l’antiquité, ed. J. Rudhardt and O. Reverdin, 195–235. Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 27 . Vandœuvres-Genève.

Herington, J. 1985. Poetry into Drama: Early Tragedy and the Greek Poetic Tradition. Berkeley and Los Angeles.

HQ = Nagy 1996b (Homeric Questions)

HR = Nagy 2003 (Homeric Responses)

Jakobson, R. 1931. “Über die phonologischen Sprachbünde.” In Jakobson 1971:137–143.

—. 1949. “On the Theory of Phonological Affinities Between Languages.” In Jakobson 1990:202–213. For the date of the original article: 1990:544 under RJ 1949b.

—. 1971. Selected Writings I. 2nd ed. Berlin / New York / Amsterdam.

—. 1990. On Language, ed. L. R. Waugh and M. Monville-Burston. Cambridge MA.

Koller, H. 1954. Die Mimesis in der Antike. Bern.

La Genière, J. de, ed. 1997. Héra: images, espaces, cultes. Napoli.

Lang, C., ed. 1881. Cornuti theologiae Graecae compendium. Leipzig.

Lardinois, A. 1994. “Subject and Circumstance in Sappho’s Poetry.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 124:57–84.

—. 1996. “Who Sang Sappho’s Songs?” In Greene 1996b:150–172.

—. 2014. “Sappho en haar broers: een nieuw lied van Sappho.” Lampas: Tijdschrift voor Classici 47:179–201.

Latte, K., ed. 1966. Hesychii Alexandrini Lexicon v. II, E–O. Copenhagen.

Levine, M. M. 1995. “The Gendered Grammar of Ancient Mediterranean Hair.” Off with her head: The denial of women’s identity in myth, religion, and culture, ed. H. E. Schwartz and W. Doniger, 76–130. Berkeley.

Liberman, G., ed. 1999. Alcée. Fragments. I / II. Paris.

Lidov, J. 2002. “Sappho, Herodotus and the Hetaira.” Classical Philology 97:203–237.

Llewellyn-Jones, L. 2003. Aphrodite’s tortoise: The veiled woman of ancient Greece. Swansea.

Lloyd, A. 2007. “Commentary on Herodotus Book 2.” In Asheri, Lloyd, Corcella 2007:221–378.

Loraux, N., G. Nagy, and L. Slatkin, eds. 2001. Antiquities. Vol. 3 of Postwar French Thought. New York.

Mace, S. T. 1993. “Amour, Encore! The Development of δηὖτε in Archaic Lyric,” Greek , Roman and Byzantine Studies 34:335–364.

Martin, R. P. 1989. The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad. Ithaca NY. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Martin.The_Language_of_Heroes.1989.

MoM = Nagy 2015 (Masterpieces of Metonymy)

Muellner, L. 1976. The Meaning of Homeric ΕΥΧΟΜΑΙ through its Formulas. Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Sprachwissenschaft 13. Innsbruck. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/muellner-leonard-the-meaning-of-homeric-eyxomai-through-its-formulas/.

Murray, O. 1983. “The Greek Symposion in History.” Tria Corda: Scritti in onore di Arnaldo Momigliano, ed. E. Gabba, 257–272. Como.

—. 1990. “The Affair of the Mysteries: Democracy and the Drinking Group.” Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposium, ed. O. Murray, 149–161. Oxford.

—, ed. 1990, Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposium. Oxford. Note especially the introduction by Murray, “Sympotic History,” pp. 3–13.

N = Nagy, G. In the endnotes, I ordinarily use this abbreviation.

Nagler, M. 1974. Spontaneity and Tradition: A study of the Oral Art of Homer. Berkeley and Los Angeles.

Nagy, G. 1972. Introduction, Parts I and II, and Conclusions. Greek: A Survey of Recent Work (F. W. Householder and G. Nagy) 15–72. Janua Linguarum Series Practica 211. The Hague.

—. 1973. “Phaethon, Sappho’s Phaon, and the White Rock of Leukas.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology77:137–77. Recast as Chapter 9 in Nagy 1990b:223–262.

—. 1974. Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter. Harvard Monographs in Comparative Literature 33. Cambridge MA. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Comparative_Studies_in_Greek_and_Indic_Meter.1974.

—. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry. Baltimore. 2nd ed., with new introduction, 1999. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Best_of_the_Achaeans.1999.

—. 1985. “Theognis and Megara: A Poet’s Vision of His City.” Theognis of Megara: Poetry and the Polis, ed. T. J. Figueira and G. Nagy, 22–81. Baltimore. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Theognis_and_Megara.1985.

—. 1989. “The ‘Professional Muse’ and Models of Prestige in Ancient Greece.” Cultural Critique 12:133–143. Rewritten as part of Ch.6 in Nagy 1990a.

—. 1990a. Pindar’s Homer: The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past.Baltimore. 1994 paperback version, with corrections. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Pindars_Homer.1990. The Appendix at pp. 439–464 supplements the argumentation in Nagy 1974.

—. 1990b. Greek Mythology and Poetics. Ithaca NY. 1992 paperback version, with corrections. Further corrections in a rewritten version published online in Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/greek-mythology-and-poetics/.

—. 1993. “Alcaeus in Sacred Space.” Tradizione e innovazione nella cultura greca da Omero all’ età ellenistica: Scritti in onore di Bruno Gentili vol. 1 (ed. R. Pretagostini) 221–225. Rome. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Alcaeus_in_Sacred_Space.1993.

—. 1994. “Genre and Occasion.” Mètis: Anthropologie des mondes grecs anciens 9–10:11–25. https://www.persee.fr/doc/metis_1105-2201_1994_num_9_1_1008. Also http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Genre_and_Occasion.1994.

—. 1995. “Transformations of Choral Lyric Traditions in the Context of Athenian State Theater,” Arion 3.2:41–55. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Transformations_of_Choral_Lyric_Traditions.1995.

—. 1996a. Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond. Cambridge. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Poetry_as_Performance.1996.

—. 1996b. Homeric Questions. Austin. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Homeric_Questions.1996.

—. 2004. “Transmission of Archaic Greek Sympotic Songs: From Lesbos to Alexandria.” Critical Inquiry 31:26–48. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Transmission_of_Archaic_Greek_Sympotic_Songs.2004.

—. 2005. “The Epic Hero.” A Companion to Ancient Epic (ed. J. M. Foley) 71–89. Oxford.

—. 2006. “The Epic Hero.” Expanded online version of Nagy 2005. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.The_Epic_Hero.2005. Superseded in Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/the-epic-hero/.

—. 2007a. “Lyric and Greek Myth.” The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology (ed. R. D. Woodard) 19–51. Cambridge. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Lyric_and_Greek_Myth.2007.

—. 2007 / 2009. “Did Sappho and Alcaeus Ever Meet?” Literatur und Religion: Wege zu einer mythisch–rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen I (ed. A. Bierl, R. Lämmle, and K. Wesselmann) 211–269. MythosEikonPoiesis 1.1. Berlin and New York. The printed version, 2007, appeared online in 2009 here: https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-did-sappho-and-alcaeus-ever-meet-symmetries-of-myth-and-ritual-in-performing-the-songs-of-ancient-lesbos/.

—. 2008a. Greek: An Updating of a Survey of Recent Work. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-greek-an-updating-of-a-survey-of-recent-work/.

—. 2008b. “Convergences and divergences between god and hero in the Mnesiepes Inscription of Paros.” Archilochus and his Age II (ed. D. Katsonopoulou, I. Petropoulos, S. Katsarou) 259–265. Athens. Superseded here:  https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-convergences-and-divergences-between-god-and-hero-in-the-mnesiepes-inscription-of-paros/.

—. 2009|2008. Homer the Classic. Printed | Online version. Hellenic Studies 36. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homer-the-classic/.

—. 2009a. “Hesiod and the Ancient Biographical Traditions.” The Brill Companion to Hesiod (ed. F. Montanari, A. Rengakos, and Ch. Tsagalis) 271–311. Leiden. Superseded here:  https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-hesiod-and-the-ancient-biographical-traditions/.

—. 2009b. “The Fragmentary Muse and the Poetics of Refraction in Sappho, Sophocles, Offenbach.” Theater des Fragments: Performative Strategien im Theater zwischen Antike und Postmoderne, ed. A. Bierl, G. Siegmund, Ch. Meneghetti, C. Schuster, 69–102. Bielefeld. https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-the-fragmentary-muse/.

—. 2010|2009. Homer the Preclassic. Printed | Online version. Berkeley and Los Angeles. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_Nagy.Homer_the_Preclassic.2009.

—. 2010. “The ‘New Sappho’ Reconsidered in the Light of the Athenian Reception of Sappho.” The New Sappho on Old Age: Textual and Philosophical Issues, ed. E. Greene and M. Skinner, 176–199. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-the-new-sappho-reconsidered-in-the-light-of-the-athenian-reception-of-sappho/.

—. 2010b. “Language and Meter.” Chapter 25, A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, ed. E. J. Bakker, 370–387. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World 2010. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:Nagy.Language_and_Meter.2010.

—. 2010|2009. Homer the Preclassic. Printed | Online version. Berkeley and Los Angeles. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-homer-the-preclassic/.

—. 2011a. “Diachrony and the Case of Aesop.” Classics@. Issue 9: Defense Mechanisms in Interdisciplinary Approaches to Classical Studies and Beyond. https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/classics9-gregory-nagy-diachrony-and-the-case-of-aesop/.

—. 2011b. “The Aeolic Component of Homeric Diction.” Proceedings of the 22nd Annual UCLA Indo-European Conference(ed. S. W. Jamison, H. C. Melchert, and B. Vine) 133–179. Bremen. https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-the-aeolic-component-of-homeric-diction/. New version: Nagy 2023.08.22.

—. 2011c. “Asopos and his multiple daughters: Traces of preclassical epic in the Aeginetan Odes of Pindar.” Aegina: Contexts for Choral Lyric Poetry: Myth, History, and Identity in the Fifth Century BC, ed. D. Fearn, 41–78. Oxford. New version: Nagy 2024.10.03.

—. 2013. “The Delian Maidens and their relevance to choral mimesis in classical drama.” Choral Mediations in Greek Tragedy, ed. R. Gagné and M. G. Hopman, 227–256. Cambridge. https://chs.harvard.edu/curated-article/gregory-nagy-the-delian-maidens-and-their-relevance-to-choral-mimesis-in-classical-drama/.

—. 2013 | 2013. The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours. Online | Print version. Cambridge MA. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-the-ancient-greek-hero-in-24-hours/.

—. 2015. Masterpieces of Metonymy: from ancient Greek times to now. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/nagy-gregory-masterpieces-of-metonymy-from-ancient-greek-times-to-now/.

—. 2015.02.27. “Song 44 of Sappho and the Role of Women in the Making of Epic.” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-and-the-role-of-women-in-the-making-of-epic/. Republished also as https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-and-the-role-of-women-in-the-making-of-epic/.

—. 2015.08.12. “Cato’s daughter Porcia has herself a really good cry.” Classical Inquiries. https://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/catos-daughter-porcia-has-herself-a-really-good-cry/.

—. 2015.10.22. “Diachronic Sappho: Some Prolegomena.” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/diachronic-sappho-some-prolegomena-2/.

—. 2015|2016. “A poetics of sisterly affect in the Brothers Song and in other songs of Sappho.”http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:NagyG.A_Poetics_of_Sisterly_Affect.2015. A shorter printed version is available as Ch. 21 in The Newest Sappho (P. Obbink and P. GC Inv. 105, frs. 1–5), ed. A. Bierl and A. Lardinois, 449–492. Leiden.

—. 2016.05.19. “Cataclysm and Ecpyrosis, two symmetrical actions of Zeus as sky-god.” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/cataclysm-and-ecpyrosis-two-symmetrical-actions-of-zeus-as-sky-god/.

—. 2016.08.12. “A sampling of comments on Iliad Rhapsody 7.” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-iliad-scroll-7/.

—. 2016.08.26. “A sampling of comments on Iliad Rhapsody 9.” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-iliad-scroll-9/.

—. 2016.08.31. “Song 44 of Sappho revisited: what is ‘oral’ about the text of this song?” Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-revisited-what-is-oral-about-the-text-of-this-song/. Republished as https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/song-44-of-sappho-revisited-what-is-oral-about-the-text-of-this-song/.

—. 2017.08.28. A response to a critique by Alexander Dale of my proposed etymology for Sapphō. Bryn Mawr Classical Review. http://www.bmcreview.org/2017/08/20170832.html?showComment=1503931355269#c5367783009603636431.

—.  2019/2020. “A ritualized rethinking of what it meant to be ‘European’ for ancient Greeks of the post-heroic age: evidence from the Heroikos of Philostratus.” In Thinking the Greeks: A Volume in Honor of James M. Redfield, ed. B. M. King and L. Doherty, 173–187. London and New York.

—.  2020.11.03, a later version of Nagy 2019/2020. https://www.chs.harvard.edu/CHS/article/display/6949. This online version of Nagy 2019/2020 is out of date and is now replaced by a new version here, Nagy 2023.09.10.

—. 2022.12.01. “Comments on the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey.” Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/a-sampling-of-comments-on-the-homeric-iliad-and-odyssey-restarted-2022/.

—. 2023.08.22, new version of Nagy 2011b. Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/the-aeolic-component-of-homeric-diction/. Pamphlet 3 in the series EPOPS-NAF.

—. 2023.09.04. “Greek myths about invasions and migrations during the so-called Dark Age.” Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/greek-myths-about-invasions-and-migrations-during-the-so-called-dark-age/ . Pamphlet 4 in the series EPOPS-NAF.

—. 2023.09.10, new version of “A ritualized rethinking of what it meant to be ‘European’ for ancient Greeks of the post-heroic age: evidence from the Heroikos of Philostratus.”  Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/a-ritualized-rethinking-of-what-it-meant-to-be-european-for-ancient-greeks-of-the-post-heroic-age-evidence-from-the-heroikos-of-philostratus/. This version replaces the online version Nagy 2020.11.03 and the printed version Nagy 2019/2020. Pamphlet 6 in the series EPOPS-NAF.

—. 2023.12.29. “Homo ludens in the world of ancient Greek verbal art.” Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/homo-ludens-in-the-world-of-ancient-greek-verbal-art-2/.

—. 2024. Ancient Greek Heroes, Athletes, Poetry. Classical Continuum Series 1. Cambridge MA.

—. 2024.10.03, new version of Nagy 2011c. Classical Continuum. https://continuum.fas.harvard.edu/asopos-and-his-multiple-daughters-traces-of-preclassical-epic-in-the-aeginetan-odes-of-pindar/.

Neri, C. 2014. “Una festa auspicata? (Sapph. Fr. 17 V. e P. GC. inv. 105 fr. 2 c II rr. 9–28).” Eikasmos 25:11–23.

—. 2021. Saffo, testimonianze e frammenti: Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e commento. Berlin.

Obbink, D. 2014. “Two New Poems by Sappho.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 189:31–50.

Page, D. L. 1955. Sappho and Alcaeus: An Introduction to the Study of Ancient Lesbian Poetry. Oxford. On φίλοιc in Sappho F 44 line 12; also θέοιc at line 21; some possible examples in Alcaeus; but, in all cases, only line-final. For the definite article, always ταιc and ταιc in the dative. Page also compares Archilochus and Anacreon: -οισι line-medial, -οιc line-final. For Alcaeus: p. 208 on “G2” (now F 130) line 30: cυνόδοιcί μ’ αὔτοιc. Also ἄγναιc. Also ἐταίραιc in Sappho F 160: τάδε νῦν ἐταίραιc ταὶc ἔμαιc τέρπνα κάλως ἀείσω.

Parca, M. G. 1982. “Sappho 1.18–19.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 46.47–50.

Parker, H. 2008. “The linguistic case for the Aiolian Migration reconsidered.” Hesperia 77:431–464. See Nagy 2011c for a friendly debate with Parker 2008 and with Rose 2008 concerning the prehistory of the Aeolic dialect and the relevant myths about an “Aeolian Migration.”

Parry, M. 1932. “Studies in the epic technique of oral verse-making. II: The Homeric language as the language of an oral poetry.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 43:1–50. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hlnc.essay:ParryM.Studies_in_the_Epic_Technique_of_Oral_Verse-Making2.1932.

Peponi, A. E. 2009. “Choreia and Aesthetics in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo: The Performance of the Delian Maidens (lines 156–64).” Classical Antiquity 28:39–70.

Petropoulos, J. B. 1993. “Sappho the Sorceress—Another Look at fr. 1 (LP).” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 97:43–56.

PGM = Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die Griechischen Zauberpapyri I–II, ed. 2, A. Henrichs 1974; after ed. 1, K. Preisendanz 1928–1934. Stuttgart.

PH = Nagy 1990a (Pindar’s Homer)

Pirenne-Delforge, V., and G. Pironti 2014. “Héra et Zeus à Lesbos: entre poésie lyrique et décret civique.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 191:27–31.

Polignac, F. de. 1997. “Héra, le navire et la demeure: offrandes, divinité et société en Grèce archaïque.” In de La Genière 1997:113–122.

Power, T. 2010. The Culture of Kitharōidia. Hellenic Studies 15. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. https://chs.harvard.edu/book/power-timothy-the-culture-of-kitharoidia/.

PP = Nagy 1996a (Poetry as Performance)

Price, S. D. 1990. “Anacreontic Vases Reconsidered.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 31:133–75.

Pütz, B. 2003. The Symposium and Komos in Aristophanes. Drama: Beiträge zum antiken Drama und seiner Rezeption 22. Stuttgart/Weimar.

Rayor, D., and A. Lardinois, 2014. Sappho: A New Translation of the Complete Works. Cambridge 2014.

Rissman, L. 1980. Homeric Allusion in the Poetry of Sappho. Dissertation, University of Michigan. Published 1983 as a book by the same title. Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie 157. Königstein/Ts.

Robert, L. 1960. “Recherches épigraphiques, V: Inscriptions de Lesbos.” Revue des études anciennes 73:285–315. Reprinted 1969 in his Opera Minora Selecta II 801–831. Amsterdam.

Rösler, W. 1980. Dichter und Gruppe: Eine Untersuchung zu den Bedingungen und zur historischen Funktion friïher Lyrik am Beispiel Alkaios. Munich.

—. 1985. “Persona Reale o Persona Poetica? L’interpretazione dell’ ‘io’ nella Lirica Greca Arcaica.” Quaderni Urbinati 19:131–144.

—. 1990. “Mnemosyne in the Symposion.” In Murray 1990:230–237.

Rose, C. B. 2006. “Ilion.” Stadtgrabungen und Stadtforschung im westlichen Kleinasien: Geplantes und Erreichtes, ed. W. Radt, 135–158. Istanbul.

—. 2008. “Separating Fact from Fiction in the Aiolian Migration.” Hesperia 77:399–430. See Nagy 2011c for a friendly debate with Rose 2008 and with Parker 2008 concerning the prehistory of the Aeolic dialect and the relevant myths about an “Aeolian Migration.”

Saussure, F. de. 1916. Cours de linguistique générale. Critical ed. 1972 by T. de Mauro. Paris.

Schmitt-Pantel, P. 1990. “Sacrificial Meal and Symposion.” In Murray 1990:14–33.

Seaford, R. 1996. Euripides Bacchae (with Introduction, Translation, Commentary). Warminster.

Snyder, J. M. 1997. “Sappho in Attic Vase Painting.” Naked truths: Women, sexuality, and gender in classical art and archaeology, ed. A. Koloski-Ostrow and C. L. Lyons, 108–119. London.

Stauber, J, ed. 1996. Die Bucht von Adramytteion. I/II. Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 51. Bonn.

Tambiah, S. J. 1985. Culture, Thought, and Social Action: An Anthropological Perspective. Cambridge MA.

Urios-Aparisi, E. 1993. “Anacreon: Love and Poetry (on 358 PMG, 13 Gentili).” Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 44:51–70.

Vernant, J.-P. 1982. “La belle mort et le cadavre outragé.” La mort, les morts dans les sociétés anciennes, ed. G. Gnoli and J.-P. Vernant, 45–76. Cambridge and Paris. Reprinted 1989 in L’individu, la mort, l’amour: Soi-même et autre en Grèce ancienne, 41–79. 1989. Paris.

Voigt, E.-M., ed. 1971. “Sappho et Alcaeus.” Fragmenta. Amsterdam.

West, M. L. 2002. “The View from Lesbos.” Beiträge zur Homerforschung: Festschrift Wolfgang Kullmann, ed. M. Reichel and A. Rengakos, 207–219. Stuttgart.

West, M. L. 2014. “Nine Poems of Sappho.” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 191:1–12.

Wickersham, J. M. 1986. “The corpse who calls Theognis.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 116:65–70.

Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von. 1913. Sappho und Simonides: Untersuchungen über griechische Lyriker. Berlin.

Yatromanolakis, D. 2001. “Visualizing Poetry: An Early Representation of Sappho.” Classical Philology 96: 159–168.

—. 2003. “Ritual Poetics in Archaic Lesbos: Contextualizing Genre in Sappho.” Towards a Ritual Poetics (by D.Yatromanolakis and P. Roilos) 43–59. Athens. Also in Yatromanolakis and Roilos 2004:56–70. In referring to this work, I will use the pagination of the 2004 version.

—. 2005. “Contrapuntal Inscriptions.” Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 152:16–30.

—. 2007. Sappho in the Making: An Anthropology of Reception. Cambridge MA and Washington DC. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_YatromanolakisD.Sappho_in_the_Making.2008.

—, and P. Roilos, eds. 2004. Greek Ritual Poetics. Cambridge MA and Washington DC.

Zeitlin, F. I. 1970. “The Argive Festival of Hera and Euripides’ Electra.” Transactions of the American Philological Association 101:645–669.

Zuntz, G. 1951. “On the Etymology of the Name Sappho.” Museum Helveticum 8:12–35.