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Routledge Critical Assessments o f Classical A uthors

Forthcoming:

Virgil
Edited by P.R. Hardie

Greek Tragedy
Edited by Katerina Zacharia
 HOMER
Critical Assessments

Edited by Irene J.F. de Jong

VOLUME IV
Homer’s Art
ROUTLEDGE

London and New York

First published 1999
by Routledge
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE

Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada

by Routledge
29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001

© Selection and editorial material, 1999 Irene de Jong

Typeset in Garamond by
J&L Composition Ltd, Filey, North Yorkshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utiÜ2ed in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Homer: critical assessments/edited by Irene J.F. de Jong,
p. cm.
Essays in English, French, and German.
Contents: v. 1. The creation of the poems - v. 2. The Homeric world -
V. 3. Literary interpretation —v. 4. Homer's art.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-415-14527-9
1. Homer —Criticism and interpretation. 2. Epic poetry, Greek —History
and criticism. 3. Oral-formulaic analysis. 4. Oral tradition —Greece.
5. Civilization, Homeric. 6. Greece —In literature.
I. Jong, Irene J.F. de
PA4037.H7747 1998
883/.01-dc21 98-11375
CIP
ISBN 0-415-14527-9 (set)
ISBN 0^415-14528-7 (vol. I)
ISBN 0-415-14529-5 (vol. II)
ISBN 0-415-14530-9 (voi. Ill)
ISBN 0-415-14531-7 (vol. IV)
Contents

Acknowledgements vii

A. The Singer and his Muse 1

71. Übet naive und sentimentalische Dichtung F. Schiller 3
72. The Singer in the Odyssey H, Maehler 6
73- Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece P. Murray 21
74. Homer on Poetry and the Poetry of Homer
C.W. Macleod 42
75- The Genre of Epic Poetry A. Ford 57

B. Style and Structure 79

76. Preface de la traduction d’Homère A. Dacier 81
77. On Translating Homer M. Arnold 85
78. Parataxis in Homer: A New Approach to Homeric
Literary Criticism J.A. Notopoulos 94
79- The Homeric Epithets are Significantly True to
Individual Character W. Wballon 113
80. Homer Against his Tradition J.A. Russo 125
81. Die größeren Aristien der Ilias T. Krischer 142
82. Artistry and Craftmanship in the Homeric Epics
H. Patzer 155

C. Characters 185
83. Preface to his Translation of the Iliad A. Pope 187
84. The Untypical Hero W.B. Stanford 190
85. Agamemnon in the Iliad A.M. van Erp Taalman Kip 206
vi Contents

86. Die Begegnung zwischen Diomedes und Glaukos (Z)

Oe. Andersen 218
87. Speech as a Personality Symbol: The Case of Achilles
P. Friedrich andJ. Redfield 231
88. Elpenor H. Rohdich 262
89. The Philosophy of the Odyssey R.B. Rutherford 271

D. N arrative Techniques 299

90. Laocoön F. Lessing 301
91. The Treatment of Simultaneous Events in Ancient Epic
T. Zielinski 317
92. The Forecasting of Events within the Epic and its Effect
upon Suspense I: Events Forecast to the Reader, but not
to the Characters G. Duckworth 328
93. The Poet and his Audience S.E.Bassett 339
94. Primitive Narrative T. Todorov 347
95. Homer’s Trojan Plain A . Thornton 357
96. Explicit and Implicit Embedded Focalisation
IJ.F. de Jong 370
97. Reading Differences: The Odyssey and Juxtaposition
S. Goldhill 396
98. Special Abilities S. Richardson 432
99. The Development of the Theme in the Iliad:
The Plan of Action J. Latacz 462
Select Bibliography 477
Acknowledgements

The editor gratefully acknowledges the following who have kindly given
permission to reprint articles in this volume:

Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Gottingen, 72 and 95; Society

for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies, 73 and 89; Oxford University Press,
74; Cornell University Press, 75 and 94; Center for Hellenic Studies, 79;
C.H. Beck’sche Verlagbuchhandlung, München, 81; H. Patzer, 82; A.Μ.
van Erp Taalman Kip, 85; Univers ite tsforlaget AC/Scandinavian University
Press, Oslo, 86; Linguistic Society of America, P. Friedrich and J. Redfield,
87; H. Rohdich, 88; Princeton University Press, 92; University of Califor­
nia Press, 93; John Benjamins, Amsterdam, 96; Aureal Publications,
Victoria, 97; S. Richardson, 98; Michigan University Press, 99«

While every effort has been made to contact copyright holders of material
used in this volume, the editor and publisher would be grateful to hear from
any they were unable to contact.
A. The Singer and his Muse
71_____________________________________________________
Über naive und sentimentalische Dichtung*

F. Schiller

*Source: Friedrich Schillw: dtv-Gesamtamgabe, mit allen Textvarianten, Buhnenfassungen und

Fragmenten, nach der 3. Auflage der Gesam tausgabe des Carl-Hanser Verlags, auf Grund der
Originaldrucke hersg. und kommentiert von G. Fricke und H.G. Goepfert, in Verbindung
mit H. Stubenrauch, Band 19/ Deutsche Taschenbuch Verlag, Munich, 1966, pp. 134-7.

Die Dichter sind überall, schon ihrem Begriffe nach, die Bewahrer der
Natur. Wo sie dieses nicht ganz mehr sein können und schon in sich selbst
den zerstörenden Einfluß willkürlicher und künstlicher Formen erfahren
oder doch m it demselben zu kämpfen gehabt haben, da werden sie als die
Zeugen und als die Rächer der Natur auftreten. Sie werden entweder Natur
sein y oder sie werden die verlorene suchen. Daraus entspringen zwei ganz
verschiedene Dichtungsweisen, durch welche das ganze Gebiet der Poesie
erschöpft und ausgemessen wird. Alle Dichter, die es wirklich sind, werden,
je nachdem die Zeit beschaffen ist, in der sie blühen, oder zufällige-
Umstände auf ihre allgemeine Bildung und auf ihre vorübergehende
Gemütsstimmung Einfluß haben, entweder zu den naiven oder zu den
sentimentalischen gehören.
Der Dichter einer naiven und geistreichen Jugendwelt, sowie derjenige,
der in den Zeitaltern künstlicher Kultur ihm am nächsten kommt, ist
streng und spröde, wie die jungfräuliche Diana in ihren Wäldern, ohne
alle Vertraulichkeit entflieht er dem Herzen, das ihn sucht, dem Verlangen,
das ihn umfassen will. Die trockne Wahrheit, womit er den Gegenstand
behandelt, erscheint nicht selten als Unempfindlichkeit. Das Objekt besitzt
ihn gänzlich, sein Herz liegt nicht wie ein schlechtes Metall gleich unter
der Oberfläche, sondern will wie das Gold in der Tiefe gesucht sein. Wie die
Gottheit hinter dem Weltgebäude, so steht er hinter seinem Werk; er ist
das Werk, und das Werk ist er; man muß des erstem schon nicht wert oder
nicht mächtig oder schon satt sein, um nach ihm nur zu fragen.
So zeigt sich z. B. Homer unter den Alten und Shakespeare unter den
Neuern; zwei höchst verschiedene, durch den unermeßlichen Abstand der
Zeitalter getrennte Naturen, aber gerade in diesem Charakterzuge völlig
eins. Als ich in einem sehr frühen Alter den letztem Dichter zuerst ken­
nenlernte, empörte mich seine Kälte, seine Unempfindlichkeit, die ihm
erlaubte, im höchsten Pathos zu scherzen, die herzzerschneidenden Auftritte
4 Homer's A r t

im »Hamlet«, im »König Lear«, im »Macbeth« usf. durch einen Narren zu

stören, die ihn bald da festhielt, wo meine Empfindung forteilte, bald da
kaltherzig fortriß, wo das Herz so gern stiligestanden wäre. Durch die
Bekanntschaft mit neuern Poeten verleitet, in dem Werke den Dichter
zuerst aufzusuchen, seinem Herzen zu begegnen, mit ihm gemeinschaftlich
über seinen Gegenstand zu reflektieren; kurz, das Objekt in dem Subjekt
anzuschauen, war es mir unerträglich, daß der Poet sich hier gar nirgends
fassen ließ und mir nirgends Rede stehen wollte. Mehrere Jahre hatte er
schon meine ganze Verehrung und war mein Studium, ehe ich sein Indi­
viduum liebgewinnen lernte. Ich war noch nicht fähig, die Natur aus der
ersten Hand zu verstehen. N ur ihr durch den Verstand reflektiertes und
durch die Regel zurechtgelegtes Bild konnte ich ertragen, und dazu waren
die sentimentalischen Dichter der Franzosen und auch der Deutschen, von
den Jahren 1750 bis etwa 1780, gerade die rechten Subjekte. Übrigens
schäme ich mich dieses Kinderurteils nicht, da die bejahrte Kritik ein
ähnliches fällte und naiv genug war, es in die W elt hineinzuschreiben.
Dasselbe ist mir auch mit dem Homer begegnet, den ich in einer noch
spätem Periode kennenlernte. Ich erinnere mich jetzt der merkwürdigen
Stelle im sechsten Buch der Ilias, wo Glaukus und Diomed im Gefecht
aufeinanderstoßen und, nachdem sie sich als Gastfreunde erkannt, einander
Geschenke geben. Diesem rührenden Gemälde der Pietät, mit der die
Gesetze des Gastrechts selbst im Kriege beobachtet wurden, kann eine
Schilderung des ritterlichen Edelmuts im Ariost an die Seite gestellt werden,
wo zwei Ritter und Nebenbuhler, Ferrau und Rinald, dieser ein Christ,
jener ein Sarazene, nach einem heftigen Kampf und mit Wunden bedeckt,
Friede machen und, um die flüchtige Angelika einzuholen, das nämliche
Pferd besteigen. Beide Beispiele, so verschieden sie übrigens sein mögen,
kommen einander in der Wirkung auf unser Herz beinahe gleich, weil
beide den schönen Sieg der Sitten über die Leidenschaft malen und uns
durch Naivetät der Gesinnungen rühren. Aber wie ganz verschieden neh­
men sich die Dichter bei Beschreibung dieser ähnlichen Handlung. Ariost,
der Bürger einer spätem und von der Einfalt der Sitten abgekommenen
W elt, kann bei der Erzählung dieses Vorfalls seine eigene Verwunderung,
seine Rührung nicht verbergen. Das Gefühl des Abstandes jener Sitten von
denjenigen, die sein Zeitalter charakterisieren, überwältigt ihn. Er verläßt
auf einmal das Gemälde des Gegenstandes und erscheint in eigener Person.
Man kennt die schöne Stanze und hat sie immer vorzüglich bewundert:

O Edelmut der alten Rittersitten!

Die Nebenbuhler waren, die entzweit
Im Glauben waren, bittern Schmerz noch litten
Am ganzen Leib vom feindlich wilden Streit,
Frei von Verdacht und in Gemeinschaft ritten
Sie durch des krummen Pfades Dunkelheit.
 The Singer a n d his Muse 5

Das Roß, getrieben von vier Sporen, eilte,

Bis wo der Weg sich in zwei Straßen teilte.1

Und nun der alte Homer! Kaum erfährt Diomed aus Glaukus, seines
Gegners, Erzählung, daß dieser von Väterzeiten her ein Gastfreund seines
Geschlechts ist, so steckt er die Lanze in die Erde, redet freundlich mit ihm
und macht mit ihm aus, daß sie einander im Gefechte künftig ausweichen
wollen. Doch man höre den Homer selbst:

Also bin ich nunmehr dein Gastfreund mitten in Argos,

Du in Lykia mir, wenn jenes Land ich besuche.
Drum mit unsern Lanzen'vermeiden wir uns im Getümmel.
Viel ja sind der Troer mir selbst und der rühmlichen Helfer,
Daß ich töte, wen Gott mir gewährt und die Schenkel erreichen;
Viel auch dir der Achaier, daß, welchen du kannst, du erlegest.
Aber die Rüstungen beide vertauschen wir, daß auch die andern
Schaun, wie wir Gäste zu sein aus Väterzeiten uns rühmen.
Also redeten jene, herab von den Wagen sich schwingend,
Faßten sie beide einander die Hand und gelobten sich Freundschaft.

Schwerlich dürfte ein moderner Dichter (wenigstens schwerlich einer, der

es in der moralischen Bedeutung dieses Worts ist) auch nur bis hieher
gewartet haben, um seine Freude an dieser Handlung zu bezeugen. W ir
würden es ihm um so leichter verzeihen, da auch unser Herz beim Lesen
einen Stillstand macht und sich von dem Objekte gern entfernt, um in sich
selbst zu schauen. Aber von allem diesem keine Spur im Homer; als ob er
etwas Alltägliches berichtet hätte, ja als ob er selbst kein Herz im Busen
trüge, fährt er in seiner trockenen Wahrhaftigkeit fort:

Doch den Glaukus erregete Zeus, daß er ohne Besinnung

Gegen den Held Diomedes die Rüstungen, goldne mit ehrnen,
Wechselte, hundert Farren wert, neun Farren die andern. 2

Anmerkung

1. Der rasende Roland, Erster Gesang, Stanze 32.

2. Ilias, Voßische Übersetzung, Erster Band, Seite 153.
72 __________________

The Singer in the Odyssey *

H. Maehler, translated by the author

^Source: Die Auffassung des Dichterberufs im frühen Griechentum bis zur Zeit Pindars.
Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, Göttingen, 1963, pp. 21-34.

The Odyssey represents a rather different world.1 The differences between the
Iliad and Odyssey cannot be accounted for by the différence in subject matter
alone, because the very choice of subject, that is, the fact that the poet of the
Odyssey combined the theme of the homecoming hero with sailors’ tales and
adventure stories, implies an interest in such stories not found in the Iliad. If
we may interpret the new spirit of the Odyssey as a manifestation of a new era,
it was bound to influence the poet’s idea of his rôle and his concept of poetry.
It is only in rather general terms that one can assume a 'unity of the world of
epic';2 looking more closely, we can see the differences so clearly that we can
neither apply the Iliads notion of the poet’s rôle to the Odyssey, nor assume
that ideas found in the younger poem are already applicable to the Iliad?
Seeing that already in the description of Achilles’ Shield (Σ 604) the
singer is called ‘divine’ (θειος), we may believe that his craft had for a long
time been highly respected and honoured in accordance with his rôle in
society. His social standing cannot have changed much, for in the Odyssey,
too, singers are highly respected. When Agamemnon left for Troy, he
entrusted Klytaimestra to the care of a bard (γ 267), and the singer who
performs at the wedding of Menelaos’ children is called ‘divine’ (δ 17), as
are Phemios (π 252, ψ 133, 143), and Demodokos (Θ 43, V 27). Demodokos
in particular is honoured among the Phaiacians (Θ 472); at table he is given
a large piece of meat at Odysseus’ request, who explains:

For with all peoples upon the earth singers are entitled
to be cherished and to their share of respect, since the Muse has taught them
her own way, and since she loves all· the company of singers.
πασι γάρ άνθρώ ποισ ιν επ ιχ θ ο ν ίο ισ ιν αοιδοί
τιμής εμμοροί είσ ι καί αίδοϋς, οΰνεκ άρα σ φ εας
οϊμας Μ ουσ έδίδα ξε, φ ίλ η σ ε δε φυλον άοιδών.
(θ 479-81)
 The Singer a n d his Muse 1

Yec as the Phaiacians are a blessed fairy-tale tribe, their bard is also an
idealized figure; several hints in the Odyssey suggest that in reality the bards
often had to struggle with bitter hardship.4 Phemios - the only other bard
whose name we are told: a telling name, like that of his father, Terpios
(X 330) - is much worse off than Demodokos; he sings for the suitors only
under compulsion (χ 35Iff., a 154), and he escapes Odysseus5 wrath only
through Telemachos5 intervention. That is, of course, an exceptional situa­
tion. More characteristic of the bards5 social prestige is Eumaios5 statement
(p 38Iff.) that they are δ η μ ιο ερ γο ί (‘professionals’) like seers, doctors,
builders, in other words ail those not normally represented in the self-
sufficient Homeric household and therefore κ λ η το ί (Tor hire5), that is,
whose services could be hired publicly and for payment when required.5
More important than the bards’ social conditions is the question why the
Odyssey, unlike the Iliad, speaks so much about them. One factor may be
that in the more ‘bourgeois’ world of the Odysseyy it is not only the aristo­
crats but also the common people such as shepherds and servants who come
into focus. But that would not fully account for the difference. Rather, the
author presents what matters to him personally.6 To him, his own social
position and his craft matter much more than they did to the author of the
Iliad. He sees himself even less than the latter as a mere instrument of the
Muses; in the Odyssey, poetic composition is beginning to be seen as an
autonomous intellectual activity. This is suggested, for one thing, by the
absence of invocations to the Muses, apart from the conventional proem.
The Ilias parva goes even further: Ί sing Ilion and Dardanos5 land of fine
horses5 ("Ιλιον αείδω κ α ι Δ αρδανίην έύπωλον). Although the poet’s
talent is granted by god (Θ 44, 498), by the Muses or Apollon who have
‘taught’ him (Θ 481, 488), and the Muse ‘urges’ him (άνήκεν, Θ 73) to
sing, yet his song itself no longer needs their help, he sings ‘as the thought
drives him5 (οππη οί νόος ορνυται, α 347), as the spirit moves him to
singing5(οππη θυμός έπο τρ ύ νη σ ιν ά είδ ειν, θ 45). In the Odyssey we also
find people who speak with real pride of their own achievements and show
awareness of their own abilities. Thus Phemios is equally proud of having
been ‘self-taught’ (αυτοδίδακτος) and of having had various ‘ways’ of song
(Οίμας, x 347) implanted in his mind by a god. For him, there is no
contradiction between the divine gift and his own ability,7 since the latter
presupposes the former, the talented minstrel sings ‘from the gods5 (θεών
εξ, p 518). On the other hand, he is evidently proud of his own creative
power.8
This idea, which was to find such magnificent expression later in choral
lyric poetry, appears first in the Odyssey. It is very telling because in other
respects, too, there is much more emphasis on personal achievement as well
as on personal failure. Odysseus5 companions perish ‘by their own wild
recklessness’'(αύτών . . . σ φ ετέρ η σ ιν ά τα σ θα λίη σ ιν, α 7) - not through
the ‘will of Zeus5 (Δίός βουλή), as the proem to the Iliad had said.
8 Homer's A r t

Accordingly, Zeus says in the gods’ first meeting: O h for shame, how the
mortals put the blame upon us gods! For they say evils come from us, but it
is they, rather, who by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what was
given’ (oi δέ και αυτοί σφήσιν άτασθαλχησιν υπέρ μόρον αλγε3
εχουσ ιν, α 32ffi). The suitors, too, perish because of their own transgres­
sions and misdeeds - as Penelope says: ‘So they suffered for their own
recklessness’ (τφ δι ατασθαλίας επαθον κακόν, ψ 67). However, it is
not only their mistakes that mortals are accountable for; while in general it
is true in the Odyssey as well as in the Iliad that decisive motivations and
ideas are inspired by gods, yet on occasion there can be a notion that an idea
may come from one’s own ‘m ind’ (θυμός). Thus, when Penelope asks why
Telemachos went to Pylos, Medon replies: Ί do not know whether some god
moved him, or whether his own mind had the impulse to go’ (Ô 712f.).9
In addition to a greater awareness of the individual’s intellectual activity
and achievement, there is also a new appreciation of intellectual abilities
which seem responsible for the Odyssey %stronger interest in bards and their
craft. While in the Iliady too, good advice and a fitting comment are
acclaimed (for instance, Nestor is highly respected on account of both
and Odysseus’ standing epithet is ‘equal of Zeus in counsel’, Διί μήτιν
ατάλαντος, B 169, 407, 636, K 137 - cp. v 89 - , Γ 2Û0ff. and 2l6ff.),
these phrases refer nearly always10 to battles: a clever idea is significant only
insofar as it proves useful for the fight. By contrast, in the Odyssey cleverness
is seen as an independent value in its own right. Odysseus himself, the
versatile’,11 is the most telling example of this. Even Kalypso admires his
cleverness:

You are so naughty, and you will have your own way in all things.
See how you have spoken to me and reason with me.
ή δή άλιτρός γ3έσσι και ούκ άποφώλια ειδώς*
οΐον δή τον μύθον επεφράσθης αγορεύσαχ.
(ε 182-3)

as do Helen (δ 240ff.) and Menelaos (δ 266ff.).

Odysseus himself boasts proudly how cleverly he has tricked the Cyclops
(l 445), and when he finally reveals his identity to the Phaiacians he says in
proud self-praise:

I am Odysseus son of Laertes, known before all men

for the study of crafty designs, and my fame goes up to the heavens.
εϊμ3Όδυσεύς Λαερτιάδης, ος πάσι δόλοισιν
άνθρώποισι μέλω, καί μευ κλέος ουρανόν ικει.
(ί 19-20)
 The Singer a n d his Muse 9

His pride and his fame rest on his devious cleverness. When he is ship­
wrecked and tossed about in the waves, Athena gives him not μένος
(strength and energy) but επί φροσόνη (forethought, 8 437).
It is the wise, bright-eyed goddess herself who tells Odysseus most clearly
what they both have in common: he possesses ‘intimately’, πεδόθεν,
dissimulation and trickery, and as he is the best among men ‘in counsel
and words’ (βουλή και μύθοχσιν), so is she among the gods (v 291ff). It is
because Odysseus is so clever that she helps him:

Therefore I cannot abandon you when you are unhappy,

because you are fluent, and reason closely, and keep your head always.
τφ σε καί ού δύναμαι προλχπεχν δύστηνον έόντα,
οϋνεκ έπητής έσσχ και άγχίνοος καί έχέφρων.
(v 331-2)

Athena’s achievement and protection is here motivated in a new way,

unknown to the Iliad. Other figures in the Odyssey are singled out for their
cleverness; thus, έχέφρων is also a standing epithet of Penelope (δ 111, π
130, ω 198, περίφρων π 409, 435, ρ 100, etc.), she is more intelligent
than all Achaian women before her time, Tor none of these knew thoughts
so wise as those Penelope knew’ (τάων ουτχς όμοια νοήματα Πηνε-
λοπείη ήδη, β 121), and Odysseus is pleased to see how cleverly she elicits
gifts from the suitors (σ 158-301).
Telemachos prides himself on having become reasonable and knowledge­
able of all things, ‘better and worse alike’ (έσθλά τε και τα χέρηα, σ
228—9). For here, what counts is no longer only what is ‘noble’, έσθλόν -
values have changed. It now matters To look ahead as well as back’, that is,
to see the connections, as does Halitherses who has understood that the
suitors’ own misdeeds have plunged them into disaster (ω 45 Iff.). Those
who know ‘numerous and ancient things’, as Echeneos does among the
Phaiacians (η 157), are respected; the poet praises him for exactly the same
qualities that he himself possesses! Given that values such as intelligence,
experience, knowledge of manifold and ancient’ things are here so much
focused upon, in other words values that characterize the epic poet himself
and are essential to his art, one cannot help feeling that the poet sees himself
as a representative of intellectual qualities.12 At one point this is stated
quite explicitly: Odysseus has not lied to the Phaiacians but told his story
with expert knowledge like a bard’ (ώς οτ αοιδός έπισταμένως), for he
has ‘a sound m ind’ (φρένες έσθλαί) and the ‘shape of words’ (μορφή
επέων, λ 3ó7f.).13 Knowledge (έπίστασθαι), a sound mind (φρένες
έσθλαί) and the ‘shape’ or ‘grace’ of words (μορφή έπέων) are the
particular qualities of the bard.
In this context, Odysseus’ reply to Euryalos’ challenge is particularly
10 Homer’s A r t

relevant. N ot to all men had god given the gifts of charm5, χαρίεντα, such
as ‘stature, brains or eloquence5 (φυή, φρένες, άγορητύς). For one man
may be inconspicuous to look at,

but the god puts comeliness on his words, and they who look toward him
are filled with joy at the sight, and he speaks to them without faltering
in winning modesty, and shines among those who are gathered,
and people look on him as on a god when he walks in the city.
άλλα θεός μορφήν επεσι στέφει, οί δέ τ ές αυτόν
τερπόμενοι λευσσουσιν* ο δ'άσφαλέως αγορεύει
αιδοί μειλιχίη, μετά δέ πρέπει άγρομένοισιν,
ερχόμενον δ* άνά άστυ θεόν ώς εισορόωσιν.
(θ 170-73)

Another may be good-looking, ‘but upon his words there is no grace

distilled5 (άλλ5 οΰ oi χάρις άμφί περιστέφεται επέεσσιν), just like
Euryalos who is handsome to look at, but ‘in thinking is worthless5 (VÓOV
άποφώλιος), and who has spoken ‘not as is right' (ού κατά κόσμον, θ
174-9). While the idea that Zeus has distributed talents in different ways is
found in the Iliad (N 730-4), the Odyssey passage introduces an innovation
which is very significant in this context, although it has not yet been fully
appreciated. Here, the type of the clever, the articulate, in short, the
‘intellectual5 man is distinguished from and seen as superior to others.
Odysseus sees himself quite clearly as a representative of this new type of
individual which is so strikingly characteristic of the Odyssey, and in this he
is confirmed by Alkinoos (λ 367). To a man who possesses these intellectual
qualities (χαρίεντα), everyone looks as to a god: this is the clearest
indication of the esteem that is here shown for the new ‘intellectual5
man, and we may assume that Odysseus is here giving voice to the poet’s
own ideal. The new emphasis on intellectual qualities is another important
reason why in the Odyssey so much more attention is paid to the figure of the
poet than in the Iliad.
The Odyssey has a different set of values. It does preserve the old esteem for
fame (κλέος) which is so typical of aristocratic ‘shame-cultures5; Athena
appeals to Telemachos5sense of honour by reminding him of the importance
of fame and citing the example of Orestes: he must prove his valour, ‘so that
he is praised by future generations' (a 298-302), and in γ 204 Telemachos
refers back to her words.14 Actions are determined by consideration of good
reputation and what people will say (φάτίς, δήμου φήμις), at any rate in
an aristocratic setting: cp. Odysseus (ξ 239), Penelope (π 75) and Nausikaa
(ζ 29)· When Eurymachos fails to string the bow, he is annoyed less because
he has lost the prospect of marrying Penelope than because he and the other
suitors are so much inferior in strength to Odysseus — that is a ‘shame'
 The Singer a n d his Muse 11

(ελεγχείη) which will be transmitted to posterity (φ 246-55); particularly

galling is the thought that people will say that they have been defeated by a
vagabond beggar (φ 321-9). For the Odyssey as for the Iliad,, this is the
essential function of poetry; only in song will the praiseworthy and the less
praiseworthy deeds of men live on, only song will preserve and spread fame.
As Agamemnons’ shadow puts it: never will the repute of Penelope’s loyalty
be lost, ‘but the immortals will make for the people of earth a thing of grace
in the song for prudent Penelope’ (τεύξουσι δ' έπιχθονίοισιν άοίδήν
αθάνατοι χαρίεσσαν εχέφρονι Πηνελοπείη); Klytaimestra will have a
‘hateful song’ (στυγερή άοίδή) among men on account of her crime, and
she will bring ‘bad repute’ (χαλεπή φήμις) to the whole female sex (CO
196 202).15
-

However, when Menelaos erects an empty tomb for his murdered brother
‘so that his fame might be ever-lasting’ (ιν’άσβεστον κλέος εϊη, δ 584),
or when the shadow of the quite insignificant Elpenor asks for the same
favour ‘so that those to come will know of me’ (καί έσσομένοισι πυθέσ-
θαΐ, λ 76), this could be seen as an indication that the concept of ‘fame’ is
beginning to fade.16
Also, what is praised is no longer the old war-like valour. Odysseus
himself takes pride in his ‘tricks’ (δόλοΐ), and his fame reaches the sky (l
20, cp. i 281, τ 203, Autolykos τ 396). He is so proud of them that he asks
the bard to sing to the Phaiacians his trick with the Wooden Horse (Θ
492ff.). Another ‘trick’ is Hephaistos’ net in the tale of Ares and Aphrodite,
which Demodokos had recited before. Such are now the contents of songs
and the objects of praise (κλείειν), this is what the audience enjoy (Θ
367ffi). Glory that reaches the sky is earned not only by the bravery or
intelligence of heroes, but even by the song itself, which is another indica­
tion of the poet’s self-esteem: in Demodokos’ first appearance (Θ 73ff), the
Muse drives him

to sing the famous actions

of men on that venture, whose fame goes up into the wide heaven,
the quarrel between Odysseus and Peleus’ son, Achilleus.
άειδέμεναι κλέα άνδρών,
οϊμης τής τότ’ άρα κλέος ουρανόν ευρύν Ικάνεν,
νείκος Όδυσσήος και Πηλείδεω Άχιλήος.
(cp. α 351)17

Another indication of the importance of song is the eagerness of its

audience. Telemachos bids the noisy suitors be quiet,

since it is a splendid thing to listen to a singer

who is such a singer as this man is, with a voice such as gods have.
12 Homer's A r t

έπει τόδε καλόν άκουέμεν έστίν άοιδου

τοιοϋδ5, οιος οδ’ έστί, θεοίς εναλίγκιος αύδήν.
(α 370-1)

The same words are addressed to Alkinoos by Odysseus who adds that he
cannot think of anything more pleasant than to listen to a bard during a
banquet (l 3—11)-1
In the Iliad, too, the song to entertain the guests was a regular part of a
banquet. W hat is new in the Odyssey is the exuberant joy expressed again and
again by the listeners, on hearing nor only festive songs but stories generally,
and this may well be a characteristic feature of the younger poem. Thus,
Telemachos says to Menelaos who had told him about his journeys, that he
could easily stay and go on listening for a whole year without feeling homesick.

such strange pleasure do I take listening to your stories

and sayings,
αίνώς γαρ μύθοισιν επεσσί τε σοχσιν άκούων
τέρπομαχ.
(δ 597-8)

Alkinoos is eager to listen to the sequel of Odysseus' account of the Greeks'

vicissitudes at Troy and their journey home:

This night is very long, it is endless. It is not time yet

to sleep in the palace. But go on telling your wonderful story.
I myself could hold out until the bright dawn, if only
you could bear to tell me, here in the palace, of your sufferings.
νύξ δ’ ήδε μάλα μακρή, αθέσφατος* ουδέ πω ώρη
ευδειν εν μεγάρω, σύ δε μοι λέγε θέσκελα έργα,
καί κεν ές ήώ δίαν άνασχοίμην, οτε μοι συ
τλαίης έν μεγάρφ τα σά κήδεα μυθήσασθαι.
(λ 373-6)

He wants to hear ‘wondrous, amazing things’ (θέσκελα έργα)19 - these

are no longer the warlike exploits (άριστεΐαΐ) of heroes but the adventur­
ous and fabulous journeys of Odysseus, so rich in miracles. Penelope, too,
would like to continue listening with delight to the stranger, whom she has
not yet recognized, without falling asleep, and she evidently resents the fact
that human nature cannot quite go without sleep (x 589-93). However,
after their recognition Odysseus does tell his whole story to her,

and she listened to him with delight, nor did any

sleep fall upon her eyes until he had told her everything.
 The Singer a n d his Muse 13

ή δ3άρ3 ετέρπετ3άκουουσ3, ουδέ οι ύπνος

πίπτεν έπι βλεφάροισι, πάρος καταλέξαι άπαντα.
(ψ 308-9)

When Odysseus enquires after Eumaios’ fate, he replies: ‘Stranger, since you
are asking me, listen carefully, in silence, enjoy yourself and drink’:

These nights are endless, and a man can sleep through them,
or he can enjoy listening to stones, and you have no need
to go to bed before it is time. Too much sleep is only a bore.
αϊδε δέ νύκτες άθέσφατον εστι μέν ευδειν,
εστι δέ τερπομένοισιν άκοόειν ουδέ τί σε χρή,
πριν ώρη, καταλέχθαν άνίη γάρ πολύς ύπνος.
(ο 392-4)

Let the others go to sleep if they wish,

but we two, sitting here in the shelter, eating and drinking,

shall entertain each other remembering and retelling
our sad sorrows. For afterwards a man who has suffered
much and wandered much has pleasure out;of his sorrows.
νώϊ δ3ενί κλισίη πίνοντέ τε δαινυμένφ τε
κήδεσιν άλλήλων τερπώμεθα λευγαλέοισιν
μνωομένω* μετά γάρ τε και άλγεσι τέρπεται άνήρ,
ος τις δή μάλα πολλά πάθη καί πόλλ3έπαληθη.
(ο 398-401)

How deeply Eumaios had been impressed by Odysseus’ tales becomes clear
when he later reports to Penelope about these nights: the stories that man is
telling, her heart would be bewitched by them! He has hosted him for three
days and three nights, and he still has not come to the end of his account:

But as when a man looks to a singer, who has been given

from the gods the skill with which he sings for delight of mortals,
and they are impassioned and strain to hear it when he sings to them,
so he enchanted me in the halls as he sat beside me.
ώς δ3όΥ άοιδον άνήρ ποτιδέρκεται, ος τε θεών εξ
άείδη δεδαώς επε3ίμερόεντα βροτοισιν,
του δ3άμοτον μεμάασιν άκουέμεν, οπποτ3άείδη,
ώς έμε κείνος εθελγε παρήμενος εν μεγάροισιν.
(ρ 518-21)
14 Homer’s Art

Here, too, as in λ 368, Odysseus is compared to a bard; this time the point
of comparison is the effect of the ‘words’ (έπεα): it is ‘enchantment’
(θέλγειν). The listeners, spellbound, look at the bard, eager to continue
listening, they are completely fascinated.
This, too, is an entirely new concept, and peculiar to the Odyssey. Accord-
ing to the Iliad, song creates ‘enjoyment’, τέρπειν — there is no hint of
‘enchantment’. In the Iliade θέλγειν is always done by gods, and VÓOV
θέλγειν means ‘to make unconscious’ (O 594, M 255).20
In Iliad Ξ 215, Aphrodite’s girdle is a ‘charm’ (θελκτήριον). In the
Odyssey, by contrast, mortals, too, can ‘bewitch’; for example Aigisthos
bewitched Klytaimestra (γ 264), Penelope the suitors (σ 212, 282);
Eumaios does not wish to be beguiled by Odysseus’ lies (ξ 387) and
Penelope calls Phemi os’ songs θελκτήρια - understandably, for she is so
shaken by what Phemios has just sung that she can hardly control herself.21
The way in which several passages in the Odyssey (cp., in particular, T
204ff.) highlight the lively interest shown by the audience for a song is
significant.22 Odysseus, like Penelope, is unable to conceal his emotion, he
is in tears and hides his face (Θ 83—92), indeed he has been sobbing
continuously during Demodokos’ performance (Θ 5 39—41), while the Phaia-
cians enjoy the song and urge the singer on (Θ 90—1). True, the reason why
Penelope and Odysseus are so deeply upset by the songs about the Achaians’
homecoming is, naturally, because this subject is so closely linked to their
own fate; yet it affects not only them: the Phaiacians, too, are captivated by
Odysseus’ narrative, they listen in silence, spellbound, ‘bewitched’, as we
are told twice:

So he spoke, and all of them stayed stricken to silence,

held in thrall by the story all through the shadowy chambers.
ώς εφατ’, ol δ3αρα πάντες άκήν εγένοντο σιωπή,
κηληθμφ δ3εσχοντο κατά μέγαρα σκιόεντα.
(λ 333-4, V 1-2)

This implies that the song casts a spell over all those who are eagerly
listening, and not just over those who are personally affected; as Archilochos
later puts it: ‘Anyone who . . . is enchanted by songs’, κ η λ ε ιτ α ι (κηλω ται
pap.: Kemke) δ’ οτις [ . . . ] ων α οιδα ΐς (fr. 253 W.).
The close link between the enchanting effect of poetry and the passionate
desire to listen to stories which characters in the Odyssey display on many
occasions is impressively illustrated by the story of the Sirens. They bewitch
all mortals with their ‘clear song’, they lure Odysseus by saying that nobody
has been able to sail past them without listening to their ‘honey-sweet
voices’,
 The Singer a n d his Muse 15

‘then he goes on, well pleased, knowing more than ever

he did; for we know everything that the Argives and Trojans
did and suffered in wide Troy through the gods’ despite.
Over all the generous earth we know everything that happens.’
So they sang, in sweet utterance, and the heart within me
desired to listen.
άλλ3ο γε τερψάμενος νειται και πλείονα ειδώς*
ιδμεν γάρ τοι πάνθ3οσ ένί Τροίη εύρειη
Άργειοι Τρώες τε θεών ίότητι μόγησαν,
ϊδμεν δ’ οσσα γένηται επί χθονχ πουλυβοτειρη.
ώς φάσαν ίεΐσαι οπά κάλλιμον αύτάρ έμον κήρ
ήθελ3άκου έμε ναι.
(μ 188-93)

Surprisingly, the power of their song is not based on magic; they do not
promise Odysseus anything miraculous, nor any magic formula, but joy and
greater knowledge. As the Muses in the Iliad (B 485), being present
everywhere, know everything and pass it on to the poet, so here the Sirens
know everything that happened at Troy and is happening on the vast earth
- and this is what Odysseus wants to hear; he is so keen on it that his
companions have to tighten his bonds even more strongly (μ 196). So it is
knowledge that mortals so keenly desire,./though it is knowledge of a
particular kind. For from the narrator’s viewpoint, it is knowledge of very
recent events or even, as with the Sirens, of contemporary events. Whereas
in the Iliad heroes sometimes relate episodes in their lives which had mostly
happened quite some time before, the characters of the Odyssey want to hear
of the most recent events. This is precisely why the suitors, to Penelope’s
grief, demand the song of the homecoming (νόστος) of the Achaians:

People, surely, always give more applause to that song

which is the latest to circulate among the listeners.
τήν γάρ άοιδήν μάλλον έπικλείουσ3άνθρωποι,
ή τις άκουόντεσσι νεωτάτη άμφιπέληται.
(α 351-2)

The audience wants the ‘newest song’; this evidently refers to the content
alone: the epic poet is not concerned about the form.
Just as keen on news as his audience is Odysseus himself, ‘who saw the
cities of many peoples and learnt their way of thinking’ (a 3), who again and
again wants to find out ‘what people may be like’ (οίτινες άνέρες εΐεν, ι
89, 174, K 101; cp. K 110, 147). So eager to know is he that he enters the
Cyclops’ cave rashly, risking his companions’ lives and his own, deaf to their
entreaties to turn back — just to see that brute himself, ‘and whether he
16 Homer's A r i

m ight give me presents’ (l 229), in other words, out of curiosity and greed.
For the same reasons, his companions open Aiolos’ bag (K 44—5). W hen
Odysseus meets Aias’ shadow in Hades, who keeps apart, silent in his proud
resentment, he m ight yet have spoken to him ,

but the heart in my inward breast wanted

still to see the souls of the other perished dead men.
αλλά μοι ήθελε θυμός svi στήθεσσι φίλοισιν
των άλλων ψυχάς ίδέειν κατατεθνηώτων.
(λ 566-7)

O nly the curiosity of Odysseus, wishing to converse with other souls,

prevented the continuation of the dialogue.’23 He stays put, waiting, and
he would have loved to have seen the souls of men from even remoter times,
but eventually he is overcome by fear of the crowds of shadows approaching
him and the thought that Gorgo might be among them (λ 630ff.).
This is another characteristic feature which Odysseus shares with the poet
of the Odyssey who repeatedly displays his keen interest in ethnographical and
geographical details, for instance in the description of Crete presented by
Odysseus in τ 172ff. and in the comment on the Ethiopians in a 23f., and his
interest in agriculture and cattle-breeding, for example in the digression on
Libya in Menelaos’ account of his journey (δ 85ff ). In comparing the two
εϊδω λο ν-scenes in Iliad ψ 99ff. and Odyssey λ 204ff., Jacoby has shown24
how the passage in the Odyssey tries to offer an explanation of this phenom­
enon which so much amazes Odysseus, using δίκη (daw’, λ 218) almost as a
‘scientific’ term. This is rather like Penelope’s attempt to explain the exis­
tence of truthful and deceitful dreams (τ 56Off.) —‘evidently intended as a
solution to a problem’ (Jacoby) - and in particular her use of etymological
connections. Similarly, Odysseus himself uses etymology to interpret his.
name (τ 407—9), and Hesiod has a particular liking for it.25 Here are the
roots from which Ionian science and ‘enlightenment’ was to develop.
Accordingly, the poets’ claim to truthfulness, which is also shared by the
author of the Odyssey, acquires a new dimension. While the poet of the Iliad
relies on the Muses to vouch for the accurate recollection of the names of all
the Greek heroes, in other words for a ‘truth’ that keeps entirely within the
perimeters of the heroic concept of ‘fame’ (κλέος), the Odyssey sometimes
emphasizes the reliability and authenticity of the narrative. Thus, Odysseus
praises Demodokos as having been taught by the Muse or Apollon,

for all too right following the tale you sing the Achaians’
venture, all they did and had done to them, all the sufferings
of these Achaians, as if you had been there yourself or heard it
from one who was.
 The Singer a n d his Muse 17

λίην γαρ κατά κόσμον Αχαιών οίτον άείδεις,

οσσ' ερξαν τ' επαθόν τε και δσσ5εμόγησαν Αχαιοί,
ώς τέ που ή αυτός παρεών ή άλλου ακούσας.
(θ 489-91)

Demodokos has reported ‘in order’, κατά κόσμον, as if he had himself been
present or heard from another (sc. who had been there, that is, from an eye­
witness).26 At one point, Odysseus explicitly names his source for some­
thing which he could not otherwise have known:

All this I heard afterward from fair-haired Kalypso,

and she told me she herself had heard it from the guide, Hermes.
ταυτα δ' έγών ήκουσα Καλυψους ήυκόμοιο*
ή δ5εφη Έρμείαο διακτόρου αύτή ακουσαι.
(μ 389-90)27

So, above all else the narrative has to be truthful, and its truth is of a quite
pragmatic kind: ‘this is how it happened’. Whoever reports reliably, accu­
rately and objectively earns the highest praise, as Demodokos does, and we
need not hesitate to attribute this view to the poet himself and his audience.
To ask how this claim to truthfulness is to be reconciled with the fairy-tale
narratives, or whether the poet expected his audience to accept the Kirke story
or the visit to Hades at face-value, would; be anachronistically modern. Thé
transitions from the sphere of ‘realistic’ travelogues to that of miracles and
fairy-tales (and vice versa) are fluid and almost imperceptible. How closely
these two spheres are interwoven can best be seen in the Sirens’ episode. These
fantastic creatures, as fascinating as they are terrifying, promise very tangible
knowledge; this means that the miraculous is still, up to a point, accepted as
real, and reality appears, conversely, dressed up as fantasy. The critical spirit of
enlightenment, its scepticism and rationalism have not yet stirred; as soon as
it does, criticism of Homer’s lies’ is voiced, too. But the audience of the
Odyssey still listens with equal fascination to fairy-tales and adventures as well
as to historical, geographical and ethnographical accounts.
Summing up the results of the individual interpretations and looking at
the Homeric epics as a whole from the perspective of our investigation, we
see a rather diverse picture. The Iliad ? on the one hand, mentions profes­
sional bards and their competitions, if only in passing, as performers at
religious festivals and similar occasions; the Odyssey, on the other hand, pays
much greater attention to the singer. The poet of the Iliad is absorbed with
battles and the warlike qualities of his protagonists to such an extent that he
himself remains almost completely invisible behind the events he narrates.
He almost never speaks in his own person except when invoking the Muses,
and there he is interested primarily in the accuracy of the report, and above
18 Homer’s A r t

ail in the accurate and complete account of the names; we have seen .how
closely the name is linked to the concept of ‘fame'. This is still alive in the
Odyssey, as κλέος, ‘reputation', remains the crucial criterion of values and
actions in aristocratic society, but here fame is based not so much on purely
martial qualities as on intellectual abilities. A new, intellectual type of man
emerges, represented by Odysseus himself and also by the singer; they both
have essential features in common. The high esteem of intellectual ability
also accounts for the new-found assurance and authority of the bard who no
longer invokes the Muse - except in the proem - but proudly asserts his
own creative and intellectual abilities. The poet of the Odyssey describes not
only his own ‘colleagues' (Demodokos, Phemios) but also projects some of
his own characteristics on his protagonist, the great narrator of tales; in a
way he forms him, as far as the traditional myth allows, after his own image.
There is only one scene in the Iliad where a hero is portrayed singing and
playing the lyre - Achilles singing of the ‘exploits of men' (κλέα άνδρών,
I 189). The content of song is the heroic deed and the great personality.
Themes of this kind are not unknown to the Odyssey, but here the interest in
challenges met with cleverness and resourcefulness appears appreciably
stronger. The characters in the Iliad are predominantly warlike, and even
where their intelligence is emphasized, it refers to fighting. In the Odyssey,
by contrast, they are, above all, intelligent, resourceful, even deceitful, and
they are curious and inquisitive (qualities that the Iliad conspicuously
lacks), they like telling of remote and strange peoples and countries, often
blurring the distinction between reality and fairy-tale.
Poetry aims to entertain, its effect is pleasure, according to the lliad\
there is no suggestion anywhere that it intends or produces anything else. In
the Odyssey it does, too, but beyond that it can also enchant, its effect
assumes a magical quality. 28 However, what is felt to be fascinating is
something very rational, that is, pragmatic and empirical knowledge. This
is connected with the listeners’ extraordinarily keen interest, their insatiable
appetite for stories and new information.
Both epics have in common that they may have been composed for
aristocratic societies whose requirements they meet and whose views and
preferences their respective poets share. The poet lives within his own
society and with his public; he does not see himself isolated, speaking as
an individual and in his own name and on his own behalf, as Hesiod does
and, later, the lyric poets do even more explicitly.

Notes

1. See, above all, F. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 159ff- ( =Kleine philologische Schriften
Bd.l, Berlin (1961) 107f£); W. Nestle, Hermes 11 (1942) 46-77 and 113-39; H.
Fränkel, Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy, Oxford (1975) lOff.
 The Singer a n d his Muse 19

2. Nestle's reservations against this term, op. cit. 136, appear justified.
3. For a different view, see W. Schadewaidt, Ve?« Homers Welt und Werk, 2nd ed.,
Stuttgart (1951) 61.
4. See H. Frankel, op. dt. Uff.
5. See W. Kraus, Wiener Studien 68 (1955) 66ff.
6. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 175ff. offers several examples illustrating how the
poet of the Odyssey has his own personal interests and does not hesitate to include
interesting facts simply because they are interesting to him and because he expects
the same of his listeners.
7. As E.R. Dodds has pointed out, The Greeks and the Irrational, Berkeley-Los
Angeles (1951) 10.
8. For this is the meaning of αύτοδίδακτος, ‘a tentative term for free and
autonomous creativity5, as Schadewaidt put it, op. cit. 79- So Phemios can offer not
only old songs which had been handed down from bard to bard; he can create out of
his own mind a new song about a contemporary theme, such as the return of the
Greeks (a 350-2). See H. Frankel, op. cit. 19f., n. 26.
9. Cp, γ 26f., η 263.
10. Γ 2l6ff. is an exception, as H. Erbse has pointed out to me.
11. πολύτροπος is the one who has many τρόποι (‘ways and means5) at his
disposal, like Hermes (cp. h.Merc. 13 and 439) - not ‘much turned, much travelled5
(LSJ).
12. See H. Frankel, op. cit. 10-11, who has shown how much Odysseus himself
has in common with the bard, including certain features that can only have been
transferred from the poet's own experience.
13. Cp. p 518f£, on which see below.
14. Cp. τ 332ff., ω 94, ε 311.
15. Occasionally poets talk as if deeds were accomplished for the sake of song,
not songs for the sake of deeds; so from the bard's perspective the original sequence
seems reversed, and he instinctively applies this perspective to the characters of his
poem; cp. Z 357fi, Θ 579f, and Eur. Troades 1240ff
16. See G. Steinkopf, ‘Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Ruhmes bei den
Griechen5, PhD thesis, Halle (1937) 15.
17. On this passage, see P. Von der Mühll in West-östliche Abhandlungen (Fes­
tschrift R. Tschudi), Wiesbaden (1954) 1-5. A different interpretation is suggested
by W. Marg in Navicula Chilionensis (Festschrift F. Jacoby), Leiden (1956) 16—29;
he states that even the Alexandrians had no other evidence for the quarrel between
Odysseus and Achilles which he regards as an impromptu invention; he infers from a
comparison between Θ 75-82, the proem to the Iliad, and A 255ff. that the ΟΪμη
referred to in Θ 74 must be the Iliad itself, which would make this line a homage to
the Iliad and the oldest testimony of its existence, op. cit. 27. This is not convin­
cing; the first point is an argumentum e silentio', we know too little about pre-
Homeric songs of heroes to be sure that a song of a quarrel between Odysseus
and Achilles never existed - such quarrels were a familiar subject of epic. The
opposite conclusion seems more likely: as Marg himself rightly says, the story is
told so briefly that it remains obscure - does it not follow that it is a summary of a
song with which the poet's audience would have been familiar? As for the proem to
the Iliad, its comparison with Θ 74, far from supporting Marg's conclusion, shows
rather that the motifs are quite different; Achilles5 wrath and his quarrel with
Agamemnon are disastrous for the Achaians (A 2) and a cause for Priam and the
Trojans to rejoice (A 255), whereas here Odysseus' quarrel with Achilles gives joy
to Agamemnon on account of an oracle. (Θ 490 proves nothing because it refers to
the whole of the Trojan War, not just to the Iliadi) Marg's assumption implies that
20 Homer's A r t

the poet has coded his alleged 'allusion' to the Iliad by (1) substituting Odysseus for
Agamemnon, (2) putting the quarrel »theme into a completely different context,
and (3) invented an oracle for this purpose - this seems very far-fetched.
18. These lines became famous, cp. Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi 79—88.
19 For the meaning of θεσκελος, cp. Γ 130, λ 610.
20* Cp. Ω 343, N 435, O 322, Φ 276, 604.
21. This difference seems not to have been noticed so far. W. Kraus, Wiener
Studien 68 (1955) 69 rightly points out that 'diese Beispiele zeigen, zu welcher Art
von Dingen die Dichtung gehört, daß sie aufgefaßt wird als etwas irrational
Wirkendes, das die Seele einer fremden Macht unterwirft’ - but this applies
only to the Odyssey\ Cp. also έπαοιδή = ‘spell, incantation’, x 457.
22. This is expressed by the verb itself: φρεσι σύνθετο (α 328); cp. B. Snell,
Die Ausdrücke für den Begriff des Wissens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie (Philolo­
gische Untersuchungen 29), Berlin (1924) 43.
23- H. Frankel, op. cit. 89. Odysseus is ‘struck’ by the new and unknown, it is a
challenge to him; here we can see the roots of the Ionian ίστορίη of the fifth
century.
24. F. Jacoby, Antike 9 (1933) 178.
25. Cp. Hes. Th. l44f., 195if., 281ff., Op. 81f., fr. 235 M.-W. For a more
detailed discussion, see E. Risch, ‘Namensdeutungen und Worterklärungen bei den
ältesten griechischen Dichtern7, in Eumusia, Festgabe fur Ernst Howald, Zürich
(1947) 72ff.; cp. also L.Ph. Rank, ‘Etymologiseering en verwante verschijnselen bij
Homerus’, PhD thesis, Utrecht (1951).
26. The same distinction is made by Thucydides I 22,2.
27. See on this passage K. Reinhardt, Von Werken und Formen 113.
28. It would be interesting to investigate how this may be linked to the
preference for sphinxes and other fantastic demons on contemporary vases and to
the beginnings of the ‘orientalizing’ style in vase-painting.
73 ______________________________________
Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece*

P. Murray

*Source: journal of Hellenic Studies, voi. 101, 1981, pp. 87-100.

It is generally agreed that the concept of inspiration is one of the most basic
and persistent of Greek notions about poetry. Yet there appears to be a
certain confusion on the significance of this observation. For instance, while
most scholars consider that the idea is of very great antiquity in Greece,
there is a recent tendency to regard the concept as a formulation of the fifth
century B.c. E. A. Havelock, for example, describes the notion of poetic
inspiration as an invention of fifth century philosophers,1 and G. S. Kirk
states, without discussion, that poetic inspiration was ‘probably quite a new
conception’ at the time Euripides was writing.2 This type of disagreement
clearly relates to the more fundamental question of the meaning of the
concept of inspiration itself. For although there is an apparent consensus
that ancient notions of poetic inspiration correspond in some way to certain
modern ideas about the nature of poetic creativity, little attention has been
paid to these modern notions of inspiration. And unless such modern
notions are investigated, the mere observation that there is a similarity is
of little value.3
In this paper I consider the idea of poetic inspiration in early Greek
literature from Homer to Pindar. Despite variations in the views of indivi­
dual poets (related, no doubt, to changes in the function and social status of
the poet during this period)4 the early Greek poets share certain basic
assumptions about the nature of poetic creativity, and can therefore be
treated together as a group. My aim in what follows is to clarify these basic
assumptions, and therefore the early Greek concept of poetic inspiration.

It seems to me that there are in particular two theoretical issues in need of

analysis, both fundamental to our understanding of ancient views of poetic
creativity. The first is the frequent assumption that inspiration necessarily
involves ecstasy or possession, and that the inspired poet takes no conscious
part in the process of composition, but is merely the passive instrument of
22 Homer’s A r t

some overwhelming force. An important consequence of this assumption is

that inspiration and craft or technique are seen as incompatible. All this is,
of course, true of Plato’s concept of poetic inspiration as ενθουσιασμός or
μανία: throughout his work Plato describes the inspired poet as a passive
instrument who knows nothing of what he is saying and who cannot explain
the source or the meaning of his poetry.5 But there is no evidence to suggest
that the early Greek poets thought of inspiration in this way. In fact this
concept of poetic inspiration as a kind of ecstatic madness—furor poeticus—
appears to be no older than the fifth century.6 Nevertheless certain scholars
persist in equating early Greek notions of inspiration with the Platonic
concept οΐ furor poeticus. For example, E. Barmeyer7 refers to the traditional
Greek notion ‘nach der der inspirierte Dichter seinen Standort verliert und
im Enthusiasmus die Gottheit über ihn kommt’ and M. Fuhrmann8 speaks
of the typically Greek concept of poetic creativity as ‘Verzückung, W ahn­
sinn, Entrückung oder Rausch, als ein Heraustreten des Dichters aus sich
selbst (Ekstase), als ein Erfülltsein durch den Gott (Enthusiasmus)’. A
particularly good example of confusion is provided by Havelock.9 He
rightly notes that the notion of possession is absent from early Greek poetry,
but consequently concludes that the notion of inspiration is equally absent.
Before the fifth century, on his view, poetry was thought of as a craft; the
‘contrary conception’ of poetic inspiration was invented in the fifth century.
In other words Havelock assumes both that inspiration and possession are
identical and that inspiration and technique are incompatible. He does not
recognise any concept of poetic inspiration other than Plato’s,10 nor does he
appear to entertain the possibility that the concept was conceived of in
different ways at different periods in antiquity.
In fact modern studies of the creative process show that there are different
kinds of inspiration, both in theory and in practice.11 The experience which
gives rise to the concept has been described by many different poets at
different periods. Obviously the experience differs from poet to poet, but an
essential feature of it is the feeling that poetry comes from some source other
than the conscious mind. In its most mild form inspiration is simply the
moment when a thought or phrase spontaneously presents itself to the poet as
the starting point of a poem.12 Although the initial inspiration appears to
come to the poet as if from some source other than himself, the subsequent
composition of the poem depends on conscious effort and hard work. At the
other extreme inspiration can be a much more shattering experience, invol­
ving any one or more of the following features. The poet composes with great
ease and fluency, sometimes with extreme speed. No subsequent revision is
necessary. Composition may be accompanied by an unusually heightened
state, variously described as frenzy, intoxication, enthusiasm or ecstasy. Such
a state can only be temporary and does not depend on the will of the poet.
When inspiration ceases, the poet is amazed at what he has written, and can
only describe himself as the instrument of some higher power.13
 The Singer a n d his Muse 23

The basic feature in ali these experiences of inspiration seems to be the

feeling of dependence on some source other than the conscious mind. We
might perhaps distinguish between two tyçes of inspiration, one of which
involves ecstasy, the other of which does not,14 but these two types are merely
the opposite ends of a spectrum, and within this spectrum there are many
different kinds of inspiration. It is a mistake therefore to assume that inspira­
tion either in theory or in practice necessarily involves total abandonment of
responsibility for his creation on the part of the poet. And it is certainly a
mistake to impute such notions to the early Greek poets, as I shall show.
The second issue which needs clarification concerns the definition of, and
the distinction between,, the concepts of poetic inspiration and poetic
genius. Inspiration can be broadly defined as the temporary impulse to
poetic creation, and relates primarily to the poetic process. Genius is a
permanent quality on which poetic creativity depends and relates primarily
to the poetic personality. These ideas are similar in that they both account
for the element in the poetic process which is felt to be inexplicable, and
both can be contrasted with the technical aspects of composition. But they
are basically distinct from each other. The one— poetic inspiration—-
accounts for poetic creativity in terms of a temporary visitation from
some external, or seemingly external, force; the other in terms of permanent
qualities inherent in the poet. The beginnings of both of these ideas are, I
suggest, discernible as early as Homer, and failure to distinguish between
them has clouded our understanding of anciënt views of poetic creativity.15

The Muses

In early Greek poetry inspiration is, of course, characteristically expressed in

terms of the Muses. I shall not discuss here the question of how the idea of
the Muses originated,10 but I take it that whatever else the Muses stand for
they symbolise the poet’s feeling of dependence on the external: they are the
personification of his inspiration. The Muses inspire the bard in two main
ways: (a) they give him permanent poetic ability; (b) they provide him with
temporary aid in composition. Homer and the early Greek poets in general do
not distinguish between these two ideas, neither do classical scholars. But
they are nevertheless distinguishable. In fact they are the forerunners of the
two concepts, outlined above, which account for the inexplicable element in
poetic creation. The Muses’ gift of permanent poetic ability corresponds to
the explanation of creativity in terms of the poetic personality; their
temporary aid in composition corresponds to the explanation of creativity
in terms of the poetic process.
Homer expresses the first idea, permanent poetic ability, by saying that
the Muses love bards, teach them and give them the gift of poetry. Typical
of this attitude is the description of Demodocus at Od. viii 44-5:
24 Homer's A r t

τφ γάρ ρα θεός πέρι δώκεν άοιδήν

τέρπειν, οππη θυμός εποτρύνησιν άείδειν.

Homer does not tell us precisely what the gift of poetry entails, nor does he
speculate as to the reasons for its bestowal. But evidently it is a permanent
gift of poetic ability, rather than a temporary inspiration. Failure to recog­
nise this can be exemplified by Harriott’s discussion of the gift idiom: ‘the
Greeks expressed the belief that poetry is in some mysterious way “given”,
and that it comes from a source external to the poet and is other than he is.
This view of inspiration is still current, although partly replaced by
psychological theories in which poetry is held to emanate from the uncon­
scious m in d /17 There is a difference between lines of poetry being given’ to
a poet and the ‘gift’ of poetic ability, which are here confused. I shall discuss
elsewhere the full implications of the uses of the gift idiom to denote the
bestowal of permanent poetic ability, and the relationship of the idea to the
concept of poetic genius. For the purposes of this paper I wish merely to
point out this difference between the temporary inspiration and the perma­
nent gift of poetry which the Muses grant, and the fact that we can discern
here the beginnings of a distinction between the concepts of poetic inspira­
tion and poetic genius.
W e gather that the Muse is believed to inspire the bard in a temporary
sense from, for example, the description of Demodocus at Od. viii 73, where
the Muse provides the immediate impulse to song: Μουσ’ αρ* άοΐδόν
άνήκεν άειδέμεναι κλέα άνδρών. The invocations to the Muses— a
traditional feature of early Greek poetry— also imply the notion of temporary
inspiration. Sometimes the poet simply asks the Muse to help him begin, or
to join in his song. But often the poet asks the Muse for something specific,
such as knowledge of events, or sweetness in song.19 We can look at these
invocations in two ways: (a) in pragmatic terms, that is, in terms of their
significance for an audience, (b) in terms of the poet’s need for divine
assistance. Undoubtedly ancient poets use invocations to establish their
authority, to guarantee the truth of their words, and to focus the attention
of the audience at strategic points. But the invocations also express the
poet’s belief in divine inspiration. The point at which the appeal ceases to be
genuine is, of course, problematic. But a comparison between the invoca­
tions of the early Greek poets and those of their literary successors strongly
suggests that the former spring from a real, religious belief in the Muses.20

Knowledge

It has often been pointed out that the invocations in Homer are essentially
requests for information, which the Muses, as daughters of Memory, pro­
vide. This is clear from the detailed invocation before the catalogue of ships:
 The Singer a n d his Muse 25

Έσπετε νυν μοι, Μούσαι Όλύμπια δώματ5έχουσαι—

υμείς γάρ θεαί έστε, πάρεστέ τε, ιστέ τε πάντα,
ήμεις δε κλέος oîov άκούομεν ούδέ τι ϊδμεν—
οι τινες ήγεμόνες Δαναών καί κοίρανοι ήσαν.
πληθύν δ3ουκ αν εγώ μυθήσομαι ούδ* ονομήνω,
ούδ3εϊ μοι δέκα μεν γλώσσαι, δέκα δε στόματ3ειεν,
φωνή διαρρηκτός, χάλκεον δέ μοι ήτορ ένείη,
ει μή Όλυμπιάδες Μουσαι, Διάς αίγιόχοιο
θυγατέρες, μνησαίαθ’ όσοι υπό "Ιλιον ήλθον.
(IL ii 484-92)21

Some scholars, however, evidently think that it is misleading to connect

information with inspiration. Havelock, for example, says that the invoca­
tion quoted above 'shows how true it is that the Muses symbolise the
minstrers need of memory and his power to preserve memory, not a
spiritual inspiration, which would certainly be inappropriate to a
m uster-list'.' And W. W. Minton observes that in the Homeric invoca­
tions 'the poet does not ask for help or guidance in "how" he shall tell his
story; there is no suggestion of a plea for “inspiration"; only for informa­
tion’.23 Neither scholar makes it clear what he means by 'inspiration’: but
whatever it is, they both agree that it is incompatible with factual content
in poetry. But why should inspiration not include, or even consist of,
information? In fact, as Minton himself .points out, the Chadwicks have
shown that much early oral poetry associated with the 'poet-seer’ is
informational in character, and that traces which suggest that such
'seer-poets’ once existed in Greece have been found in both Homer and
Hesiod. W hat Minton does not note is the Chadwicks’ insistence on the
widespread connexion between inspiration and information in such poetry,
summarised thus by N. K. Chadwick: T he association of inspiration and
knowledge of whatever kind acquired by supernatural means is ancient
and widespread. Inspiration, in fact, relates to revealed knowledge.’24 It is
not therefore a contradiction to say that the invocations in Homer are
requests for inspiration— even though the inspiration m ight consist lar­
gely of information.
The association of the Muses with knowledge of one sort or another
continued throughout the early period. It was, amongst other things,
Demodocus’ knowledge of the facts of the Achaean expedition which caused
Odysseus to wonder at the bard: he must have been taught by the Muse or
Apollo25 since he sang of the fate of the Achaeans as if he himself had been
present, or as if he had heard from someone else (Od. viii 487—91). Hesiod
depicted the Muses on Mount Olympus singing of past, present and future
(Th. 36-40) and clearly the gift of poetry which the Muses bestowed on
their chosen bards involved the power of true speech. W hen the Muses
26 Homer's A r t

made Hesiod a poet they told him that they could reveal the truth when
they wished:

ϊδμεν ψεύδεα πολλά λέγειν ετύμοισιν όμοια,

ϊδμεν δ \ εύτ9εθέλωμεν, άληθέα γηρύσασθαι.
(Tb. 27-8)

These ambiguous lines have been variously interpreted,26 but what cannot
be disputed is the fact that the Muses are here represented as having the
power to tell the truth. The chief difficulty is to determine the precise
nature of the distinction drawn between truth (άληθέα) and plausible
fiction (ψεύδεα - . . ετύμοισιν όμοια). The conventional, and I think
the correct, interpretation is that Hesiod is here contrasting the true content
of his own poetry with the plausible fiction of Homeric epic. West rejects
this interpretation on the grounds that 'no Greek ever regarded the Homeric
epics as substantially fiction’. But Homer was criticised for misrepresenting
the truth.27 Harriott’s suggestion that in these lines Hesiod is faithfully
reporting the Muses’ warning that if he were to offend he would be
punished by being misled into recording a lying vision’28 seems to me
to be singularly unlikely: Hesiod would hardly preface his work with a
warning that what followed might be untrue; on the contrary, the proem to
the Tbeogony is surely to be regarded as a plea for the infallibility of the
poem as a whole. There is, of course, an important difference between the
kinds of knowledge bestowed by the Muses in Homer and in Hesiod. The
knowledge which Homer’s Muses grant is primarily knowledge of the
past— that is, knowledge as opposed to ignorance. Hesiod’s Muses, on the
other hand, are responsible for both truth and falsehood: what they give
Hesiod is true knowledge as opposed to false. And the poet speaks with the
authority of one who believes that his knowledge comes from divine
revelation.29
Pindar too, often claims to have special knowledge from the Muses, as for
example at Pa. vi 51-8:

ταυτα θεοΐσι [μ]έν

πιθειν σοφού[ς] δυνατόν,
βροτοισιν δ9άμάχανο[ν εύ]ρέμεν
άλλα παρθένοι γάρ, ϊσθ9ότ[ι], Μο[ΐ]σαι,
πάντα, κε[λαι]νεφει συν
πατρί Μναμοσ[ύν]α τε
τούτον έσχετ[ε τεθ]μόν,
κλυτε ν υ ν 30

Like Hesiod, but more obsessively, Pindar insists on the truth of what he
has to say31— an insistence which is all the stronger because he is acutely
 The Singer a n d his Muse 27

aware of the power of poetry to perpetrate falsehood.32 Pindar sees it as part

of his task to combat such falsehood, and he is able to do so because he, as
prophet of the Muses, has access to knowledge which is hidden from
ordinary mortals. In similar fashion Empedocles appeals to the Muses to
give him knowledge which will set him apart from other mortals, and he
evidently regards the supernatural origin of his poetry as a guarantee of its
truth.33 In a more modest Homeric spirit, Plato trades on the traditional
function of the Muses as purveyors of the truth when he remarks (albeit
ironically) at Repub. 547a that the Hesiodic myth of the four ages of man
must be true since it comes from the Muses. A. W. Allen has argued that
from the first the Muses were not only the inspirers of poetry, but also the
possessors of all knowledge. And he makes the pertinent point that as long
as the range of poetry included all forms of knowledge, it fully corresponded
to the range of the Muses' authority'.34 The frequent and recurrent associa­
tion of the Muses with knowledge in early Greek poetry suggests a close
connection between poetic inspiration and knowledge during this period.

Memory

The ancient tradition which made the Muses the daughters of Μνημοσύνη
is further evidence of such a connexion. The goddess Μνημοσύνη first
appears as mother of the Muses in Hesiod,35 but the connexion between
memory and the Muses is already apparent in Homer's use of the verb,
μιμνήσκομαι of the Muses' function at 1L ii 492.36 For Plato it was a
commonplace that one of the tasks of the Muses was to remind the poet, as
we can see from Socrates' words at Euthydemus 275c: he, like the poets, must
invoke Memory and the Muses in order to remember a previous conversa­
tion. Several scholars have stressed the importance of this aspect of the
Muses, pointing out that at times the Muses seem to be little more than a
personification of memory.37 Havelock goes so far as to say that the Muses in
Homer have nothing to do with inspiration because they ‘are connected
with special feats of memory'.38 This dissociation of inspiration and memory
is misguided: there is no inherent incompatibility between inspiration and
information, as I have pointed out, and the fact that we might identify the
source of the poet’s inspiration as an internal one does not mean that the
poet or his audience feels it to be so. Furthermore Havelock’s contention
that the Muses embody the bard’s powers of memorisation is highly dubious,
as is his theory that Μνημοσύνη chiefly implies the notions of recall,
record and memorisation.39
The precise nature of poetic memory in early Greece has been much
discussed. J.-P. Vernant, in an article entitled ‘Aspects mythiques de la
mémoire et du temps’40 argued that the psychological function of memory
in early Greek poetry is not to reconstruct the past accurately, but to
28 Homer’s A r t

transport the poet into the past, to give him a direct vision of Tanden
temps5. Memory of this type, to be distinguished from historical memory, is
the privilege of poets and seers, who have in common un même don de
‘ voyance55\ As evidence for this latter statement Vernant cites the phrase τά
τ' έόντα τά τ3εσσόμενα προ τ’ εόντα which is used in connexion with
Calchas5 prophetic skill at 11. i 70 and of the Muses’ song at Hes. Tb. 38
(note that it is used of the Muses, not of Μνημοσύνη as Vernant states). In
fact this phrase suggests that what poets and seers have in common is
knowledge rather than vision. Of course the connexion between knowledge
and sight is very close in early Greek literature— at IL ii 485, for example,
the Muses know everything because they have seen everything41— but the
‘don de “voyance” 5, of which Vernant speaks appears to be something rather
different from sight in the sense of knowledge. The poet’s knowledge, he
says, is the result o f ‘une vision personelle directe. La mémoire transporte le
poète au coeur des événements anciens, dans leur temps’, a contention which
is supported by reference to Plato’s Ion 535b-c, where Socrates asks Ion
about his mental state during his rhapsodic performances:

τότε πότερον εμφρων εΐ ή εξω σαυτοϋ γίγνη καί παρά τοίς

πράγμασιν οϊεταί σου είναι ή ψυχή οίς λέγεις ένθουσιάζουσα,
ή έν Τθάκη ουσιν ή έν Τροία ή όπως αν καί τά επη εχη;

The experience here described by Socrates seems to me to be something

quite different from that described by the bard at IL ii 484-92 (and, it may
be added, has nothing much to do with memory). The rhapsode— and he is
a rhapsode, not a poet— is transported into the scenes he evokes, but in the
Iliad it is the Muses who see the events of the past, not the bard. Further­
more, the ecstatic state of the rhapsode has no parallel in Homer: we are
simply told that the Muses were present and saw the events. The implica­
tion of the invocation, and in particular of 492, is that the Muses can
communicate their knowledge to the bard, but there is no suggestion that
they do so by transporting him into the past and giving him a direct vision
of a bygone age. Both here and in the other references cited by Vernant42
the poet is envisaged as being in contact with the powers of the Muses
rather than actually having these powers directly himself.
Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus at Od. viii 489-91 might appear to
provide better evidence for Vernant’s theory:

λίην γάρ κατά κόσμον 'Αχαιών οΐτον αείδεις,

οσσ' ερξαν τ' επαθόν τε καί οσσ' έμόγησαν Αχαιοί,
ώς τέ που ή αυτός παρεών ή άλλου άκούσας.

But the possibility that the bard might have heard of the sufferings of the
Achaeans from someone else is somewhat difficult to reconcile with the
 The Singer a n d his Muse 29

notion that he was given a personal vision of them. He sings κατά κόσμον,
a phrase which refers as much to the form as to the content of his song: it is
both true and well structured.43 W hat amazes Odysseus is the reality and
vividness of Demodocus’ account, but this does not imply that he has
visionary powers. The first of the two alternative ways in which the bard
might have acquired his knowledge would be compatible with vision
(although it does not imply it), but the second renders this possibility
highly unlikely since information from someone else can create the same
vividness as the bard’s personal presence at the events. In fact it seems to me
that Homer is here offering a formulation of the idea of poetic imagination
as a form of visualisation, an idea which is found fully developed in
A ristotlespoetics (l455a22) and in Longinus (15.1).44
One of the basic confusions in V ernanti argument is his failure to
distinguish between ecstatic and non-ecstatic inspiration either in prophecy
or in poetry. For example, the ‘don de voyance' of which Vernant speaks is
highly appropriate to Cassandra as she is depicted in the Agamemnon. In her
frenzy she does have a direct and personal vision of various episodes relating
to the past, present and future of the house of Atreus. That she actually sees
what she describes is clear from her words at, for example, 1125: ιδού
ιδού.45 It has long been recognised, however, that, with the exception of
Theoclymenus at Od. xx 351—7, prophecy of this visionary nature is absent
from Homer. The μάντίς in Homer is largely concerned with the technique
of interpreting omens, not with having visionary experiences of events
inaccessible to ordinary human beings.40. Vernant’s remarks about poetry
are similarly misleading. For example: Ta poésie constitue une des formes
typiques de la possession et du délire divins, l’état d ’ “enthousiasme” au sens
étymologique.’ This statement is certainly true of Plato, but one cannot use
Plato as evidence for pre-Platonic views of poetry. The notion that memory is
a power of poetic or prophetic vision is, I think, easier to reconcile with an
ecstatic theory of inspiration in which the poet or prophet is literally taken
out of himself than with the more intellectual concept of inspiration which
we find in Homer and the early Greek poets. That is not to say that poetic
memory during this period is simply a process of factual recall.
The substantial implications of the ancient connexion between Memory
and the Muses in oral poetry were first recognised by J. A. Notopoulos.47 He
pointed out that there are at least three different ways in which memory is
important in such poetry. First, memory serves to perpetuate and hence
immortalise κλέα άνδρών. The immortalising power of poetry is recog­
nised from Homer onwards and is a central theme in Pindar’s poetry. The
latter repeatedly emphasises the Muses’ function as bestowers of immortal­
ity.48 Second, memory conserves information— a point too obvious to need
substantiation. Third, and most important, memory is the means by which
oral poetry is created. Homeric epic is based on a vast and complex system of
formulas and word groups, which the bard must retain in his mind to use as
30 Homer’s A r t

the building blocks of his composition: in oral composition of this type

memory is a creative force, since the bard must not only memorise the oral
diction out of which his poetry is made, but also create his song from it.
Memory is thus at the heart of this type of oral poetry for without it
composition is impossible. Memory and inspiration, far from being incom­
patible, are vitally connected: memory is virtually the source of the poet's
inspiration.

Performance

The widely held view that there are certain fundamental differences between
oral and literary poetry has recently been challenged by R. Finnegan.49 She
demonstrates that no one model will cover all types of oral literature and
argues that there is no clear-cut differentiation between oral literature on
the one hand and written literature on the other. Nevertheless it would
clearly be false to say that oral poetry is exactly the same as written poetry in
all respects. The one aspect in which oral poetry obviously does differ from
literary poetry is in its performance— a point which Finnegan herself
stresses. Indeed she describes performance as the ‘heart of the whole concept
of oral literature’.50 In general classical scholarship has not seen that this
important difference between oral and literary poetry has a direct bearing on
the concept of poetic inspiration.
One of the essential features of the Parry-Lord theory of oral formulaic
composition is that oral poetry is composed and performed simultaneously.
This is not to say that the bard is merely an illiterate improviser or to imply
that hard work and thought may not go into the composition beforehand.
But it is at the moment of performance that the poem is fully composed for
the first tim e.51 Composition, therefore, does not depend on flashes of
inspiration which mysteriously provide ideas or phrases to the poet, but
on a steady flow of words. The oral poet is both a composer and a performer:
he needs not only memory and a command of technique, but also fluency
and confidence or presence’ as a performer. W hat must therefore be
emphasised is that inspiration in oral epic poetry is inextricably connected
with performance.
The Muses in early Greek poetry do more than simply provide informa­
tion. Od. xvii 518—21, for example, shows that they also inspire the bard
with the power to mesmerise his audience. W hen the Muses made Hesiod a
poet, they inspired him with a wonderful voice: ένέπνευσαν δέ μοί
αύδήν / θέσπίν (Tb. 31-2).52 The significance of these words is not
generally stressed. Fluency of composition is a common characteristic of
inspiration in all periods. To take one example from ancient literature,
Cratinus describes the inspiring effects of wine in fr. 186: ‘Lord Apollo,
what a flood of words! Streams splash, his mouth has twelve springs, Ilissus
 The Singer a n d bis Muse 31

is in his throat. W hat more can I say? If someone doesn't srop him up, he'll
swamp the whole place with his poems!’53 Harriott,54 amongst others,
points out that the comparison of flowing speech to a river goes back to
Homer. In the Iliad (i 249) Nestor's eloquence is described in the well
known line: του καί από γλώσσης μέλιτος γλυκίων ρέεν αύδή. Hesiod
emphasises the effortless flow of the Muses' voices in similar language (Th.
39-40), and those whom the Muses love have this gift of fluency (Th. 96-7,
cf. 84). Harriott and others draw our attention to these passages, but fail to
pin-point their significance. Surely the significance of the comparison of the
poet’s utterance to a stream is that in oral poetry fluency is vital. Since
composition and performance are simultaneous, without fluency composi­
tion breaks down.
Even when Greek poetry ceased to be orally composed, there was still the
association of inspiration with performance: throughout the classical period,
poetry was always composed for some kind of audience; it was never simply
a private expression. Hence performance was important and the Muses
continued to provide inspiration in performance as well as in composition.
The frequent invocations to the Muses to give sweetness in song should be
interpreted with this in mind. For example, Aleman fr. 27: Μώσ" αγε
Καλλιόπα θύγατερ Διός / αρχ* έρατών έπέων, επί δ’ ίμερον / υμνώ
καί χαρίεντα τίθη χορόν.55 Pindar begins Nem. iii with an invocation
which is clearly a request for help in performance:

Ώ πότνια Μοίσα, μάτερ άμετέρα, λίσσομαι,

τάν πολυξέναν εν ίερομηνία Νεμεάδι
ϊκεο Λωρίδα νάσον Αίγιναν* υδατί γάρ
μένοντ* έπ Ασωπίω μελιγαρύων τέκτονες
κώμων νεανίαι, σέθεν οπα μαιόμενοι.56

The Choruses in Aristophanes also frequently invoke the Muse for help in
performance, as, for example, at Peace 775-80: 'Muse, having driven away
the war, join in the chorus with me, your friend, celebrating weddings of
the gods, banquets of men and festivities of the blessed.’57 In the context of
both victory celebration and dramatic competition, composition and per­
formance are united, and the Muse relates to both.

The Poet and his Muse

W hat is the precise nature of the relationship between the Muse and the
poet in early Greek poetry? Whatever it is, the poet is certainly not the
unconscious instrument öf the divine, as some scholars have suggested. G.
M. A. Grube, for example, says of the invocations in Homer: 'When Homer
invokes the Muses on his own account, everything is inspiration and he
32 Homer's A r t

speaks as if the poet were but a passive instrum ent/58 The first three words
of the Iliad (Μήνιν άείδε, θεά) might indeed be taken to suggest that the
poet is nothing but the instrument of the goddess. But the request for
specific information at 8 (Who then of the gods brought them together to
contend in strife?) suggests that the poet is an active recipient of informa­
tion from the Muse rather than a passive mouthpiece. The same is true of all
the other invocations in the Iliad?9 The proem of the Odyssey makes the
poet’s active role even clearer:

’Άνδρα μοι εννεπε, Μούσα . . .

των άμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εχπέ καί ήμίν.

The relationship here envisaged between the poet and the Muse is an
intellectual one— the Muse is asked to communicate with the bard, not
to send him into a state of ecstasy— and it would be a mistake to interpret
these invocations as evidence for the view that the bard takes no part in
composition.
The early Greek poets in general express their belief in their dependence
on the Muse, but they also stress their part in composition. For example, at
Od. viii 44-5, Alcinous says of Demodocus:

τφ γάρ ρα θεός πέρι δώκεν άοιδήν

τέρπειν, οππη θυμός εποτρύνησιν άείδειν.

These words make it clear that poetry is both god-given and the product of
the bard’s own θυμός.60 There is a similar combination of human and
divine elements in Phemius’ claim at Od. xxii 347—8:

αύτοδίδακτος δ’ ειμί, θεός δέ μοι έν φρεσίν οιμας

παντοίας ενέφυσεν*

It might be argued that the two halves of this statement are contradictory:
because the gods have implanted the paths of song in him the bard cannot
claim responsibility for his composition. But these lines, like the previous
example quoted, must surely be understood in the context of Homer’s
language. Dual motivation is, of course, a characteristic of Homeric epic
and a god’s prompting does not exclude a personal motivation.61 The two
halves of Phemius’ statement are therefore complementary rather than
contradictory: he is both self taught and the recipient of divine aid. It
has been suggested that αύτοδίδακτος refers to the technical aspects of
composition (form, style etc.), whereas οιμας refers to the subject matter of
his song,62 but this seems to me to be too precise a distinction. W hilst the
word αύτοδίδακτος clearly implies a notion of skill or technique, the
metaphor of the path or way of song should not be restricted to subject
 The Singer a n d his Muse 33

matter.63 The general point of Phemius’ claim is that he does not simply
repeat songs he has learnt from other bards, but composes his songs
himself.64 The particular point which is relevant to the present discussion
is that although Phemius stresses the divine origin of his poetry he is very
much aware of his own part in composition. This attitude is typical of the
early period of Greek literature as a whole in the way that poetry is
described in both human and divine terms.
One of the .conventional ways of describing a poet is to call him a
Μουσών θεράπων, and θεράπων is a revealing word. It does not imply
that the poet is passive or servile but rather suggests a close relationship
between the Muse and the poet who attends here.65 Theognis specifies the
nature of this relationship more precisely when he describes the poet as a
messenger (άγγελος) of the Muses.66 The relationship between the poet
and the Muse is described in a number of different ways by Pindar, as for
example in fr. 150: μαντεύεο, Μοΐσα, προφατεύσω δ’ εγώ. This meta­
phor conveys Pindar s sense of dependence on the Muse, but also stresses his
part as the προφητής (one who interprets and proclaims) of her message.67
As Dodds explains: ‘The words he uses are the technical terms of Delphi;
implicit in them is the old analogy between poetry and divination. But
observe that it is the Muse, and not the poet, who plays the part of the
Pythia; the poet does not ask to be himself “possessed”, but only to act as
the interpreter for the entranced Muse. And that seems to be the original
relationship. Epic tradition represented the poet as deriving supernormal
knowledge from the Muses, but not as falling into ecstasy or being possessed
by them.’68 Dodds is clearly right in saying that ‘the Muse, and not the poet
. . . plays the part of the Pythia’, but to infer from this that the Muse is
actually possessed seems to me dubious. It is difficult to see who or what
might be possessing the Muse, and Pindar nowhere makes any reference to
possession. The emphasis in the fragment is on Pindar’s position as the
intermediary between gods and men, not on the psychological state of the
Muse. Pindar also emphasises his active role in poetic creation by his use of
the term ευρίσκω, as at 0. iii 4-6:

Μοισα δ3ουτω ποι παρέ-

στα μοι νεοσίγαλον εύρόντι τρόπον
Δωρίφ φωνάν έναρμόξαι πεδίλω
άγλαόκωμον69

And elsewhere he describes his poetry as simultaneously the gift of the

Muses (Μοισάν δόσιν) and the product of his own mind (γλυκύν
καρπόν φρενός).70 Poetic creativity depends both on inspiration and on
conscious effort.
34 Homer's A r t

Craft

Like Pindar the early Greek poets as a whole seem to have had a very
balanced view of poetic creativity, more balanced than some scholars would
allow. Havelock,71 as I have already said, maintains that in the early period
poetry was thought of as a craft and that the ‘contrary conception’ of poetic
inspiration was invented in the fifth century. Other scholars take the
directly opposite view. Barmeyer,72 for example, suggests that the early
Greek άοΐδός is to be regarded as inspired rather than as a craftsman. And
Svenbro in his recent book argues that pour Homère et Hésiode l’aède tient
sa parole “de la Muse", il n’apparaît nullement comme le “producteur" de
son discours’73 and even that d’idée même de l’aède comme auteur du chant
est en effet “systématiquement" rejetée par Homère’.74 The situation of the
choral poet, on the other hand, is completely different: ‘toujours en quête de
commissions . . . il doit insister sur le fait qu’il est le “producteur" de son
poème afin d ’être rémunéré, et il le fait au moyen de nombreuses métaphores
fondées sur l’analogie entre poète et artisan’.75 In his zeal to stress the
importance of the different social situations of the Homeric άοΐδός and the
choral poet Svenbro ignores the continuity in attitudes to poetry which
exists between them. The notion that the poet receives his words from the
Muse is not confined to Homer and Hesiod any more than the notion of the
poet as craftsman is confined to Pindar and the choral poets.
In the Odyssey the bard is included in a list of δημιοεργοί:

τις γάρ δή ξεΐνον καλει αλλοθεν αύτός έπελθών

άλλον y \ ει μή των οϊ δημιοεργοί εασι,
μάντιν ή ίητήρα κακών ή τέκτονα δούρων
ή καί θέσπιν άοιδόν, ο κεν τέρπησιν άείδων;
('Od. xvii 382-5)

Svenbro argues that this passage cannot be taken as evidence for the idea of
the poet as craftsman, referring to Vernant’s observation that the word
δημιοεργός ‘ne qualifie pas à l’origine l’artisan en tant que tel . . . il
définit toutes les activités qui s’exercent en dehors de Γοΐκος, en faveur
d ’un public’.76 Now it may be true that the word δημιοεργός in itself does ^
not imply the notion of craftsmanship, but the context in which the word
occurs must surely be considered. The fact that the bard is included in a list
of people who have specialised skills which can be of use to the community
suggests that he too possesses a certain skill. When Phemius has to justify
his existence to Odysseus he does so on the grounds that he is
αύτοδίδακτος, a word which clearly implies that there is at least an
element of skill in the poet’s activity. At Od. xi 368 Alcinous praises
Odysseus for telling his story έπισταμένως (that is, skilfully) like a
bard. And, as I have pointed out, the phrase κατά κόσμον used of
 The Singer a n d his Muse 35

Demodocus’ song at Od. viii 489 refers as much to the construction as to the
contents of the song.77
The importance of skill in poetry during the early period is also apparent
from the frequency of references to the teaching and learning of poetry, and
from the repeated use of skill words vis-à-vis poetry: οίδα, έπίσταμαί,
σοφός, σοφία, τέχνη.78 Bruno Snell has shown that the word έπίσταμαί
in the early period means primarily know (how).79 Similarly, οΐδα, τέχνη,
σοφός and σοφία denote practical ability and knowledge rather than
‘wisdom’. Homer uses the word σοφία only once, and in connection
with a carpenter (7/. xv 412). And Hesiod uses the word of skill in seaman­
ship (Op. 649) as well as pf Linus' musical skill (fr. 306). Craftsmen of many
different varieties are described as σοφός— including poets.80 Snell points
out that σοφός originally meant 'one who understands his craft’: the
emergence of σοφ- words to mean ‘wisdom’ in a more intellectual sense
was a gradual process.
The use of the. word ποιητής to mean poet81 is evidently based on the
notion of the poet as craftsman, but the evidence I have cited shows that this
concept did not suddenly emerge from nowhere in the fifth century. In a
fragment attributed to Hesiod (fr. dub. 357) poetic composition is likened
to stitching:

έν Δήλφ τότε πρώτον εγώ καί Όμηρός άοιδοι

μέλπομεν, έν νεαροις υμνοις ράψαντες αοιδήν.

The etymology of the words ράπτειν,ί ραψωδειν, ραψφδός and their

precise meaning when applied to poets is uncertain, but clearly they involve
an idea of craft.82 Craft metaphors, as Svenbro rightly observes, become
more frequent in the poetry of Bacchylides and Pindar— the poet is described
not only as a stitcher and weaver of songs, but also a builder, carpenter or
sculptor.83 Svenbro argues that this use of craft metaphors is to be under­
stood in terms of the professional poet’s economic dependence on his
patrons. Since what he produces is not tangible, the poet is in a weaker
position than the craftsman as regards payment: he must therefore empha­
size that his poetry is une merchandise’ and portray his activity ‘comme une
activité artisanale afin d’être rémunéré’.84 This theory sheds more light on
Svenbro’s own preoccupations than on Pindar. P. v. 72-6 indicate that
Pindar was an aristocrat,85 and the tone in which he addresses, for example,
Thorax at P. x 64-6 or Hiero at P. i 85-94 suggests that he was on equal
terms with his patrons rather than an inferior subject.86 Pindar’s craft
metaphors reflect his attitude to his art, they do not tell us about his social
status. And whilst it is true that Pindar uses a large number of craft
metaphors when speaking of his poetry, he says much more about his poetry
in general than do his epic predecessors— a point not noted by Svenbro. He
is more self-consciously articulate about his poetry— more self-conscious
36 Homer's A r t

about his inspiration and genius as well as about his craftsmanship. Svenbro
is not the only scholar guilty of one-sidedness in discussing Pindar’s
attitude to poetry. Grube, for example, claims that Pindar ‘despises tech­
nique and training; everything in poetry is natural talent’.87 This statement
is misleading. W hilst Pindar does contrast the true poet who is a poet by
nature (φοά) with the poet who has merely been taught his craft,88 he never
denies the importance of technique in poetry. His frequent use of craft
metaphors and his own evident concern with technique show that he
regarded technique as a vital ingredient in poetry. But for the true poet
mere technique is not enough.

Conclusions

It was Plato who, so far as we know, first opposed the concepts of poetic
inspiration and technique when he described inspiration as ενθουσιασμός.
Even Democritus, who is often considered a precursor to Plato, evidently
did not consider inspiration and technique as incompatible: 'Όμηρος
φύσεως λαχών θεαζούσης έπέων κόσμον ετεκτήνατο παντοίων
(DK fr. 21). In fact throughout early Greek poetry there seems to be an
equal emphasis on craft and inspiration. If we are unable to accept this fact,
it must be because we have certain preconceived notions about the concept
of poetic inspiration and its relation to the idea of poetry as a craft. Doubt­
less the notion of inspiration originated from the poet’s feeling of depen­
dence on the divine. And this feeling corresponds to the belief of many
poets throughout history that, as Dodds put it, ‘creative thinking is not the
work of the ego’.89 But the idea of poetic inspiration in early Greece differs
in a number of important ways from subsequent conceptions. It was parti­
cularly associated with knowledge, with memory and with performance; it
did not involve ecstasy or possession, and it was balanced by a belief in the
importance of craft. But although it therefore laid far more emphasis on the
technical aspects of poetic creativity, it was nevertheless an idea essentially
connected with the phenomenon of inspiration as we know it.

Notes

1. Preface to P la to (Oxford 1963) 156. This and the following works are cited by
author’s name alone: E.R. Dodds, T he G reeks a n d the Ir ra tio n a l (Berkeley 1951); R.
Harriott, Poetry a n d C riticism before P la to (London 1969); G. Lanata, Poetica p re -
P laton ica (Florence 1963); H. Maehler, D ie A u ffassu n g des D ichterberufs im frü hen
G riechentum (Göttingen 1963).
2. The Bacchae (New Jersey 1970) 10.
3. Those scholars who have discussed the subject of poetic inspiration in general
have confused rather than clarified the ancient position. C. M. Bowra, for example,
 The Singer a n d his Muse 37

in his Rede Lecture on In spiration a n d Poetry ( L o n d o n 1955) discusses the writing

habits of many modern poets and makes some interesting observations on poetic
inspiration. But elsewhere he uses his knowledge of the creative processes of
modern poets to make inferences about ancient poets which are purely speculative.
See e.g. P in d a r (Oxford 1964) 8-10, 13.
4. See e.g. Maehler, p a ss im ; J. Svenbro, L a parole et le marbre, A u x origines de la
poéûque grecque (Lund 1976).
5. The most important texts are: Ion passim ; A p . 22a-c; M e n . 99c-e; P h dr. 245;
Leg. 682a, 719c-4.
6. Archil, fr. 120 W can be related to the idea of poetic μανία, as several
scholars have rightly pointed out; but perhaps one should not press Archilochus too
far towards a general fu r o r poeticus : it is the d ith yra m b he can create when lightning-
struck by wine. The old analogy between poetry and prophecy, and in particular
the use of verse as a medium for prophecy at Delphi, is also relevant to the origins
of the notion of fu r o r poeticus . But the first firm evidence that we have for such a
notion dates from the fifth century. See Dodds 82; E. N. Tigerstedt, 'Furor
Poeticus: Poetic Inspiration in Greek Literature before Democritus and Plato7,
Jtf/xxxi. 2 (1970) 163-78.
7. D ie M usen: E in B e itra g z u r Inspirationstheorie (München 1968) 102.
8. E in fü h ru n g in d ie a n tik e D ichtungstheorie (Darmstadt 1973) 73-4.
9 - 156 .
10. One reason for this concentration on Plato is, I suspect, that modern notions
of inspiration (which are largely Romantic) bear more resemblance to the Platonic
concept of inspiration than to anything which we find in the early Greek poets.
Compare, for example, Socrates7 well-known words about the inability of the
inspired poet to understand his own creations with the following statement of
Thomas Carlyle: ‘Manufacture is intelligible, but trivial; Creation is great, but
cannot be understood. Thus if the Debater and Demonstrator, whom we may rank
as the lowest of true thinkers, knows what he has done, and how he did it, the
Artist, whom we may rank as the highest, knows not; must speak of Inspiration,
and in one or other dialect, call his work the gift of a divinity.7 (C haracteristics
[1831] ed. R. A. Foakes, R om an tic C riticism : 1 8 0 0 - 1 8 5 0 [London 1968] 1.45).
11. See e.g. R. E. M. Harding, A n A n a to m y o f In spiration (Cambridge 1942); B.
Ghiselin, The C rea tive Process (Berkeley 1952); J. Press, T he F ire a n d the F ou n tain
(London 1966); P. E. Vernon (ed.), C r e a tiv ity (London 1970) 53—88; K. Dick (ed.),
W riters a t W o rk (Penguin 1972).
12. See e.g. C. Day Lewis7account in T he L isten er , 28th April, 1966: ‘For me, at
any rate, “inspiration” is the moment when some phrase comes to me out of the
blue and offers itself as a seed from which a poem may grow. This seed, clue,
donnée, whatever, as you call it, swims up into my mind, not usually as an idea, but
in a form of words.7
13. See e.g. Rilke’s description of the way in which his Sonnets to Orpheus were
written (B riefe [Wiesbaden 1950] ii 412): ‘Sie sind vielleicht das geheimste, mir
selber, in ihrem Aufkommen und sich-mir-Auftragen, rätselhafteste Diktat, das ich
je ausgehalten und geleistet habe; der ganze erste Teil ist, in einem einzigen
atemlosen Gehorchen, zwischen dem 2. und dem 5. Februar 1922 nieder-geschrie-
ben, ohne dass ein wort im zweifel oder zu ändern war.7Cf. Nietzsche’s comments
on inspiration in Ecce Homo (1888) trans. W. Kaufmann (New York 1969) 300—1.
Sceptics may like to note T. S. Eliot’s comment in Selected E ssays 3 (London 1951)
405.
14. A distinction between two types of inspiration is also made by Harding (n.
11) 65, and by Stephen Spender in Ghiselin (n. 11) 114-15.
38 Homer's A r t

15. See below, n. 17.

16. The etymology of the word μούσα is uncertain- See e.g. Maehler’s summary
of the problem, 16-17, n. 5. For general information on the Muses see e.g. M.
Mayer, R E xvi (1933) 680-757; W. Otto, D ie M usen (Darmstadt 1956); Harriott
10-33.
17. 50-1. For confusion over the concepts of inspiration and genius see e.g. E.
E. Sikes, The Greek V iew o f P oetry (London 1931) 20; G. M. A. Grube, T he G reek a n d
Rom an C ritics (Toronto 1965) 9; A. Sperduti, ‘The divine nature of poetry in
antiquity', Τ Α Ρ Α Ixxxi (1950) 233.
18. The same idea may also be expressed at Od. viii 499: 6 6’ όρμηθείς θεού
αρχετο, φαίνε δ’ άοιδήν. The problem is whether to take θεού with όρμηθείς
or with αρχετο. See the discussions of e.g. O. Falter, D e r D ich ter u n d sein G o tt bei
den Griechen u n d Römern (Würzburg 1934) 9; Harriott 42. And cf. Pi. fr. 151.
1 9 . On invocations in early Greek poetry see e.g. Falter (n. 18) 4—7, 12, 18-23,
34-50; Harriott 41-9, 72-7.
2Ô. On this see e.g. R. Haussier, ‘Der Tod der Musen’, A u A xix (1973) 117—45;
S. Commager, T he Odes o f H orace (Indiana 1967) 2-16.
21. Harriott (40) appears to miss the point of these lines. The bard does not
speak ‘as if his physical strength will not be equal to the long task of recounting the
participants in the war', but rather stresses that, however great his physical
strength, he will not be able to recall the necessary information without the
prompting of the Muses. The contrast made here for the first time between divine
knowledge and human ignorance is a persistent theme in early Greek literature. See
e.g. lbyc. fr. 1. 23-6; Sol. fr. 17; Xenoph. ft. 34; Pi. N. vii 23-4, P a . vi 50-8, viib
15-20; B. Snell, T he Discovery o f the M i n d , trans. T. G. Rosenmeyer (New York
I960) 136-52. Invocations in Homeric epic occur elsewhere at //. i I, ii 761, xi
218, xiv 508, xvi 112; Od. i I. Cf. also the quasi-invocations at IL v 703, vili 273, xi
299, xvi 692. For scholarship on Homeric invocations see Harriott 44.
22. 177.
23. 'Invocation and Catalogue in Hesiod and Homer’, Τ Α Ρ Α xciii (1962) 190.
24. P o etty a n d Prophecy (Cambridge 1942) 41.
25. As e.g. W. Marg points out, H om er über d ie D ich tu n g (Münster 1957) 10, the
precise significance of this alternative is now lost to us. But the overlapping of the
domains of Apollo and the Muses clearly stresses the importance of knowledge and
truth in the poetry of this period.
26. See e.g. K. Latte, ‘Hesiods Dichterweihe’, A u A , ii (1946) 159—63; Lanata
24-5 and bibliography there; Maehler 4 l; A. Kambylis, D ie D ichterw eihe u n d ihre
S ym bolik (Heidelberg 1965) 62— 3; West ad loc.; W. J. Verdenius, ‘Notes on the
Proem of Hesiod’s Theogony’, M n m . xxv (1972) 234-5; P. Pucci, H esiod a n d the
L anguage o f Poetry (Baltimore 1977) 9-16.
27. See e.g. Pi, N . vii 20-4; Heraclit. fr. 56, cf. fr. 42; Xenoph fr. 11; Pi. R ep .
377d, and in general F. Mehmel ‘Homer und die Griechen’ A u A iv (1954) 16-40.
See also Maehler 4 l and Verdenius (n. 26) 234.
28. 113.
29. Cf. T h . 104-14; Op. 661-2.
30. Cf. e.g. Pi. 0. X 1—6, xiii 93—100; P a . viib 15-20; lbyc. fr. 1. 23-6; Bacch.
XV 47.
31. See e.g. 0. iv 17-18, vi 20—1, vii 20-1, xiii 52 and P . i 86-7 on the
importance of truth in general. Άλάθεΐα is invoked at 0. x 3-4 and at fr. 205.
Pindar’s concern for truth is also evident in his characteristic use of arrow and
javelin imagery as at e.g. 0. xiii 93-5, P . i 42-5, N . i 18, vi 26-7. See further
Bowra, P in d a r 26-33; Harriott 69-70; Maehler 96-8.
 The Singer a n d his Muse 39

32. See e.g. 0. i 28-32, N . vii 20-3. In general on this persuasive power of
poetry see e.g. Harriott 117—20; J. de Romilly, ‘Gorgias et le pouvoir de la poésie',
J U S xciii (1973) 155-62.
33. Frr. 3, 4, 23.11, 131. The view expressed by Falter (η. 18) 40 that
Empedocles’ invocation to the Muse in fr. 3 is nothing but ‘poetische Einkleidung,
Motiv, keineswegs aber aus wahrem Glauben erwachsen’ is rightly refuted by W. J.
Verdenius, ‘The meaning of Πίστίς in Empedocles M n em .4 i (1948) 10—11. Cf. P.
Boyancé, h e culte des M uses chez les philosophes grecs (Paris 1936) 241. Clearly the
goddess in Parmenides’ proem fr. 1.22-32 also guarantees the truth of his message,
but she is not identified as a Muse. See e.g. Harriott 65-7.
34. ‘Solon’s Prayer to the Muses’, T A P A lxxx (1949) 65.
35. T h . 53-61 with West ad loc. To the references there given add T h . 915-17;
P M G fr. 941; Pi. P a . vi 54-6, viib 15-16; PI. T h eaet . 191d; Plut. M or. 9d, frr.
215h, 217j. See further e.g, B. Snell 'Mnemosyne in der frühgriechischen Dich­
tung’, A rc h iv f u r Begriffsgeschichte ix (1964) 19—21; A. Setti, ‘La Memoria e il canto’,
Stud, l i a i . XXX (1958) 129— 71.
36. Cf. e.g. Certam en 98; Pi. N. i 12.
37. See e.g. J. Duchemin, P in d a re poète et prophète (Paris 1955) 26.
38. 163-4.
39. 100.
40. J o u r n a l de Psychologie (1959) 1-29 repr. in M y th e et pensée chez les Grecs (Paris
1974) 80-107. See also M. Detienne, Les m aîtres de v érité dan s la grèce arch aïqu e'
(Paris 1973) 15, 24-7, 110.
41. See further Snell (η. 21).
42. 83 η. 9.
43. See Lanatas excellent discussion of this passage, 12-13.
44. I hope to discuss the history of this concept in a later article.
45. Cf. 1114, 1217.
46. See e.g. E. Rohde, Psyche, trans. W, B. Hillis (London 1925) 289; Dodds 70.
47. 'Mnemosyne in Oral Literature', Τ Α Ρ Α lxix (1938) 465—93.
48. See e.g. Horn. II. vi 358; Od. viii 73, 580; xxiv 196-7; h .A p . 298—9; Theog.
237-52; Sapph. fr. 55, cf. fr. 193; Bacch. iii 71, 90-8, ix 81-7, x 9-18; Pi. 0 . viii
70-80, x 86-96, P. i 93-100, iii 112-15, iv 293-9, v 45-9, vi 5-17, xi 55-64, N.
vi 26—35, vii 11-16, ix 4 8 -5 5 , 1. v 53-7, vii 16-26, viii 56-63, fr. 121; PI. Sm p.
209d—e.
49. O ra l Poetry (Cambridge 1977).
50. Ibid. 28, cf. 133.
51. See M. Parry, ‘Studies in the Epic Technique of Oral Verse-Making’, H S C P
xli (I 9 3 O) 77-8 = The M a k in g o f H omeric Verse , ed. A. Parry (Oxford 1971) 269-70;
A. B. Lord, T he Singer o f T ales (Cambridge Mass. I960) 13—29; M. N. Nagler,
S pon taneity a n d O ra l T r a d itio n (Berkeley 1974) xxi, xxiii, 20-1. On the whole topic
of prior composition, memorisation and performance see Finnegan (n. 49) 73—87.
52. Cf. T h . 97; Horn. Od. i 371.

53. Άναξ Άπολλον, των επών των ρευμάτων,

καναχούσι πηγαί, δωδεκάκρουνον το στόμα,
Τλισσος έν τη φάρυγν τί άν εϊποιμ ετί;
ει μή γάρ έπιβύσει τις αυτού το στόμα
άπαντα ταύτα κατακλύσει ποιήμασιν.
Cf. Ar. E q. 526-8; PI. Leg. 719c.
54. 88-9» 124. Cf. Kambylis (n. 26) 144-6.
55. Cf. e.g. Hes. T h . 104; Pi. fr. 75; Ar. A v . 737-50, Ra. 675.
40 Homer’s A r t

56. Cf. e.g. P- iv 1-3, N. vi 28-9-

57. Μούσα, σύ μέν πολέμους απ-
ωσαμένη μετ’ εμού
του φίλου χόρευσον,
κλείουσα θεών τε γάμους
άνδρών τε δαίτας
καί θαλίας μακάρων*
Cf A c h . 665-75.
58. Op. cit. (n. 17) 2.
59. See above, n. 21.
60. Cf Od. i 346-7.
61. See e.g. Doclds 1—18; A. Lesky, G öttlich e u n d menschliche M o tiva tio n im home­
rischen Epos (Heidelberg 1961).
62. See e.g. Lanata, 13-14.
63. See e.g. O. Becker, 'Das Bild des Weges’, Hermes E in zels. iv (Berlin 1937);
Harriott 64-5.
64. See e.g. W. Schadewaldt, Von Homers W e lt u n d W e rk 3 (Stuttgart 1959) 78-9;
Dodds 10; Maehler 22-3; Harriott 92 and bibliography there.
65. See Pi. P . iv 286-7 where the free attendant (θεράπων) is contrasted with
the slave (δράστας). For θεράπων of the poet see e.g. Hes. T h . 100; h.H om . xxxii
20; Choeril. fr. 1; Ar. A v . 909- Cf' Bacch. v 192 (πρόπολος); Sapph. fr. 150
(μοισοπόλος).
66. See B. A. van Groningen, Theognis: Le prem ier liv re (Amsterdam 1966) ad.
loc. and M. S. Silk, interaction in Poetic Im agery (Cambridge 1974)-89 who notes that
‘Μουσών θεράπων is an absolutely conventional periphrasis for the poet;
Μουσών άγγελος is live metaphor’.
67. Cf Pi. P a , vi 6; Bacch. ix 3. On προφήτης see E. Fascher ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗΣ
(Giessen 1927); H. W. Parke, C Q xxxiv (1940) 85; Fraenkel on Aesch. A g , 1099.
68. 82.
69. Cf 0. i 110, N . vi 54, viii 20, fr. 122.14; Bacch. fr. 5. Cf ερευνάν at P a .
vii b 20. And in general see Becker (n. 62) 73; Maehler 96; Harriott 60-1.
70. 0. vii 7-8. Cf N. iv 6-8; Bacch. xii 1-3, xiii 220-9-
71. 156.
72. Op. cit. (n. 7) 70.
73. Op. cit. (n. 4) 5.
74. Ibid. 193. Cf. 195.
75. Ibid. 6.
76. Ibid. 193-5.
77. On the notion of poetic skill in Homer see especially Schadewaldt (n. 64)
70-5.
78. For the teaching idiom see e.g. Horn. Od. viii 481, 488, xvii 519, xxii 347;
Hes. T h . 22, Op. 662; Sol. fr. 13.51. Cf. the idea that man learnt to sing from the
birds: Democr. fr. 154; Alcm. frr. 39, 40. For οιδα see e.g. Od. i 337; Alcm. fr. 40;
Archil, fr. 120.2. For έπίσταμαι see e.g. Od. xi 368; Hes. Op. 107; Archil, fr. 1.2;
Sol. fr. 13.52.
79· D ie A u sdru cke f ü r den B e g r iff des W issens in der vorplatonischen Philosophie
(Berlin 1924) 81-3.
80. See Snell (n. 79) 5-7, where he gives a list of σοφοί including seers,
generals, steersmen, doctors, coach drivers, wrestlers, cooks, and farmers. For
σοφ- words of poets, see e.g. Sol fr. 13.52; Ibyc. fr. 1.23; Theog. 77Ö, 995; Pi.
0. ii 86 and other references cited by Lanata 83—5 (Pindar, of course, invests the
 The Singer a n d his Muse 41

terms σοφός and σοφία with a new significance: in particular σοφός denotes for
him a rare individual, set apart from his fellows both by his inborn nature and by
his communion with the gods); Xenoph. fr. 2.12; Ar. N u . 547, P a x 797, L ys. 368.
For a detailed study of the subject see B. Gladigow, Soph ia u n d Kosmos (Hildesheim
1965).
81. Hdt. ii 53; Ar. A ch . 654. See further e.g. Harriott 93-4. Similar terminology
for the poet's craft occurs in Sanskrit and other LE. languages. See M. West, ‘Greek
Poetry 2000-700 b . c . ’ C Q xxiii (1973) 179 and bibliography there.
82. For a sensible discussion see Harriott 94.
83· See e.g. Bacch. v 9-10, xiii 223, xix 8—10; Pi. 0. vi 1-4, 86-7, P . iii 113, vi
9, N. ii 1-2, iii 4-5, I. i 14, fr. 194.
84. Op. cit. (n. 4) 178-9, 187, 168-70.
85. See Wilamowitz P in d a ro s (Berlin 1922) 124; M. R. Lefkowitz, ‘τώ καί έγώ:
The First Person in Pindar’, H S C P lxvii (1963) 229-32.
86. See the further criticisms of St. Fogelmark in his review of Svenbro, Gnomon
1 (1978) 13-24.
87. Op. cit. (n. 17) 9.
88. 0. ii 83-88. Cf. 0. ix 100-2, N. iii 40-2.
89. 81.
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Title: Gitanjali (Sangesopfer)

Author: Rabindranath Tagore

Translator: Marie Luise Schroeter Gothein

Release date: June 7, 2021 [eBook #65541]

Language: German

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI

(SANGESOPFER) ***
RABINDRANATH TAGORE

GITANJALI
(SANGESOPFER)

KURT WOLFF VERLAG

MÜNCHEN
Einzig autorisierte deutsche Ausgabe. Nach
der von Rabindranath Tagore selbst
veranstalteten englischen Ausgabe ins
Deutsche übertragen von Marie Luise
Gothein. Zweihundert Exemplare wurden
zweifarbig auf Kaiserlich Japan gedruckt, in
Ganzleder gebunden und handschriftlich
numeriert

28. bis 32. Tausend

 Du machtest mich endlos – so ist dein Belieben. Dies schwache Gefäß
leertest du wieder und wieder und fülltest es immer mit neuem Leben.
Du trugst diese kleine Rohrflöte über Hügel und Täler und hauchtest
durch sie ewig neue Melodien.
Bei dem unsterblichen Druck deiner Hände verliert mein kleines Herz
seine Grenze in Freude und gebiert unaussprechliche Worte.
Deine unendlichen Gaben empfange ich nur auf diesen meinen sehr
kleinen Händen. Zeitalter vergehn und immer gießest du aus, und immer
ist Raum, um erfüllt zu werden.
 Wenn du mir befiehlst zu singen, scheint mir das Herz vor Stolz
brechen zu wollen; ich schau in dein Antlitz, und Tränen kommen mir in
das Auge. All das, was hart und mißtönig ist mir im Leben, zerschmilzt in
eine süße Harmonie – und meine Anbetung breitet die Schwingen gleich
einem frohen Vogel im Fluge über die See.
Ich weiß, mein Singen macht dir Freude, ich weiß, nur als Sänger
werde ich vor dich gelassen.
Ich rühre mit dem Saume der weitausgebreiteten Schwinge des Sangs
deine Füße, die nie zu erreichen ich streben könnte.
Trunken von Freude des Singens vergeß ich mich ganz und nenne dich
Freund, der du mein Herr bist.
 Ich weiß nicht, wie du singest, mein Meister, ich lausche immer in
stillem Staunen.
Dein Licht der Musik erleuchtet die Welt. Der Lebenshauch deiner
Musik läuft von Himmel zu Himmel. Der heilige Strom der Musik
durchbricht alle Hindernisse von Stein und stürzet fort.
Mein Herz ersehnt, deinem Sang sich zu einen und ringt umsonst nach
Stimme. Ich wollte sprechen, doch Sprache fügt sich dem Sang nicht, da
schrei ich getäuscht auf! O du hast mein Herz gefangen in deines Liedes
endlosen Maschen, mein Meister.
 O du meines Lebens Leben! Immer werd ich mich mühn, rein meinen
Leib zu erhalten, wissend, daß auf meinen Gliedern lebendig dein Hauch
ist.
Immer werd ich mich mühn, Unwahres mir fern vom Denken zu
halten, wissend: du bist die Wahrheit, die mir im Geiste das Licht der
Vernunft entzündet.
Immer werd ich mich mühn, von meinem Herzen die Übel zu treiben
und meine Liebe in Blüte zu halten, wissend: du thronest im
Allerheiligsten meines Herzens.
Und es soll immer mein Streben sein: dich offenbaren in meinem Tun,
wissend, daß deine Macht mir Kraft gibt zum Handeln.
 Ich bitte nur um ein wenig Geduld, um an deiner Seite zu sitzen, das
Werk, das ich wirke, wird später vollendet.
Ferne dem Schaun auf dein Antlitz, kennt mir das Herz nicht Ruhe
noch Rast; und mein Werk wird endloses Mühn am uferlosen Meere der
Mühe.
Heut kam der Sommer ans Fenster mit seinem Summen und Surren,
die Bienen singen von Minne am Hofe des blühenden Haines.
Nun ist es Zeit, um stille zu sitzen von Antlitz zu Antlitz mit dir und dir
zu singen des Lebens Widmung in dieser schweigenden,
überströmenden Muße.
 Pflück diese kleine Blume und nimm sie und zögre nicht, ich fürchte,
sie welkt und fällt in den Staub.
Sie wird keinen Platz in deinem Kranze finden, doch ehre sie mit dem
Schmerzensdruck deiner Hand und pflücke sie ab. Ich fürchte, der Tag
könnt enden, eh ich es merke und die Zeit des Opferns vergehn.
Ist auch die Farbe nicht tief und ihr Duft nur schwach, nütze die
Blume für deinen Dienst und pflück sie, solange es Zeit ist.
 Mein Lied hat seines Schmuckes sich entäußert, es ist nicht stolz auf
Kleid und Zier. Der Schmuck könnt unsre Einigkeit zerstören, er würde
zwischen dich und mich sich stellen; dein Flüstern könnt ertrinken in
dem Klingklang.
Mein Dichterhochmut stirbt in Scham vor deinem Anblick, o
Meisterdichter, ich saß dir zu Füßen. Laß mich mein Leben grad und
einfach machen, gleich einer Flöte, die du füllst mit Tönen.
 Das Kind, dem ein fürstlich Kleid man anzog, und das Juwelen um
seinen Nacken trägt, verliert alle Freude an seinem Spiel, behindert vom
Kleid bei jedem Schritt.
Aus Furcht, es könnte zerreißen, vom Staube befleckt sein, hält es
sich fern von der Welt und fürchtet beinah sich zu regen.
Mutter, es ist kein Gewinn im Zwang deines Putzes, wenn er uns
ausschließt vom heilsamen Staube der Erde, wenn er des Rechts uns
beraubt, hinzuzutreten zum großen Markt des gemeinen menschlichen
Lebens.
 Narr, der du suchst, dich auf eignen Schultern zu tragen; o Bettler, der
du kommst, an eignen Türen zu betteln!
Leg deine Lasten in seine Hände, der alles trägt und schaue nicht
zurück in Bedauern.
Deine Begierde löschet sogleich das Licht der Lampe, die sie mit ihrem
Atem berührt. Unheilig ist sie – nimm nicht deine Gaben aus ihren
unreinen Händen. Nimm nur, was heilige Liebe dir bietet.
 Hier ist dein Schemel, dort ruhn deine Füße, wo die Ärmsten und
Niedersten, wo die Verlorenen leben.
Wenn ich versuche, mich dir zu neigen, kann mein Haupt nicht die
Tiefe erreichen, wo deine Füße ruhen unter den Ärmsten und
Niedersten, den Verlorenen.
Stolz kann niemals sich nähern, wo du umher gehst in den Gewändern
der Demütigen unter den Ärmsten und Niedersten, den Verlorenen.
Mein Herz findet nie seinen Weg dorthin, wo du Freundschaft hältst
mit den Freundlosen unter den Ärmsten, den Niedersten, den
Verlorenen.
 Laß dies Stimmen und Singen und Sagen des Rosenkranzes! Wen
betest du an in diesem einsamen, dunklen Winkel des Tempels, in dem
verschlossenen Tor?
Öffne die Augen und sieh, dein Gott ist nicht vor dir.
Er ist dort, wo der Pflüger den harten Grund pflügt, wo der
Steinklopfer Steine bricht. Er ist mit ihnen in Sonne und Regen und wo
sein Kleid bedeckt ist mit Staub. Leg ab deinen heiligen Mantel und
komme herab mit ihm auf den staubigen Boden.
Befreiung? Wo ist die Befreiung zu finden? Unser Meister hat freudig
die Bande der Schöpfung auf sich genommen; er ist mit uns für immer
gebunden.
Komm heraus aus deiner Betrachtung, laß Blumen und Weihrauch
beiseite! Was schadet es, wenn deine Kleider zerreißen und fleckig
werden. Geh ihm entgegen, stehe bei ihm in der Arbeit, dem Schweiß
deiner Stirne.
 Die Zeit, die meine Reise braucht, ist lang, und der Weg ist lang.
Ich kam heraus auf dem Wagen im ersten Strahle des Lichts und
setzte die Fahrt weiter fort durch die Wildnis der Welten und ließ meine
Spur auf manchem Stern und Planeten.
Es ist der fernste Weg, der am nächsten führt zu dir selbst, und jene
Übung ist die schwierigste, die zum allereinfachsten Ton kommt.
An jede fernste Türe muß der Wanderer klopfen, bis er zur eigenen
gelangt, durch alle äußeren Welten muß man ziehn, zuletzt zum
Allerheiligsten zu kommen.
Und meine Augen streiften weit und breit, eh ich sie schloß und
sprach: »Hier bist du!«
Die Frage und der Ruf: »O wo?« zerschmilzt in tausend
Tränenströmen und ertränkt die Welt mit der Flut der Versichrung »Ich
bin!«
 Das Lied, das ich kam zu singen, bleibt ungesungen bis auf diesen
Tag.
Ich brachte meine Tage hin, mein Instrument zu stimmen und
umzustimmen.
Der Takt kam nicht aus, die Worte sind nicht recht gesetzt, nur eine
Pein des Wünschens ist im Herzen.
Die Blüte hat sich nicht geöffnet, nur der Wind seufzt vorüber.
Ich habe sein Angesicht nicht gesehn, nicht gelauscht seiner Stimme;
nur seinen leisen Fußtritt hab ich gehört auf der Straße vor meinem
Hause.
Der lange Tag verging damit, ihm den Sitz am Boden zu breiten, die
Lampe aber ist noch nicht entzündet, ich kann ihn nicht in mein Haus
bitten.
Ich lebe der Hoffnung ihn zu treffen, doch dieses Treffen ist noch
nicht.
 Meiner Begierden sind viele, mein Schrei heischt Mitleid, aber du hast
mich noch immer gerettet durch hartes Verweigern, mit dieser strengen
Gnade hast du mein Leben durch und durch gewirkt.
Tag für Tag machst du mich würdig der einfachen, großen Gaben, die
du mir ungebeten gabst – des Himmels, des Lichts, dieses Leibes,
Lebens und Geistes – und rettest mich aus der Gefahr des Übermaßes
der Wünsche.
Es gibt Zeiten, wo träge ich zögre und andre, wo ich erwache und eile,
mein Ziel zu suchen; doch grausam birgst du dich vor mir.
Tag für Tag machst du mich würdig deines vollen Empfangs, indem du
dich immer versagst und rettest mich vor der Gefahr der schwachen,
unsicheren Wünsche.
 Hier bin ich, dir Lieder zu singen. In deiner Halle hab ich den Sitz im
Winkel.
In deiner Welt hab ich kein Werk zu tun, mein nutzlos Leben kann nur
ausströmen zwecklos in Tönen.
Wenn die Stunde schlägt für deinen schweigenden Dienst im dunkeln
Tempel der Mitternacht, befiehl mir, mein Meister, vor dir zu stehn und
zu singen.
Wenn in der Morgenluft die goldene Harfe gestimmt ist, ehre mich
und befiehl mir, vor dich zu treten.
 Ich habe die Ladung gehabt zum Fest dieser Welt, und so ist mein
Leben gesegnet. Meine Augen haben gesehn, meine Ohren gehört.
Mein Teil auf diesem Feste war, mein Instrument zu spielen, ich habe
alles, was ich konnte, getan.
Nun frag ich, ist endlich die Zeit mir gekommen, wo ich eintreten darf
und dein Antlitz sehn und dir schweigend bieten meinen Gruß?
 Ich warte nur auf die Liebe, um endlich mich in seine Hände
aufzugeben. Deshalb bin ich so spät, und deshalb bin ich schuldig so
vieler Lücken.
Sie kommen mit ihren Gesetzen und Regeln, um mich zu binden, doch
ich entschlüpfe ihnen immer wieder, denn ich warte nur auf die Liebe,
um endlich mich in seine Hände aufzugeben.
Die Leute tadeln mich, nennen mich unbedacht, ich zweifle nicht, sie
haben Recht zum Tadel.
Der Markttag ist vorüber, alle Arbeit ist getan für die Geschäftigen. Die
da kamen umsonst mich zu rufen, gingen voll Zorn. Ich aber warte nur
auf die Liebe, um endlich mich in seine Hände aufzugeben.
 Wolken häufen auf Wolken sich und es dunkelt.
Geliebter, warum läßt du mich draußen vor dem Tore warten ganz
allein?
In der geschäftigen Zeit des Mittagwerkes steh ich zur Menge, aber an
diesem dunklen, einsamen Tage hoff ich auf dich allein.
Wenn du mir dein Antlitz nicht zeigst, wenn du mich beiseite läßt, so
weiß ich nicht, wie ich die langen Regenstunden verbringen soll.
Ich starre zum fernen Schimmer des Himmels, und mein Herz wandert
klagend mit dem ruhelosen Wind.
 Wenn du nicht sprichst, will ich mein Herz mit deinem Schweigen
füllen und dulden. Ich warte und halte mich still wie die Nacht mit ihren
gestirnten Vigilien, und ihrem Haupte tief geneigt in Geduld.
Der Morgen wird sicher kommen, das Dunkel wird schwinden und
deine Stimme in goldenen Strömen sich ergießen und vom Himmel
brechen.
Dann werden deine Worte Schwingen nehmen im Gesang von allen
meinen Vogelnestern und deine Melodien werden in Blumen in meinen
waldigen Hainen aufbrechen.
 An dem Tag, da der Lotos blühte, schweifte mein Geist, ach, in die
Irre, und ich wußte es nicht. Mein Korb war leer, und die Blume blieb
ungepflegt.
Nur dann und wann bedrängte mich Traurigkeit, ich fuhr aus dem
Traum und fühlte eine süße Spur seltsamen Wohlgeruches im Südwind.
Die flüchtige Süße machte mein Herz weh vor Sehnsucht, und mir
deuchte, es sei der brünstige Atem des Sommers, der seine Vollendung
suchte.
Ich wußte noch nicht, daß so nah es war, daß es mein war, daß die
vollkommene Süße in meines eignen Herzens Tiefe erblüht war.
 Lichten muß ich mein Boot. Die trägen Stunden vergehen am Ufer –
wehe mir!
Der Frühling verblüht und nimmt Abschied und nun mit der Bürde der
welken, wertlosen Blätter harr ich und zaudre.
Die Wogen sind ungestüm und am Gestade auf schattigem Rasenhang
flattern die gelben Blätter und fallen.
Auf welch eine Leere starrst du! Fühlest du nicht ein Schauern gehn
durch die Luft, mit dem Ton eines fernen Liedes verschwebend vom
anderen Ufer?
 Im tiefen Schatten des regnichten Juli wanderst du leisen Tritts,
schweigend der Nacht gleich und täuschest die Wächter.
Heut hat der Morgen die Augen geschlossen, achtlos des drängenden
Rufes des lauten Ostwinds; ein dichter Schleier ist über den immer
wachen, blauen Himmel gezogen.
Die Wälder lassen die Lieder verstummen und an jedem Haus sind die
Türen geschlossen. Du bist der einsame Waller in den verlassenen
Gassen. O mein einziger Freund, Geliebtester, die Tore sind offen in
meinem Hause – geh nicht vorüber wie ein Traum.