Listening to the Spider: reading Hesiod’s Works and Days

 

CHAPTER 9. THE DARK SIDE

vv. 678-764

 

     {Note: What is essentially the content of this chapter written in 2003 was subsequently summarized at pp. 187-91 of the article in History of Religions listed in the writings page for 2004.}

 

            The next passage begins:

 

                        Another sailing is in spring for humans.

                        Just at-the-point-that (ēmos) first, about as large as a crow setting out

                        makes a track, so large the leaves appear to a man

                        at the top fig branch, then the sea is manageable:

                        this is the spring sailing. ...

(vv. 678-82)

(I.e., just when the leaves at the top branch first appear to a man to be as large as ... .  Ēmos is the cyclical adverb used at v. 414 and discussed in Chap. 5.) Nomi­nal­ly this is still about sailing, and 678-95 are conventionally considered part of a “sailing sec­tion” inclu­ding the material just covered; however, if “sailing” is poetry as just argued, then “ano­ther sai­l­ing” is other poetry. The structure of the segment also suggests a new beginning: In the Greek it is symmetric through the fourth foot of 682, with peletai ploos, “sailing is,” spanning the main cae­sura in both 678 and 682, and alliterating with petal’, “leaves,” in mid verse in 680.

            Moreover, the mention of the crow with spring reminds us that spring was connected to ano­ther bird, the swallow, at vv. 568-9. The first line here is actually allos d’ eiarinos peletai plo­os anthrōpoisin, so that it connotes, if it does not denote, the alternative with the same word order, “another spring is for sailing for humans.” This spring for sailing, prefaced by the crow, com­pares with that for (making sure we have finished) vine-pruning, introduced by the swallow (570). Indeed, there is at least one fable which hints at rivalry between the swallow and the crow: After the for­mer boasts royal parentage and gives her identity in the myth noted earlier, the latter won­ders what it would be like if she still had her amputated tongue since she talks so much as it is.[1]

            At the least, one can expect the symbolism to be different here. In fact, while the swal­low passage was light-hearted, the aura here is dark. The comparison of crow tracks and fig leaves has been characterized as primitive (West), quaint (Janko, Athanassakis), picturesque (Leclerc), and rustic (Arrighetti), but as Rosen recognizes, the bird itself is actually a negative pre­sence. He calls it a figure for a “bad” poet, arguing that “makes a track” is a simple metaphor for creating poetry. (One can add that, of the meanings suggested for our own poet’s name hēsiodos, the most likely is “he who sets out on the road.”) It does seem to me that our poet thinks of the crow as also a poet, as were the crane et al., more specifically the poet of fore­bod­ing. Just as down through the history of literature the crow has been a dark presence of one sort or another, we will see when its actual voice is cited at v. 747 that the issue is bringing some­thing like bad luck. But one must supplement Rosen’s insight, in that epic suggests the fig con­tri­butes to the aura as well: “Fig-branch ... is manageable” (kradēi ... ambatos esti) here recalls Andromache’s warning that the enemy could get into the city because its wall “is scalable” (amba­tos esti) near the “fig tree” (erineos). To be sure, in the archaic Jahwist account of Adam and Eve the fig leaf is relatively mild (evidently symbolizing a combination of shame and inade­quacy). However, Richardson sug­gests that the tree at Troy, a landmark cited elsewhere, is associated with Hector’s dire fate, and another fig marks the location of the dread whirlpool Cha­rybdis. At 582 the thistle and cicada already gave a “raspy” quality to the totality plants plus animals, i.e., the natural world, but here the fig and crow make it seem actually menacing.[2]

            Thus, while the swallow warned of us being fooled, presumably by natural events, some­thing rather more eerie is afoot here. Indeed, the poet next says of this “sailing,”

 

                         ... I for my part not it

                        praise, for it is not pleasing to my heart;

                        (it is) snatched: (only) with difficulty may you escape harm; but now even (such as) these (things)

                        people do “in their ignorance of mind;”

                        for “property is life” “for wretched mortals,”

                        though it is terrible to die “among” (meta) the waves. But I bid you

                        consider all this “in” (meta) your heart, as I declare.[3]

(vv. 682-8)

“Property is life” may comment on Achilles’s reason for boycotting the war, i.e., that he can enjoy the “possessions” he has, while all the riches of Troy are not worth his “life.” If so, our poet says this is the case for everyone, merging the thought with the standard expression “is for wretched mortals.” The “I bid you” sentiment of 687-8 of course employs standard language for our poem itself, albeit the thoughts of 688 are connected to 687 by repeating the preposition in meta kuma­sin into an unusual use in meta phresin. Beyond that, the poet uses a perhaps archaic form for “praise,” and leaves the entity from which the sailing is “snatched” unstated, as if it were mysti­cal. Most importantly, he uses the same phrase as does epic in speaking of Oedipus’s mother violating the incest tabu: She married her son “in her ignorance of mind.” In short, what we are to “consider in our heart,” is that the “spring sailing” is stolen from the very order of the world.[4]

            I believe “other” poetry exists to Hesiod and must be told, because he knows of a reality other than that governed by the “mind of aegis-bearing Zeus” he has treated in the poem prior to this point. Zeus is still not the Judeo-Christian All-everything deity (notwithstanding the development toward that concept in the Theogony and our poem), and the poet is going to say that there are occult forces which must also be taken into account in any representation of the world affecting the human condition which purports to be complete. Association of ideas with respect to sailing has led from the previous treatment of transcendence, construed in a positive manner, to its dar­k­er aspect. Thus in the section extending from here to v. 764 we will sense the poetry as mostly evoking primordial forces, and mostly in a negative manner.

 

Heed proportion.

            The poet continues with aphorisms superficially like those of vv. 286-382. First:

 

                        Don’t put all your livelihood in hollow ships,

                        but leave most: ship a less(er part);

                        for it is terrible to meet disaster among the waves at sea,

                        or terrible if you carry a reckless load on a wagon

                        and break an axle, and the (or: that?) freight become wasted.

                        Pay attention to the properties (of things): proportion is best in all (matters).[5]

(689-94)

(In the Greek the word order of 689 has “ships, all,// livelihood, hollow” around the caesura, a nice juxtaposition to supplement the catchy saying of the next line.) With ship and wagon the text gives two examples of the principle given in the last line, that it is best to behave with an eye to what is proportionate. The first of these, “meet disaster” at sea (pēmati kursai ) recalls “die among the waves” in the previous segment, and thus also connotes its primordial negativity. The point is not harmed by the analogues sōmati kursas, “(a lion) coming upon a carcass,” and harmati kur­sas, “(don’t wreck us both by) running into my chariot,” in addition to the standard expression pēma­ta pasch-, “suffer woes.” But then the poet finally dispenses with sailing after it has served its purpose, as the idea of “terrible” connects to the exam­ple of the wagon. The latter has its own overtones: “Carrying a reckless load” (huperbion ach­thos aeiras) recalls Penelope’s suitors “hav­ing/have reckless arrogance” (h. hubrin echon­tes/echou­si), and “be wast­ed” (maurōtheiō) uses the verb of 244 and 325, where the gods “waste” the estate of injust man. Thus I hold that, although the generalization induced in 694 does not itself have a negative thrust, the poet regards this principle as also primordial, even antedating Zeus.[6]

            And nothing really ends here, notwithstanding the conventional interpretation of aphorisms following sailing. As Hamilton observes, v. 694 could go with either the preceding or the following segment, which continues to exemplify the principle of proportion:[7]

 

                        It is timely to bring your wife home

                        neither lacking your thirtieth year by very much

                        nor going very much after it: this see(?) is the seasonable marriage;

                        and the woman let-be-past-puberty by four (years), and marry in the fifth.

                        Marry a maiden so that you can teach her solicitous behavior;

                        and especially marry one who lives near you,

                        looking her over thoroughly lest you “marry” laughter for the neighbors.[8]

(695-701)

Although this segment certainly portrays the woman as an object, it employs Homeric language that also does so. “Bring a woman home” recalls first Paris and then Hector saying of the upcoming battle between the former and Menelaus that, upon seizing the goods and “the woman, let (whoever wins) take them home,” and Helen saying that Menelaus wants “to take me home,” as well as “take a woman” elsewhere. The repeated “marry” in 699 and 700 recalls Achil­les’s sen­timent that he will not “marry” Agamemnon’s daughter even if she looks like Aphrodite and does handi­work like Athena; he will not “marry” her even so. To be sure, avoiding “laughter for ene­mies” is an epic concept, so that in 701 the text again (as at 342-51) implicitly compares rela­tions with neighbors to Homer’s relationships between opposing heroes.[9]

            The segment does seem matter-of-fact apart from whatever nuances such epic parallels might give it, right up to the conclusion that one must inspect the woman.  (I suppose this is to ensure that she has no physical flaws, although West notes later Greek literature speaking of neighbors being amused when a man is cuckolded, as if one could predict this from her looks.) However, a for­mal­ly parenthetical comment then suggests that something primordially baneful lurks:

 

                        For while a man wins nothing better than a woman

                        (who is) a good one, again, a bad one is nothing other than to be dreaded,

                        an ambusher-at-dinner: even if a man is strong she

                        roasts him without fire and gives him a raw old age.[10]

(vv. 702-5)

Much has been built upon the incorrect construal that the woman is “gluttonous” in 704.  (E.g., Vernant’s synchronic view of both Hesiodic poems connects this woman to the Theogony’s female principle living off the work of others.)  Neitzel is better in putting the term deipnolochēs in its context of “roast­ing” the man in the next line, and thereby noting that she actually recalls another epic situation: Clytemnestra having her husband Agamemnon slain as he eats a meal. Moreover, with Odys­seus’s aged father Laertes in mind, the poet cleverly combines the latter metaphor and the figures “roasts without fire” (with an analogue from Penelope telling the suitors she must make a funeral shroud for Laertes) and “raw old age” (what the death of the latter’s wife left him), to suggest nag­ging our own man to near-death. And the Levi-Straussian juxtaposition of “raw” and “cooked” also gives an overtone of the psychologically primordial fear of woman which, as I have argued else­where, the gods’ concept of woman at 60-82 inculcates.[11]

            The next verse has been suspected as at least out of place, but perhaps it is meant to con­vey a universal response to fear of the unknown after something fateful has been mentioned: One spontaneously invokes the gods:[12]

 

                        Be well mindful of the gaze of the blessed immortals.[13]

(v. 706)

 

And don’t heed disproportion.

            As Kumaniecki in particular has noted, the sequel is overtly contrarian, featuring an esca­la­ting series of negative adverbs. Already at v. 696 we were to get a wife “neither” much older “nor” much younger than age thirty, and now the poet introduces actual prohibitions:[14]

 

                        Don’t treat a friend like a brother,

                        but if you should happen to do so, don’t work harm on him first;

                        and don’t lie to give favor with your tongue; and if he actually begins (conflict) with you

                        by either speaking some untoward word or even doing (an untoward deed),

                        remember to extend twice as much (to him); but again, should

                        he lead (the way) to friendship, and wish to give compensation,

                        take it: see, wretched is the man who now one (person), now another, dear

                        makes; and let not a (negative) intention belie a (positive) appearance.[15]

(vv. 707-14)

At first this seems to be a mini-essay much like the earlier ones working out “just” behavior, only with the thrust a prohibition rather than a recommendation for positive action. Thus Hamilton, for one, sees the difference between the two sections 336-78 and 695-769 essentially as a matter of the earlier one requiring a sense of responsibility; the later giving easy-to-follow instructions.[16]

            However, I hold to the concept that the earlier set is introductory; this one, part of an actu­al subject, specifically the primordial world order. The juxtaposition of “friend” and “brother” seems mystical, given that some other associations of the terms have pregnant overtones: In the only place in the Iliad where two brothers kill two brothers, Antilochus and Thrasymedes slew Atym­nius and Maris, who were “friends” of the important figure Sarpedon; Odysseus promises that if he succeeds in getting rid of the suitors with the aid of Melanthius and Eumaeus, he will treat the latter like “friends and brothers” of Telemachus; and above all, Hector’s “brothers and friends” gathered his bones from the funeral pyre at the end of the Iliad. “Giving compensa­tion,” literally “providing justice,” in 712 looks like an archaic notion of restoring amends in accor­d­ance with the law of nature: Later authors cite “justice” as atonement when they want to sound archaic, and the so-called first metaphysician Anaximander makes it a fundamental principle of the cosmos. Granted, the functions of the final thoughts about fickleness and intention in the seg­ment are unclear. However, the overall tone of the passage is primordial.[17]

            Next there is another priamel-like epanaphora, this time on “don’t:”

 

                        Don’t be called much-hosted nor non-hosted;

                        don’t befriend evil nor wrangle with good;

                        and don’t ever a man’s baneful soul-destroying poverty

                        dare to reproach, (for it is) a gift of the ever existing blessed ones.

(vv. 715-18)

The first two members look like simple common sense, but the third is overtly theological. Then there is what looks like an aside to the last thought, also priamel-like:

 

                        See, the treasure of the tongue is best in people

                        who spare it; the most grace comes with moderation;

                        and if evil should(?) you speak, soon you may hear worse (to) yourself.[18]

(719-21)

Thus the seven lines of 715-21 speak to social relations generally after those with one’s immedi­ate circle in 707-14. In passing, while West cites Near East precedents for “trea­sure of the ton­gue,” it seems consistent with epic’s quasi-romantic notion of “winged words.”

 

Just say no.

            However, after that we encounter a series of short injunctions, connected by association of ideas but evidently not grouped so thematically that they form actual essays. And after the first aphorism (clearly connected with its antecedent), these are the type of prohibition one often calls “superstitious.” With them one can say that heeding the primordial principle of proportion in a positive way has completely metamorphosed into primordial tabu:

 

                        Don’t be boisterous at a feast with many guests;

                        the most grace and the least cost are from the commonality.

                        Don’t ever at dawn pour a libation of “shining wine for Zeus

                        with unwashed hands,” nor for the other immortals;

                        for (if you do so) they don’t hear you, but yes spit back the prayer.

(vv. 722-6)

(In the Greek, “you” in the last line is singled out with ge, as if the gods listen to someone else.) Wilamowitz’s opinion that 724-59 are to be excised is now generally discredited (West especially argues for them with insight and wit), and the section’s continuity beginning at 724 from 722-3 follows since (Verdenius) one also makes offerings at a feast. Moreover, the quoted phrase clear­­ly alludes to Hector declining to offer “shining wine” (itself a standard expression) with hands dirtied from a battle. (The Iliad, while mythic in concept, is certainly not out of tune with the mores of the times our poem reflects.) Notice that without the unnecessary enjambement of “with unwash­ed hands” into 725 the thought of 724 would simply say don’t sacrifice to Zeus at dawn. Indeed, the segment breaks into a two-line unit and a three-line unit. And as to that, not­with­stan­d­ing all the proposals of parallels between these negations and some part of 286-382, the earlier aphorisms tend to be single-line, with little enjambement, and are positive in thrust.[19]

            Such structural and atmospheric features continue as the poet proceeds to the mystery of the genitalia:

 

                        Don’t micturate standing up turned toward Helios (the sungod):

                        moreover remember, after he sets and before he rises,

                        you should urinate neither on the road nor off going along it,

                        not showing yourself (then either): see, the blessed ones are night ones.

                        When squatting (to do it), one for his part is a devout man, knowing wisdom,

                        or he indeed who is (doing it) before a wall in a “well enclosed courtyard.”

                        Don’t your genitals “bespattered” (pepalagmenos) with semen indoors the house’s

                        hearth near uncover (paraphainemen), but avoid it.

                        Don’t return home from the bad omen of a funeral

                        and beget offspring; rather, (coming) from a feast for the deathless ones.

(vv. 727-36)

                        Don’t urinate into springs; entirely shun it.[20]

(“736a”)

(That is, “don’t uncover semen-bespattered genitals indoors near the house’s hearth.” The con­struction is held together in part by the p- alliteration, each word beginning a second hemistich.)

            West and Richardson cite Oriental parallels for the proper mode of urination here, and the poet lends an ancient character to it with “micturate” for “urinate,” but as usual the actual mood of our poetry gains much from epic language. The treatment of Helios in vv. 727-8 is state­ly, in part because at the beginning of the Odyssey we learn that Poseidon has gone to visit the Ethiopians, some of whom live at the “setting” of “Hyperion” (a shortened patronymic of Heli­os), some at his “rising.” The disrespect “toward” him our poet proscribes parallels hostile act­ions taken or propos­ed against Ajax and Achilles. As to “not showing yourself” (mēd’ apogumnō­theis) in 730, Odys­seus relates that Hermes told him he was pretty much obligated to sleep with Circe, but warned him to extract a promise of safety from her “lest when you are naked (she do you harm)” (mē s’ apogumnōthenta). “Well-enclosed courtyard” (732) is a standard phrase, but especially is the site of the entrapment and slaying of the suitors. Above all, Hector, who would not sacrifice with dirty hands as noted above, was especially concerned because they were “bespat­tered” (733) with blood and gore from battle. We are certainly in the realm of pre-epic tabu in this segment loosely united by urology, but the parallels add to their haunting character.[21]

            From springs we go to rivers:

 

                        Don’t ever the “beautifully-streaming water” of ever-flowing rivers

                        wade across before, now, you pray while looking toward the “beautiful streams,”

                        after “washing your hands” in their much-desired pale waters.

                        One who crosses a river with hands unwashed (of their) pollution

                        (is one) to whom the gods are indignant, and give pain afterwards.[22]

(vv. 737-41)

The first three lines provide a lyrical opening (with standard expressions, one of which recalls in particular Telemachus and Odysseus “washing their hands” in the sea in connection with praying to the gods), but it seems spoiled by the heavy-handed explanatory couplet which breaks up the form of short injunction. The latter thought could easily have been left tacit, and one can sympa­thize with the great Alexandrian scholar Aristarchus in excising 740-1, if not follow him absent actual evidence (his reasons do not survive). And “the gods are indignant” at the idler of 303.[23]

            In any case, the poet next returns to the short form, beginning:

 

                        Don’t at a bounteous feast for the gods from the “five-branch” (i.e., your hand)

                        cut the dry from the green with shining iron (i.e., trim your nails).

(vv. 742-3)

West’s Oriental precedents aside, and apart from the standard “shining iron,” “don’t from the five-branch” (mēd’ apo pentozoio) seems parallel to Nestor telling Telemachus “not if indeed for five years (you stayed here could I tell all that happened)” (oud’ ei pentaetes ge). Continuing:[24]

 

                        Don’t ever place the wine-ladle over the bowl

                        while (people are) drinking, for a baneful “fate is wrought” upon this.

                        Don’t build a house and leave (the roof) unpolished,

                        lest a screeching crow sit on it and croak at you(?).

                        Don’t take up unblessed legged-pots, and from them

                        eat or wash, since also with this is a penalty.[25]

(744-9)

Here we again meet the crow of 679, this time “screeching” and “croaking” instead of just “setting out,” so that indeed it is Rosen’s “bad poet.” The juxtaposition with “unpolished” seems clever, as Rosen implies, although in context one sees that the underlying problem is not disdain for the qua­­l­ity of the voice; rather, we want to avoid getting a bad omen (in the primitive belief that this would also avoid whatever the omen would promise).[26]

            Continuing, inessential enjambement again has unexpected consequences:

 

                        Don’t sit (but really: seat) on “motionless ones” (i.e., tombs), for “this is not better,”

                        a twelve-year old boy: this makes a man unmanly

                        -- nor a twelve-month old; the same is also wrought for this.

(vv. 750-52)

The earliest audience is surprised upon hearing 751, as it was with 415 and perhaps 725 (and by a different mechanism at 442): When one meets the construction ep’ akinētousi kathizein, what is done “on the motionless ones,” one naturally thinks of epi klismoisi kathizon, “they sat on the couch­es” (three times in Homer) or epi klēïsi k., “they sat at the oar-locks” (ten); the fact that kathi­zō is transitive, “seat,” is only learned when an object is stated in the next line, “twelve-year old boy.” (The negation of one of the standard “this is better” expressions, mere “line-fillers” to West, is actually filigree: While delaying the recognition that “seat” is meant, its mock epic cha­racter assists the wit.) Meanwhile, “unmanly” is what it is feared Circe will make Odys­seus upon getting him to bed, although the full phrase “make a man unmanly” (aner’ anēnora poiei) has as an analogue that Telemachus is told to “give your mother to a man” (aneri mētera dounai).[27]

            Then yet another instance of surprise in a second line disrupts the form the poet has been following, and tells us something about Hesiod’s original audience:

 

                        Don’t (but really: let not) wash your (but really: his) body in a woman’s bath water

                        a man; for in time also for this there is a dismal

                        forfeit. Don’t upon encountering burning sacrifices

                        insult them balefully(?): now the god resents this also.[28]

(vv. 753-6)

From 753 alone one thinks the mēde that begins it is “don’t,” i.e., the negation of the infinitive verb “wash” construed as 2d person imperative, but then “a man” is enjambed into the next verse, as the subject of what is in fact a 3d person imperative. The enjambement causes a chain reaction, with “forfeit” in turn pushed into 755 (compare “penalty” at the end of 749) and also more of the next thought into 756 than would have occurred otherwise. What has evidently happened is that Hesiod suddenly realizes women have no choice but to wash in their bath water, and so adds the qualification “man.” Evidently women were part of his audience, in spite of their lowly status in ancient Greece in general and in this poem in particular.

            Finally, with the thought of water still in mind, the poet escalates mēde to another epanaphora to conclude the series:

 

                        Don’t ever into the mouths of rivers “flowing to the sea”

                        nor upon their springs urinate, but very much shun this;

                        nor break wind in them; for see(?) “this is not better.”[29]

(vv. 757-9)

Here the thought of the first two lines appears to cite the beginnings and ends of rivers, with mid­dles understood. Apart from other epic language, allusion to the witch Circe continues: Her maids are water- and wood-nymphs from “springs,” from tree groves, “and from rivers which yes flow to the sea” (potamōn hos t’ eis hala de proreousin; cf. our potamōn halade proreontōn).[30]

            In accord with the inchoate nature of the mystical aspect of reality, the overall section to this point has seemed unstructured in comparison with the musically organized main poem of vv. 383-617, or with the carefully developed sailing::poetry figure of 619-77; nonetheless, we note that an underlying presence in most of the treatment has been the substance water. The “other poem” currently in process begins with it, namely “sailing” upon it; concludes a dis­cus­sion of mys­tical entities in nature here with not issuing human waste products into it; and in the interim speaks of washing in it, etc. In fact water is a primitive symbol in tribal cultures, with aspects both of death and of rebirth. Later, Thales reportedly would base the world on it (quite possibly semi-mystically, notwithstanding the view of him as first rationalist), and Pindar would use it and gold as examples of entities superior in there own spheres, if not as important as heroes in their realm. As for our poem, we recall that earth was to be stained with it to make Pandora (61), and that the people of the just city do not have to sail on it (236-7). Then at 740 we learn that wash­ing is puri­fi­ca­tion, to be done in a ritualistic manner, with ritual’s pre­cise rules (and the wrong kind of water yields the opposite to purification, 753-5). Thus the pri­mor­dial character of this part of the poem matches that of one of the “four elements” of fire, air, water, and earth.[31]

            I also suggest that the “sailing at the wrong time” with which this section began can be seen as purifying oneself (removing poverty via trade) improperly, thus likely to be disastrous.

 

Don’t run afoul of the social mystery either.

            But the poet is not quite done:

 

                        Do thus -- and avoid (true imperative) dread rumor (or: Rumor?) from mortals;

                        for yes rumor (phēmē) is bad, on the one hand rising lightly

                        very easily; on the other, tiresome to bear, and difficult to put away:

                        no report (phēmē) entirely disappears, when many

                        people report it (phēmizousi); now this (or: it itself?) too is some god.[32]

(vv. 760-4)

That is to say, there are several mysterious forces in nature, and their proper treatment just stat­ed is summarized with “do thus,” as the social injunctions of 286-380 were summarized at 382. How­ever, perhaps recalling that section by virtue of using the phrase, the poet is reminded that there is at least one social force which is mysterious. He introduces it by way of an aside gover­n­ed by the stronger true imperative (like not sparing the dog-food at 604), albeit he then expands to explain the point. This force comes from “mortals,” as opposed to the immortal pre­sences res­ponsible for punishing a man who bathes wrongly, etc. (the poet could easily have said it comes from “men” if he did not want such a counterposition). This “rumor” which is “some­thing like a) god” (i.e., phēmē approaches Pheme) deserves to be included in the poetry of the dark side, and is given insightful treatment. (Thus later, Aeschylus will have Agamem­non say that “phēmē utter­ed by the people is a strong force,” while Vergil will speak of Fama as growing stronger as she tra­vels among the people.) In giving it, our poet may make use of two parallels West notes: Aga­mem­non is lord over “many/ people” in two places, and Pandarus suspects “now it is some god” which that his defeat. Another striking nuance arises from comparing “no report entirely disap­pears” (phēmē d’ ou tis pampan apollutai) to Alcinous asking Odysseus his name, “for indeed no one is entirely nameless” (ou men gar tis pampan anōnumos).[33]

            It is a shadowy question whether or not phēmē is a spirit with a name like “Odysseus,” but that is in accord with the point that rumor, while not solid fact, mimics it enough to be dangerous. Thus the poet concludes his “other poem” with a warning in its characteristic tone deriving from ancient considerations, but now dealing with his primary arena of concern, con­tem­porary life. He might have added others, but is content to remind us of our proper focus.

 

            By way of conclusion, as noted earlier others have said that the later portion of the sec­tion is thematically a question of tradition as opposed to the contemporary thrust of vv. 298-382. But however that may be, and apart from the problems of seeing the sections as parallel noted during the course of this chapter, in terms of poetic imagery it is more like darkness versus light (or water versus earth). It is noteworthy that the poet “does not praise” this “other sailing” (682-3; cf. 678), unlike the attitude one detects in the earlier injunctions. Indeed, as the positive idea of observing due measure is subtly but resolutely supplanted by the negative sphere of tabu, one senses that he would much rather speak of natural forces on the order of the North Wind and of relatively clear­cut gods such as Zeus, for all their formidability and unpredictability at times, than inarticu­la­ble agencies, be these the primordial punishers of men who wash in women’s bath wat­er or the “something like a god” entities associated with human intercourse. But if we are to be fulfilled he must teach us not only the mind of Zeus (661), but also at least some sense of the more occult powers who were in the world prior to the latter’s rise to hegemony described in the Theogony, and who are still here in a manner which, if he thought about the question as such (as he probably has not), he would say contradicts the hegemony.[34]

            Still, while the poem might seem formally complete with this venture into the occult, could one really stop it on so negative a note?[35]  (to Chap. 10)

 

NOTES: