There are a few things one can be certain of when approaching classical literature. First, and something always to keep in mind, is that our picture of it is vastly incomplete. Sophocles wrote upwards of one hundred plays, of which we have just seven. The Hellenistic scholar and author Apollonius of Rhodes wrote a variety of works, but we possess only his Argonautica. Ennius, one of two key figures in the creation of a Latin literature, has come down to us in mere fragments. And the examples abound. It’s a lamentable but true circumstance that we lack so much of what was written.
Another surety about classical literature is that it had its ups and downs — there were phenomenal creative achievements as well as flops and failures. And a third given is that, after a life of some 2,500 years, the range of commentary and opinion on the likes of Homer and Sophocles, Cicero and Virgil, and a great many others, is enormous. From Aristotle in the 4th century BC to Freud in the 20th, different ages and minds have given us a plethora of ways to approach the literature of ancient Greece and Rome.
In Classical Literature: An Epic Journey from Homer to Virgil and Beyond, Richard Jenkyns touches on all of these matters along with providing summaries and analyses for some of classical literature’s most seminal works. From this standpoint, it’s fairly standard stuff. But there’s an additional element which turns it into a generally engaging (if sometimes uneven) book: highly spirited opinion on every page.
A longtime academic in Oxford’s classics department, Richard Jenkyns is no stranger to writing about ancient literature — and it shows. This book has the traits of a thoroughly self-possessed thinker: unabashedly assertive and full of strongly worded declarations about the merits — and demerits — of certain authors and styles. But it also, fortunately, has a welcoming tone which invites general readers into this fascinating — and incalculably influential — literary world.
For the purposes of this book, it’s a world that begins with Homer and ends in the latter half of the second century AD, with Apuleius. It’s a lot of ground to cover, but one of Jenkyns’ strengths is informing readers what they need to know minus the baggage of scholarly details. Case in point: The star of the first chapter, Homer, may not have been one singular individual, but aside from laying out some evidence for and against this view, Jenkyns keeps readers focused on the poetic power to be found in the Iliad and the Odyssey.
These two epics, he writes, “assume[d] a commanding cultural authority,” and one that was “the common possession of the Greeks.” As he goes on to show, these stories — and the styles bound up with them — would infuse minds far and beyond just Greeks. “Latin literature,” writes Jenkyns later in the book, “…was written beneath the looming presence of the Greek achievement.”
Among the many things that Jenkyns proffers about the Homeric epics is that despite their vast differences — one being concerned primarily with an individual’s wrath, the other with matters of home and hospitality — they do not each present “a different moral universe.” Instead, “the difference is rather a matter of the story that each is. Both poems are, in a sense, experiments in feeling.”
Experimentation is something that runs heavily throughout the grand narrative of classical literature. Inevitably, then, so too is convention — and the interaction between these often produced highly interesting results.
Sappho, a lyric poet of the late 7th century, worked with the standard forms of the day but also developed, and very possibly invented, a new one: the so-called sapphic stanza. A contemporary of hers, Alcaeus, also gave us the name of a stanza (one which the Latin poet Horace would later make much use of). Between Sappho and Alcaeus, Jenkyns finds the former to be the much superior poet; he describes her art as “purely poetry” and her verses as “simply themselves” — an artistic expression which “aspires with an unusual fullness.”
This level of talent, innovation, and artistic achievement would continue to show itself in abundance throughout the Greek world in the 6th and 5th centuries, particularly in Athens.
Aeschylus, the first of Athens’ three major tragedians, not only introduced the second actor on stage but also frequently composed his plays as trilogies, “which was not the general practice.” The most famous of these is the Oresteia. Centered around the aftermath of Agamemnon’s decision to sacrifice his daughter, it is a work full of stark actions and emotional ups and downs, sometimes leading readers to think narrowly in terms of moral absolutes. But Jenkyns, in discussion of Agamemnon’s harrowing decision, suggests that, contra some views, “surely sympathy is the morally mature response.”
Another innovator of this time, coming later in the century and working in a different genre, was Thucydides. The great historian of the Peloponnesian War offered sharp, scientific, and penetrating analyses — ones which, significantly, involved the “bold step of removing the gods entirely from history.” Jenkyns emphasizes this monumental change and praises Thucydides for many other qualities. (Sallust and Livy, two Roman historians discussed later in the book — the former a great admirer of the Athenian historian — receive quite little praise, and one may feel that Jenkyns has not highlighted some of their unique strengths in the way that he has here for Thucydides.)
The defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War makes for an intriguing turning point in the narrative of classical literature. Remarkably, it was not one of decline — but it did signal a major shift. Philosophy and rhetoric soared while poets began to experience a malaise which would infect fellow poets for centuries to come. As Jenkyns puts it, “Perhaps for the first time the burden of the past was now becoming a theme for poetry.”
Jenkyns covers the major philosophers and rhetoricians of the 4th century with a rather tedious overview, followed by a slightly more interesting chapter on the major Hellenistic authors. One of the downsides of this book is that Jenkyns’ romp through classical literature — while sometimes lively — isn’t always particularly enriching. Much ground is covered, but often at the expense of not entirely helpful commentary.
But Jenkyns’ verve and insights do sparkle in some discussions, particularly as he makes his way to the birth of Latin literature. By the time we arrive at Lucretius, Catullus, and Virgil, it will be clear to nearly any reader that Jenkyns is now passionately engaging with some of his all-time favorite poets.
Virgil gets his own separate chapter, in which Jenkyns has much to say about the greatest of all Latin bards. It’s generally a pleasure to read, which makes it all the more unfortunate that other parts of the book do not contain the same level of energy, inquisitiveness, and lust for engaging with literature. For while Virgil gets lavish praise and close attention — much of it certainly warranted — Jenkyns’ cannon of approbation quickly runs out of powder when he turns to the writers of the Silver Age. With few exceptions, he seems utterly unenthralled with these authors.
To be fair, what drives this book from the beginning is Jenkyns’ own personal voice — learned, lively, opinionated. And there are indeed many times when he is quite fun to listen to. But the flipside of this is that when he is cursory or disinterested, the period of literature under discussion suffers rather unfairly. It is disappointing, then, that Jenkyns couldn’t muster up a more balanced presentation of certain 1st-century AD authors like Seneca, Statius, and Lucan, even if he doesn’t find in them a level of talent anywhere near approaching that of the giants — or his favorites.
That said, this is still a good book. And if we return to his aims in the preface, he has in fact hit his mark fairly well. But eager readers would be wise to supplement Jenkyns’ own views with those of others found in similar introductory books.
Spectatio 