René Nünlist
The two words that, from a modern perspective, might look like a pair of opposing terms were in fact perfectly compatible for the Greeks. From the last decades of the fifth century BCE onwards, the Greeks were both hearers and, at the same time, readers – because they normally read aloud. True, traces of silent reading in antiquity have been discovered, but it is misleading to conclude that “the phenomenon of reading itself is fundamentally the same in modern and in ancient culture” (Gavrilov 1997, 69). At least two basic differences speak against such an equation. Firstly, silent reading did not supersede reading aloud, which remained common practice throughout antiquity. Secondly, the ancients were in the habit of having literature read to them (Busch 2002). The recognition of how important and widespread this habit was exposes as topical an alleged common-sense argument that has been put forward in favor of widespread silent reading: “common sense rebels against the idea that scholarly readers, for example, did not develop a technique of silent, faster reading” (Knox 1968, 421). But a scholarly reader like Pliny the Elder had his lector read to him whenever there was a chance, during meals, when taking a bath, etc. (Plin. ep. 3.5; Johnson 2010, 14). Different times have different means to cope with large amounts of text. (Incidentally, in the case of one of the scholarly readers that Knox mentions exempli gratia, the great Alexandrian critic Aristarchus, we even know the name of the lector, Poseidonius: ∑ A Il. 17.75a Nic.) While there is no reason to maintain that the Greeks did not or even could not (conceptually) read silently, the fact remains that it was the exception rather than the rule. Even as readers, they did not stop being hearers, which also means that literature was to them a fundamentally acoustic phenomenon. No surprise, then, that the verb akouô (lit. “to hear, listen”) regularly means “to read” (Schenkeveld 1992). As late an author as Lucian (second century CE) tellingly instructs his addressee to read the historiographers critically by “opening his ears” (Quomodo hist. conscr. 7).
The date given above for the transitional period, the last decades of the fifth century BCE, is determined, among other things, by the arrival of what has been called, with a mild anachronism, “book trade” (Turner 1952). Other indicators include the increasing representation of bookrolls in visual arts (esp. in school scenes) or the famous passage from Aristophanes’ Frogs (52–3, 405 BCE) in which Dionysus reports that he read Euripides’ Andromeda to himself. The combined evidence shows that the book was no longer considered a mere “repository,” the main purpose of which was the preservation of the compositions. Instead it became increasingly important for their reception too. (Here and in what follows “reception” designates the act of reading/hearing literature.)
Previously, the reception of literature had been completely aural (i.e. textless). Whether the specific composition had come into existence assisted by the means of writing (a question that remains hotly debated among modern scholars, at least as far as Homeric poetry is concerned), did not matter much from the point of view of reception. Literature was, in any case, being performed in order to be listened to, which is why “early Greek literature” is, strictly speaking, a contradiction in terms. Even poets who no doubt composed their songs with the help of a pen or scribe (e.g. Pindar) make a point of inserting what has been described as the device of feigned orality (e.g. Scodel 1996). It is thus indicative of the expected mode of reception too, difficult as this might be to comprehend for modern readers who struggle with Pindar’s odes.
The notion of the book or written text to be read (out) from brought about a change, but it does not mark an actual watershed. The transition appears to have been comparatively slow. It would take another century or so until, in Hellenistic times, the book was finally established as an indispensable component of the “culture industry.” Multiple modes of reception coexisted, since, for instance, live performances continued. What is more, from the viewpoint of the receivers, it did not make much of a difference whether a composition was performed or read to them (not least because the latter included dramatic delivery, see below). To have literature read to oneself remained, to repeat, common practice also through the “bookish” Hellenistic era and beyond. It should, however, be added that, still in Hellenistic times, literary texts start toying with their visual side too, for instance, in the form of acrostichs (e.g. Aratus Phaen. 783–7) or carmina figurata (Luz 2010; cf. Höschele, ch. 12, 201–2 in this volume). Such features were obviously lost on those who did not have visual access to the text.
Needless to say, the above emphasis on the acoustic side of literature is more than a mere technicality. The common practice of listening to literature no doubt enabled ancient audiences to notice, appreciate and evaluate all those phenomena that are much better caught by the ear than by the eye: meter or, in prose, the rhythm of the clausulae, prosody, hiatus and its avoidance, (differences in) dialect, various types of literary rhetoric (alliteration, assonance, anaphora, etc.). This ability was further enhanced by the fact that the Greeks did not simply learn how to read a text, but how to deliver it. The oldest surviving Greek grammar, attributed to Aristarchus’s pupil Dionysius Thrax, divides its subject into six parts, of which reading (anagnôsis) is the first:
By reading is meant the faultless pronunciation of the works of poets or prose writers. When reading, proper attention must be given to style of delivery, to the prosodic features (i.e. accents etc.), and to the correct division of the utterance. From the style of delivery we perceive the true value of the piece, from the prosodic features the art of its construction, and from correct division the overall sense. So that we may read tragedy in a heroic style, comedy in a style suited to everyday life, elegy in plaintive tones, epic vigorously, lyric harmoniously, and laments in a subdued and mournful way. Unless the rules are carefully observed, the true value of the poetry is lost, and the reader’s whole approach becomes subject to ridicule (Dion. Thrax, ch. 2, trans. Kemp).
The attribution of the grammar to Dionysius is disputed among scholars, but the quotation comes from the opening chapters, which are considered genuine by many: Lallot 2003, 25; cf. Fögen, ch. 17, 276–7 in this volume. Similar instructions can be found elsewhere: e.g. Quintilian 2.5: on Greek schools.
The quoted passage shows that the average Greek reader was able to read out a text and deliver it in a lively style that suited the particular genre and was probably not too different from the performance of a rhapsode, an actor or an epideictic orator. The audience, on the other hand, semi- and illiterate members perhaps included, were accustomed to listening to a performance-like reading of literary texts with accurate word division and correctly pronounced accentuation.
The importance of these factors can explain why an actor’s mishap could be turned into a joke. When performing Euripides’ Orestes (408 BCE), the actor Hegelochus accidentally mispronounced the word galên’ (with acute accent on the êta and elision at the end) as galên (with circumflex on the êta and simple word end after nu). The seemingly trivial error did not go unnoticed because it meant that Orestes, awaking after a fit of madness, said “after the storm waves I once more see a weasel” instead of “calm” (Or. 279). The mistake was memorable enough for Aristophanes to make fun of it three years later (Ran. 303–4), as did other comedians (Sannyrio F 8 PCG, Strattis F 1 and 63 PCG).
This undiminished focus on the acoustic side of literature also helps explain a phenomenon that otherwise might remain curious or downright odd. Literary experiments such as that of the sixth-century poet Lasus of Hermione, who wrote an entire poem without the letter sigma because he did not like its sound (F 704 PMG, cf. F trag. adesp. 655 TrGF 2), paved the way for a development that culminated in Hellenistic times in the theories of the so-called “euphonists”. As the name indicates, their main concern was the sound of literature, which to them was as important as content or, in the theory’s extremest form, even more important than content (Janko 2000; 2011). It is not clear (pace Janko 2011, 229) to what extent these theories, especially in their extreme form, were shared by critics and readers outside the circle of euphonists, who were by no means in agreement with each other. The polemic account of Philodemus, to whom we owe our knowledge about the euphonists, may well give a distorted impression of the situation among Hellenistic critics in general, about whose works we know frustratingly little. Be that as it may, the main point to be made here is that euphonic considerations were never far from a Greek reader’s mind in general.
The contributions to a summary “genre” such as companions are bound to make generalizations, due, not least, to the limited space. In the present case, this tendency is aggravated by the regrettable but irremediable fact that ancient sources on reading are scarce and often late (i.e. Roman and/or of the Imperial era). Most of the evidence on which accounts of reading in modern times to no small degree rest (cognitive science, empirical studies, contemporary reports, diaries, etc.) is simply not available. As a general rule, the task becomes the more difficult the further back we go in time. For instance, there is no first-hand evidence on who attended Homer’s performances or how they reacted to it. Later sources, on the other hand, if they exist at all, can always be liable to anachronistic distortions. If they cannot be checked against other sources, the question arises to what extent their evidence can be deemed trustworthy. The picture becomes slightly clearer for literature that was produced in subsequent centuries (e.g. classical tragedy or comedy), due to the gradual accumulation of relevant source material. There is, however, no linear increase of clarity or the like. The ongoing discussion on who read (or was meant to read) the novel and to what purpose (Bowie 1994, Holzberg 2006, 52–8) shows that even the readership of a, by Greek standards, late genre can completely elude us.
In the absence of “hard facts,” the modern scholar must look for alternatives, in spite of their limited explanatory power. The following types of source are worth singling out (the list makes no pretence to completeness): (1) The immanent poetics, that is, the “program” that literary texts proclaim in more or less veiled language (e.g. figuratively, implicitly, allusively), can contain information regarding the envisaged reception (example: the feigned orality device mentioned above). More specifically, (2) the implied reader, that is, a (hypothetical) reconstruction of the receiver that any given text presupposes (example: the implied reader of Hesiod’s Theogony is expected to share the positive view of Zeus’s supremacy). The implied reader is not the same as (3) the narratee, that is, the “person” to whom the relevant composition is “expressly addressed” (e.g. Perses in Hesiod’s Works and Days or the indeterminate “you” in Homer: Il. 4.223, etc.). Neither the implied reader nor the narratee is identical with the historical reader, but the two former can help us picture the latter. (4) Internal audiences: texts sometimes present or tell of situations in which an audience listen to literature (Example: in the Odyssey the Phaeacians listen and react to Demodocus’s songs). (5) The response of actual readers, either explicitly (e.g. notes, comments, quotations) or implicitly (e.g. allusions). Oftentimes these readers are themselves authors (example: Simonides approvingly quotes Homer’s simile of the leaves: F 19 IEG).
Meticulous collection of the relevant data and careful analysis form the basis of the attempt to reconstruct the actual, historical, contemporary readers, which, needless to say, must be done separately for each text (and is thus impossible in the present context). We should, however, remain aware of the fact that, in spite of our efforts, such a reconstruction will always be hypothetical and no more than an approximation. The wide range of answers that are given in modern scholarship to fundamental questions such as “which part of the Athenian population attended dramatic performances?” (e.g. Goldhill 1997) or “did the audience understand a play like Aristophanes’ Birds as a concealed warning?” (e.g. Sommerstein 1987, 3–5) perfectly illustrate the difficulty of the task and the ultimate uncertainty of the proposed results.
It is also important to keep in mind that several of the sources mentioned above are liable to bias and distortion, which cautions against uncritically taking them at face value. As a general rule, authors will be reluctant to presuppose or describe an audience that is hostile, bored or stupid, unless, of course, this is the very point, for instance, in comedy or satire. Likewise, the alleged hostility of the audience can be a rhetorical device to make the author’s task appear even more difficult (e.g. in Dio Chrysostom’s Trojan Oration [or. 11]). Rhetoric also seems to be at stake when authors contrast two types of audience, as, for example, Thucydides does in the famous chapter on method.
And it may well be that my history will seem less easy to read because of the absence in it of the romantic element. It will be enough for me, however, if these words of mine are judged useful by those who want to understand clearly the events which happened in the past and which (human nature being what it is) will, at some time or other and in much the same ways, be repeated in the future. My work is not a piece of writing designed to meet the taste of an immediate public, but was done to last for ever
(1.22, trans. Warner).
This passage is generally taken as an indication that Thucydides is writing for critical readers and thus a small elite audience (e.g. Yunis 2003b ). This may well be right, but are we truly to believe that other readers, when reaching the quoted passage, muttered “Oh, this is not meant for me” and put down the bookroll or walked away from the reading? Is the less sophisticated audience not always that of the others and thus a foil (e.g. Pind. Ol. 2.83–6)? A similar reservation may well apply to other texts which are often said to have a decidedly elitist outlook and to strive for the cohesion of a limited group (e.g. the “ivory tower” of learned Hellenistic poets such as Callimachus: see most recently Strootman 2010, 44–5).
Put more generally, one wonders whether the body of ancient readers was indeed substantially more uniform than that of their modern counterparts. At the very least, there must have been various degrees of, to name only two, proficiency and sophistication. (Less experienced readers were not automatically excluded due to the reading habits described above.) Once again we classicists are trapped by the fact that we almost never get to hear the voice of the non-elite members of Greek society, at least not directly. Moreover, even one and the same individual could easily adopt different “reception attitudes” depending on the specific occasion or purpose (slow vs. fast reading, intensive vs. extensive, once vs. several times, alone vs. in a group, private vs. public, naive vs. critical, earnestly vs. for entertainment, and so on).
In our attempt to get a hold on the historical reader of a text, we had better not confuse him with the ideal reader. The fact, for instance, that such a critical spirit as Thucydides had no doubts about the historicity of the Trojan war is a healthy reminder. At any rate, it would be rash a priori to assume that alternatives or exceptions did not exist (as we saw above in the case of silent reading).
These qualifications notwithstanding, it is possible to determine some general trends, for instance, regarding the purpose of reading literature. “Poets aim either to do good or to give pleasure” (aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae). Horace’s famous line (Ars poetica 333) presents in a nutshell the two poles of a spectrum that occurs with regular frequency in one form or the other. “Instruction and entertainment” encompasses a good number of the answers that in the course of time were given to the implicit question “why read literature?”. The Homeric epics already make it clear that one of the bard’s main tasks was “to entertain” (terpein, e.g. Od. 17.385). And the “happiness” or “joy” (euphrosunê) that host and guests alike feel during a felicitous dinner party depends to no small degree on the performance of poetry (Od. 9.3–10). Hesiod’s poetry has an unmistakably didactic agenda (cf. Heraclitus DK 22 B 57), the Presocratic philosopher Xenophanes of Colophon declared “from the beginning all mortals have learned from Homer” (DK 21 B 10), and so on. What type of “instruction” or “entertainment” exactly is meant and how these goals are achieved in each case varies, of course, a great deal depending on whom we take as our witness. Whether it is Gorgias, Plato or Aristotle who speaks of the “pleasure” of poetry makes a big difference. The picture gets even more complicated when these witnesses are asked whether or not a particular text has achieved its goals. For Pindar (Isth. 3/4.55–7) and Aristophanes’ “Aeschylus” (Ran. 1034) Homer and his poetry were “divine” (theios), for Heraclitus (DK 22 B 42) he deserved the whip; but such differences are only to be expected. What is, perhaps, more surprising from today’s perspective is the extent to which Greek readers actually agree on the basic principle that instruction and entertainment are in fact desirable goals of literature. The latter is mostly unproblematic for modern readers too, but they are less likely to welcome instruction as an unquestionable goal, certainly not with the moral undertones that Greeks are accustomed to giving it. “It is a utilitarian view of literature … which predominated in antiquity” (Hunter 2009, 8). Such a view is bound to have many modern readers raise their eyebrows because they tend to think of literature in non-utilitarian terms.
Another aspect that is worth considering is the physical appearance of books. There was an unmistakable attempt to produce “editions” of literary texts that were aesthetically appealing (e.g. neat scripts, wide margins), even including features that, in a way, made them less user-friendly. A good example is the so-called scriptio continua, that is, the absence of word division, which required readers to learn how to recognize where words ended in order to deliver the text properly (see above). The scarcity of other lectional signs (accents, breathings, “quotation marks,” or, in dramatic texts and dialogues, identification of speakers, etc.) was probably meant to contribute to the same aesthetic goal (Johnson 2010, 17–22). The drawn picture represents the appearance of literary texts from Hellenistic times onwards. The period that pre-dates the oldest preserved papyri is more difficult to assess because artistic representations (e.g. on vases) are not sufficiently reliable as a guide (esp. for specific details such as script, margins, etc., which are likely to have been influenced by the needs and technical possibilities of the artist). It is, however, unlikely that pre-Hellenistic books looked substantially different. The combined evidence points to an object of considerable prestige – and cost. Socrates’ often-quoted dig at Anaxagoras that his works can be bought at the price of one drachma (Plat. Apol. 26e) does not testify to the existence of books that were really cheap. At the time, one drachma was a full day’s wage for a skilled worker, who could not count on getting hired every day. Jurors – with the same problem – received three obols (= half a drachma) per day. One wonders how many of them, if any, will have been ready to spend that money on a book, even if its price was comparatively low (cf. Hose, ch. 15, pp. 239–40 in this volume). When the chorus of Aristophanes’ Frogs praises the audience that they are on top of things because “every one of them has a book” (1114), this must be comic exaggeration (Sommerstein 1996, 256, with the then appropriate analogy “They’re all on the Internet”).
The passage is also instructive because the possession of books is seen as a mark of excellence and intelligence. Some 170 lines earlier in the play (Ran. 943), Aristophanes, with his usual versatility, exploited the same phenomenon for what by now has become the stereotype of the bookworm who is out of touch with reality (cf. also F 506 PCG). The target is Euripides, who not only owned many books (Ran. 1409) but also had a chorus express the wish that old age might give them the peace and leisure to read books (Eur. F 369.6 TrGF 5, Sommerstein 1996, 239).
It is no coincidence that the first part of this chapter contains several references to Aristophanes’ Frogs. This play is rightly considered a comparatively early and important witness of ancient literary criticism (most recently Halliwell 2012), a topic to which we now turn.
Scholars are, needless to say, a particular type of reader, but what makes a scholar a scholar? “Scholarship is the art of understanding, explaining, and restoring the literary tradition.” This often-quoted definition, which is the opening sentence of Pfeiffer’s masterly History of Classical Scholarship ( 1968 , 3), would in this truncated form be of limited value because the three goals are as old as literature itself. In fact, Pfeiffer shows this himself in the first part of his book. The question is rather, as his second sentence indicates, when and, perhaps more importantly, how scholarship became “a separate intellectual discipline.” Pfeiffer himself famously put the decisive step between Aristotle and the Hellenistic scholar-poets because, to his mind, the latter had a decidedly anti-Aristotelian agenda. Instead of rehearsing his argument and the reaction it provoked, it will perhaps be better to describe the factors that enable scholarship and enhance the possibilities of those who intend to pursue it.
Scholars must be well-read because this will help them “understand, explain, and restore” the text under consideration. Each new reading will gain from all previous readings. This process is, in principle, unlimited because reading appears to be one of those activities that do not wear off by excessive “use”. From their early schooldays onwards, Greeks were accustomed to learning large chunks of poetry by heart. Future scholars will have laid in school the basis on which they built in their subsequent careers by steadily expanding the repertoire of familiar texts. In an age that has unlimited access to internet-based search engines, it is important to remind ourselves that ancient scholars were equipped with a prodigious memory. This is another way of saying that even the scholars who worked at the famous library in Alexandria with its thousands of bookrolls (the exact number is disputed: Stephens 2010, 55), regularly relied on their memories. An anecdote about Aristophanes of Byzantium (T 17 in Slater 1986; Pfeiffer 1968, 191), whether apocryphal or not, nicely catches the spirit. His stupendous memory enabled him to convict contestants at a public literary competition of plagiarism. He then went to the library and proved his allegation by opening countless books. Remembering and looking up go hand in hand and reinforce each other.
The anecdote also testifies to the obvious importance of a big library or, put differently, easy access to large numbers of books. Apart from the well-known Hellenistic libraries in Alexandria or Pergamon, it is also worth remembering that Aristotle was not only the owner of the largest library of the time, but also earned himself the nickname “reader” (anagnôstês) among his peers in Plato’s Academy (Blum 1977, 45 = 1991, 22), which, under these particular circumstances, points to a truly voracious reader (on Euripides’ books see above).
The anecdote about Aristophanes of Byzantium is indicative not only of the possibility but also the urge to prove one’s point and document it. (This is the scholarly side of what students of Hellenistic poetry have dubbed the “Alexandrian footnote”: Hinds 1998, 1–5.) Scholarship has a lot to do with Wissenschaftlichkeit: scholars strive for a type of research that is rooted in sound methodology. They attempt to catch all the relevant examples (or at least a representatively large sample). They try to discern a general rule or pattern in the data and cope with apparent or real exceptions. They do so by digging deep into a large body of material, both immediately relevant and more off the beaten track or even arcane (e.g. unique mythological variants or obscure customs in remote places). Eventually, scholars present their findings in a way that is meant to prove their point and at the same time enables their readers (or hearers) to follow the argument. These in turn either agree or object and try to substantiate their counter-argument, which can lead to a scholarly debate (polemics play a more than marginal role in scholarship). Taken together, we get a list of catchwords such as systematic approach, professionalism, verifiability, scholarly exchange with colleagues, generous resources, long hours of work, etc.
While it would be absurd to deny that any of this existed in pre-Hellenistic times (scholarship is not the kind of activity that is suddenly “discovered,” for specific examples see below), it is true that the Ptolemies created research conditions in Alexandria that were far superior even to those in the former center of the intellectual world, Athens. In their large-scale attempt to collect and restore the entire Greek heritage, the Ptolemies were willing to spend a fortune in order to bring to Alexandria both the relevant materials and the “international” experts who were best suited to do the job, which in turn attracted other intelligent people. They thus created an environment that was particularly amenable to all kinds of intellectual activity, which led to masses of tangible results (primary texts [old and new] and secondary literature; much to our chagrin, most of them are lost today). The truism “size matters” plays a role here because the Alexandrian scholars had an unprecedented number of texts at their disposal, which at the same time forced them to find means to cope with it. Some of their “inventions” should probably be read against this backdrop. A good example is Callimachus’s Pinakes (“tables”). Even though it may have served as a kind of library catalogue too, the Pinakes aspired to much more. The entire body of Greek literature was registered and divided into classes. Several of them were identical with established literary genres such as epic, tragedy or comedy. Some categories (esp. lyric) were divided into sub-genres. Callimachus’s concern for useability transpires from the fact that the sequence of authors within each unit was alphabetical. From today’s perspective, this is an obvious choice, but we must bear in mind that alphabetization was a relatively new thing and far from being “obvious.” (The first librarian and Homeric scholar Zenodotus has a fair chance of being the “inventor” of alphabetization. In any case his glossary was arranged alphabetically: Pfeiffer 1968, 115.) Each entry also contained biographical information on the specific author, followed by an alphabetical (?) list of his or her works. The list indicated cases of doubtful authenticity and works that were no longer extant. A quotation of the opening line (incipit) helped identify the work in addition to its title(s), which could be more recent and thus not necessarily “authentic.” The entry also gave the work’s length (in number of lines, i.e. cost). The Pinakes was not a complete novelty in that it took some of its principles from the lists of the victors in dramatic competitions which Aristotle had compiled (didaskaliai; Blum 1977 = 1991).
The goal of restoring the entire Greek heritage created a need not simply for texts but, more specifically, for good, reliable texts. The Hellenistic scholars, though clearly not the first generation of editors, also began refining the business of editing texts. This said, the similarities between ancient and modern principles of textual criticism should perhaps not be exaggerated. In recent years, doubts have been raised (e.g. West 2001, 33–45) whether, for example, ancient textual critics truly made a systematic collation (i.e. comparison) of different manuscripts in the style developed in the nineteenth century. Still, the systematization and professionalization that are so typical of this era had an impact on textual criticism too, in that scholars were keen to avoid what they considered random editorial decisions and replace them by principles that were sound and led to verifiable results.
Literary texts in general and the Homeric epics in particular were omnipresent in Greek society. (The widespread comparison of Homer as the “bible of the Greeks” is valid as long as we keep in mind that Homer is not a religious text.) The intervening years had, however, left their mark, in that Homeric Greek became increasingly difficult to understand due to archaic words (semantics), obsolete forms (morphology), ambiguous passages, unfamiliar concepts, etc. Problems like these must have arisen at an early stage. The early reciters of epic poetry, the rhapsodes (not to be confused with the original singers who practiced “composition-in-performance”), regularly supported their performance by means of additional comments and explanations. These will have contained the seeds of literary criticism. The Sophists were by no means indifferent to literature. Protagoras, for example, discussed questions of narrative composition (DK 80 A 30 = ∑ pap. Il. 21.240, p. 101 Erbse). Texts such as Aristotle’s Homeric Problems (fragments only) indicate that a kind of special literature had begun developing in the form of monographs (sungrammata) that were devoted to particular problems of literary criticism. The difference in Hellenistic times is again more one of degree than kind, in that both the number of such monographs and the specialization of their topics grew noticeably. Things are different with another scholarly format that is still common today and in all likelihood represents a Hellenistic innovation: the running commentary, which explains the text line by line. Word lists that follow the sequence of the text may well have existed before, but running commentaries, which are a much more comprehensive and sophisticated aid to the reader, are not attested before Hellenistic times.
In spite of the professionalization that has been described above as characteristic of Hellenistic scholarship, the specific domain of literary criticism never became recognized as a field of its own. Nor were there attempts to delimit or define the task of a literary critic. Instead the subject that we call “literary criticism” remained, in antiquity, located in a largely undefined grey zone that overlaps with grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, and education. “Ancient literary criticism” is in essence a modern construct, which does not mean that it is a phantom. It does mean, however, that a clear delimitation must not be expected, not least because the persons concerned will not assist us.
As a final step it will be useful to review some of the more important findings and tenets of ancient literary criticism, adding to what has already been said above. For the sake of clarity, each item in the subsequent list is put in the form of a catchy phrase which is then explained and illustrated. These phrases almost never have an immediate equivalent in the relevant ancient sources. Their purpose is to bring out the gist of the matter without, however, forcing the ancient witnesses into saying things they did not actually say, if only indirectly. Moreover, it will be obvious that no individual scholar would have subscribed to all these tenets. The idea is to give an impression of the spectrum of questions that ancient literary critics found worth addressing. My discussions are kept very brief because this in turn allows to show the wide range of topics, which is another aspect of scholarship. The list gives preference to general topics and does not include questions that refer to an individual poet or genre.
and these elements (sc. reversal and recognition) should emerge from the very structure of the plot [and not from outside], so that they ensue from the preceding events by necessity or probability; as it makes a great difference whether things happen because of, or only after, their antecedents
(Arist. Poet. 1452a18–21, trans. Halliwell).
Aristotle’s notion that each event should not simply be preceded but actually motivated by a previous event met with approval among subsequent critics, who repeatedly comment on how the event X motivates the event Y. Taken together, these notes testify to a special interest in plots that are well-motivated and thus coherent. The quotation also documents the widespread concern for plausibility.
The bibliography on (ancient) reading is enormous. The following titles can serve as a starting-point (incl. relevant bibliography): the recent collection of essays by Johnson and Parker 2009 (incl. the Bibliographical Essay by Werner 2009, focusing on the last 20 years, with an extensive bibliography on pp. 352–82), Del Corso 2005, Johnson 2010. General histories of reading such as Cavallo and Chartier 1999 tend to treat antiquity en passant. Manguel’s popular book A History of Reading (1996), though inspiring, is unreliable as far as antiquity is concerned. For the cognitive side of reading see the collection of essays by Olson and Torrance 2009. On ancient literacy see Harris 1989, Thomas 1989, 1992, 2009.
On Ptolemaic Alexandria see Pfeiffer 1968, Fraser 1972, Jacob and de Polignac 1992, Stephens 2010; on Callimachus’s Pinakes specifically see Pfeiffer (1968, 127–34), Blum 1977 (readers are advised to use the German original; the English translation (1991) is marred by numerous errors and oddly curtails the footnotes).
On the prehistory of scholarship and literary criticism see Radermacher 1951 (collection of fragments of pre-Aristotelian poetics), Lanata 1963 (annotated edition of fragments of pre-Platonic poetics), Pfeiffer 1968 (part one), Harriott 1969, O’Sullivan 1992, Nünlist 1998, Ford 2002, Ledbetter 2003. On (the history of) scholarship itself see Pfeiffer 1968 (Part 2), Montanari 1994, Dickey 2007, Montanari and Pagani 2011. On ancient literary criticism specifically see Atkins 1934, Grube 1965, Russell 1981/1995, Meijering 1987, Kennedy 1989, Abbenes, Slings, and Sluiter 1995, Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004, 449–61), de Jonge 2008, Hunter 2009, Nünlist 2009, Gutzwiller 2010, Halliwell 2012. These works will also point the way to secondary literature on individual critics and topics mentioned in this chapter. The Greekless reader will find a collection of relevant texts on literary criticism in English translation in Russell and Winterbottom 1972.