The Logic of Wrath

When one becomes angry, what is it that one wants at an essential level? One wants to break or to hurt something. Generally, especially if one is prone to “lashing out,” the nearest thing to hurt, is one’s self. Is then the fundamental drive of anger to bring about a pain which has a clarifying and dissipating effect on anger? For if one, for instance, punches a wall while angry, is not one generally met with a feeling of personal pain which leads one to a reflection on the power of pain to affect one’s mind and actions, and often with a feeling of shame at “losing control”? What, then, is the reason or teleology (purpose) of anger? Is the point to act quickly, and without thought, or is it to learn more about one’s self and steel one’s self against that which upsets one? Essentially, does anger exist to give one the power to harm what one does not like or to understand what one does not like in a rational manner so as no longer to be subject to anger?

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Consider it, if one generally simply causes one’s self additional pain and effort while angry, obviously the point of anger is not to be angry. Even the physical or temporal end of anger is clearly not the same as its purpose. Say one punches a wall, or says something “out of left field” and cruel to a friend, or sits and stews in anger after striking out in baseball game and refuses to say “good game” to anyone for several minutes at a time. What, exactly, do these actions accomplish beyond straining or breaking some relationship or another without one’s reason signing off on the action? Nothing beyond offering one the opportunity to “let the anger pass.” Therefore, the point of the anger is not the anger itself, but what came before and what comes after.

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In recent articles, we have been considering the value of mistakes. And this is what anger has to offer in the way of teleology: that which makes one angry, a look, word, action, or situation that causes one to lose control and act out of spite or in anger tells one very valuable knowledge: what causes one to lose control. One may then dispel one’s anger in any manner of healthy and unhealthy ways and then after, one must deal with first the consequences of one’s anger–what one did while “out-of-control”, and if these happen to be very minor, then one can get to the business of reflecting on why the anger occurred in the first place. The teleology or purpose of one’s anger then is to (1) figure out what caused one’s anger, and (2) reflect on why that event or action caused such a strong reaction. Perhaps one has been on edge lately, or a problem has finally escalated to high a level, or perhaps something much more deeply seated. In any case, after one has been angry, one then has the opportunity to examine one’s self, and in so doing one may realize a fundamental fact about one’s self and how one, and likely others, operate.

 

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At an effective level, one can then “correct” the mistake by either removing one’s self in the future from the company of such an individual or from being in whatever situation caused the anger. Such solutions are superficial, however, because how can one predict, really, when one will be upset by a word, action, or event unless one goes through the trouble of really understanding why the stimulus creates the reaction it does? In order truly to learn, then, one must look to the reason that “one’s goat was got”. Is one perhaps trying to force a situation or person to bend to one’s will? Is one failing to recognize a basic fact of human existence? Is one failing to make a personal choice and projecting it onto everybody one meets? The reasons, like the heads of a hydra, are countless, but the situation of being angry is universal and therefore an opportunity, when correctly perceived, to understand one’s self and therefore humanity. For as the Chandogya Upanishad  says:

“As by knowing one tool of iron, dear one,
We come to know all things made out of iron:
That they differ only in name and form,
While the stuff of which all are made is iron–
So through that spiritual wisdom, dear one,
We come to know that all of life is one.”
(Chandogya Upanishad, 1.6: Easwaran tr. 2nd ed. 2012)

Know the reason for one’s anger, and know better one’s self. Know better one’s self and know better humanity.

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Conversations with Students IX: It Ends where it Begins

This is the final seminar on Homer’s Iliad for the students this year! It has been a struggle and battle through the text, but in the end, the students share an experience of the heights and depths of war, the pain and trouble unbridled emotion can cause, and just what a completed whole looks like. In addition to considering Book 24 and its nekyia-like properties, the students considered the Iliad as a whole as well.

First, we considered the fact that Hermes is sent to guide Priam to Achilleus, and what it is that Hermes, as psychopomp, represents (24.330-466), and is it not symbolically true that by killing Hektor Achilleus has sealed his own fate and is a “dead-man” walking? And also by killing Hektor, greatest hero of Troy, has Achilleus not also sealed the fate of Priam and the Trojans as well in line with Zeus’ prophecy from Book 15 (15.61-71) that Troy must fall? Hermes, then, acting as psychopomp or “guide of souls” is leading one dead-shade to another in service of the corpse of Hektor in Achilleus’ own personal Hades. They cross a river together, pass guardians whom Hermes puts to sleep, and open an impossible to open (for Priam anyway) gate–very similar to entering the underworld. And when they reach Achilleus’ structure–Achilleus, who multiple times has been called pitiless, like the death-god himself (9.630–633;16.33-35)–Achileus now appears as king of his own dark underworld full of sadness and misery, and he holds court with Priam just to cry alongside him (24.507-515) and to finally, in some small way, regain some measure of his humanity through returning Hektor for a ransom in just the way that he refused to accept Agamemnon’s ransom to return to the fighting in Book 10.

We then consider even deeper the connection between Priam and Achilleus, and more so the connection between mortals and their eventual deaths: possibly the most major theme of all Homer’s Iliad. We have seen both in Book 6 and Book 21 mortals compared to leaves which soon fall from trees, both by a mortal, Glaukos (6.145-150), and an immortal, Apollo (21.463-465), but here we see the deepest and longest exposition of just what it means to be a mortal man from a man fated soon to die himself, Achilleus.

“Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals, that we live in unhappiness, but the gods themselves have no sorrows. There are two urns that stand on the door-sill of Zeus. They are unlike for the gifts they bestow: an urn of evils, an urn of blessings. If Zeus who delights in thunder mingles these and bestows them on man, he shifts, and moves now in evil, again in good fortune. But when Zeus bestows from the urn of sorrows, he makes a failure of man, and evil hunger drives him over the shining earth, and he wanders respected neither of gods nor mortals. Such were the shining gifts given by the gods to Peleus for his birth, who outshone all men beside for his riches and pride of possession, and was lord over the Myrmidons. Thereto the gods bestowed an immortal wife on him, who was mortal. But even on him piled evil also. there was not any generation of strong sons born to him in his great house but a single all-untimely child he had, and I give him no care as he grows old, since far from the land of my fathers I sit here in Troy, and bring nothing but sorrow to you and your children. And you, old sir, we are told you prospered once; for as much as Lesbos, Makar’s hold, confines to the north above it and Phrygia from the north confines, and enormous Hellespont, of these, old sir, you were lord once in your wealth and your children. But now the Uranian gods brought us, an affliction upon you, forever there is fighting about your city, and men killed. But bear up, nor mourn endlessly in your heart, for there is not anything to be gained from grief for your son; you will never bring him back; sooner you must go through yet another sorrow.” (24.525-551)

This speech comes just on the heels of Priam and Achilleus’ share moment of grief and sorrow, Priam for Hektor, and Achilleus alternating between grief for Patroklos and for his own aging father. Rather than focus on the duplex nature of human existence, to be both part divine and heroic, but to be subject to nature and fate and die, the students, in all their youth, focused more on the fact that Achilleus here, in his somewhat callous philosophy, shows some measure of learning from his experience–and in having learned of the suffering he has caused, not only to Priam but to his own father (Achilleus’ name is derived from the root achos: “the grief”, interestingly enough) he sees himself and his actions for their effect on others. And in this show of empathy, he shows his ultimate return to his senses and to the consequences and “ups and downs” of human existence.

We then briefly considered why we are given Andromache, Hekabe, and Helen’s mourning speeches over Hektor’s body in succession and especially why Helen is given the last word (24.710-776). Perhaps for purposes of parallelism: just as she is the cause of the war, so is she the cause of the death of Hektor in a remote way. And just as she, in her own way, began the war, so does the Iliad end by recognizing her and her mighty influence, conscious or not, on the events which have trespassed during Homer’s Iliad. It is also directly in line with the theme that semi-divine characters, Achilleus too as written above, must feel suffering for their actions, due to their humanity, regardless of their divine heritage. Just as Achilleus must grieve for his dead friend and for the suffering he has caused his father, so must Helen grieve for the death of the only man who has been kind to her beyond Paris, and the fact that his death is in no small way connected to her presence in Troy.

We finally considered the Iliad as a whole, and the importance of the text ending with the confrontation and shared tears between Achilleus and Priam (24.507-516) and the mourning for Hektor by Andromache, Hekabe, and Helen (24.710-776). In observing Achilleus both cry and not only begin eating again (24.621-626), but argue for eating to grieving Priam (24.602-620)  (what a change from Book 21!), we see the “end of Achilleus’ rage” which was first sung of in the proem (1.1-7) come to an end. We recall in Books 19 through 21 Achilleus’ rapid loss of his humanity: his refusal of mortal food (19.200-214; 19.305-309), his likening to the consuming and devastating effects of fire (19.15-18; 19.375-380), and his fundamental lack of human empathy or sympathy in his callous murdering of Polydoros (20.407-418) and Lykaon (21.35-135)–not to mention his manic likening of himself to Zeus after he fells Asteropaios and leaves his body to be eaten by “eels and fishes”(21.184-199) [more info on these inhuman characteristics is written of here].

But why is it exactly that the story ends with the death of Hektor and the mourning and misery over Hektor’s death regardless of when Achilleus strikes down Hektor or better when Troy falls? This end diverts attention both from the glorious nature of war and the eventual glorious sack of Troy and squarely focuses our attention on the bitter consequences of human conflict. Rather than revel in the divine satisfaction of heroic deeds and impossible ends being achieved, the eventual fate of all men, hero and cowards alike, is expressed with great pathos. Very different in tone is this from Vergil’s patriotic epic from 7 centures later: the Aeneid, which will end in a blaze of fiery glory–Aeneas taking his throne and fate into his own hands through the vanquishing of Turnus in mighty battle (Virgil. Aeneid. Mandelbaum tr. 12.1265-1271). And he (Aeneas or Vergil) thus glorifies Rome’s ancient and violent heritage. Homer’s Iliad does not end with the prizes of war, but with its devastating personal consequences.

The students then shared the answer why this is: Homer’s Iliad is not simply the story of the Trojan War, nor or the greatness of heroes, but rather it is the story of Achilleus’ rage and the devastating consequences which it releases. “Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians…” (1.1-3) This is a story about a man and the consequences of his emotion, unrestrained, and the suffering which ensues from it. It is only appropriate then that in the final Book of the story that his rage be spent and that he, and the man to whom he has caused the most suffering, Priam, share a moment of desolate and disconsolate sorrow together. For the story is not one that glorifies war and heroes, simply, but one which seeks to teach the full consequences of unrestrained human emotion in the service of a nearly divine but all too-human man. The story begins with rage and ends with sorrow. And in this way, so does the Iliad itself reflect the images on the shield of Achilleus, wrought by Hephaistos: the city at War and the city of Peace offering the extremes of life and all that lies between.

Conversations with Students VIII: Wrath, Tragedy, and Inhuman Cruelty

Well, the climax of Homer’s Iliad is finally reached in Books 21 and 22. We see Achilleus descend into burning fury, and become more and more an inhuman force of nature. We observe him also almost pay strongly for his delusions in both being chased by the wave of a powerful river, Xanthos/Skamandros, but also chasing down a god he thought was a man (Apollo). We see the famous theomachy or fight between the gods on Achaian and Trojan side, and even more famously we see the resolution of Hektor to stand and fight Achilleus, his moment of terror and flight, and then his deception and death–followed most famously by his being dragged behind Achilleus’ chariot in an act of unspeakable cruelty. All this was considered today during our eighth conversation with students.

During Book 21 we discover that Achilleus was once glad to catch men and ransom them into slavery (Lykaon, for example), but that now, especially in the cases of Polydoros, Lykaon, and Asteropaios (who gives his lineage in a way most similar to Glaukos from Book 6), Achilleus will spare no Trojan, especially those who are the sons of Priam. He says directly 21.99-113:

“Poor fool, no longer speak to me of ransom, nor argue it. In the time before Patroklos came to the day of his destiny then it was the way of my heart’s choice to be sparing of the Trojans, and many I took alive and disposed of them. Now there is not one who can escape death, if the gods send him against my hands in front of Ilion, not one of all the Trojans and beyond others the children of Priam. So, friend [philos], you die also. Why all this clamour about it? Patroklos is also dead, who was better by far than you are. Do you not see what a man I am, how huge, how splendid and born of a great father, and the mother who bore me immortal? Yet even I have also my death and my strong destiny, and there shall be a dawn or an afternoon or a noontime when some man in the fighting will take the life from me also either by spearcast or an arrow flown from the bowstring.”

Truly, the charge made of him by both Patroklos (16.33-35) and Aias (9.630-633) of him being pitiless has become true. He is changed even in character from the sort of youthful rage he endured earlier in the text to a being consumed and represented by fire (19.15-18; 19.375-380). He can do naught but consume, ravage, and destroy–whether it be the warrior’s ethical code, funerary rites of defeated heroes, or the lives of those who knees he unstrings, Achilleus loses more and more humanity as he gives in further and further to his desperate wrath, a passion beyond belief, unchecked by the mediocrity of average human abilities. He refuses food (19.200-214; 19.305-309), eschews kingly gifts (19.146-153), and in fact likens himself to Zeus (22.186-199) and to fate (21.99-103).

There are, however, reminders of Achilleus’ mortality: Athene must infuse him with nectar and ambrosia so that he does not weaken from hunger and thirst (19.349-356); Skamandros the river god almost drowns him before Hera sends Hephaistos to Achilleus’ rescue (21.240-380), and Apollo deceives him by taking the shape of Agenor and leading Achilleus from the Trojan wall during a crucial Trojan retreat (21.590-611). As inhuman as Achilleus becomes, his mortality and human limitations are constantly present, though subtly expressed. It is a unique situation that a man with such a divine pedigree (his mother is a Nereid (sea-nymph) and his paternal great-grandfather is Zeus), and he is nearly invulnerable, has sacked 23 cities, and causes such great fear in his opponents that his mere yell can cause enough disorientation and confusion for men (12) to die. And yet as he embraces his god-like gift for killing, so does he speed his exit from the world in completely giving himself over to his fate to die a young man, full of glory. The students rightly ask, though he becomes less and less human, does Achilleus become more divine? Largely, the answer was no–though he more and more reflects a force of nature, that force is naturalistic, without conscience, and animal-like, or fire-like, as one suggested.

Although the theomachy or battle of the gods occurs in Book 21, it interestingly enough did not catch the attention of the students. Certainly, they enjoyed Hephaistos lighting Xanthos, the river, on fire and steaming his liquid body. And no student was without a smirk in reading aloud of Athene striking Ares with a stone in laying him out over seven acres, followed immediately by her striking Aphrodite on the breast. They thought Apollo refusing to fight Poseidon was “lame”, though Apollo sounds so similar to Glaukos, a mortal, from Book 6 in likening mortals to leaves: “Shaker of the earth, you would have me be as one without prudence (saophrona) if I am to fight even you for the sake of insignificant mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then again fade away and are dead. Therefore let us with all speed give up this quarrel and let the mortals fight their own battles.” (22.462-467) Though, it is worth noting that the theme again of the temporary nature of human life is referenced with disparity, and that such quotes are really mounting up. Book 15, too, Athene, reminds us of the mortal nature of man: “Therefore I ask of you to give up your anger for your son. By now some other, better of his strength and hands than your son was, has been killed, or will soon be killed; and it is a hard thing to rescue all the generation and seed of all mortals.” (15.138-141) And Hera to Zeus in Book 16.440-442: “Majesty, son of Kronos, what sort of thing have you spoken? Do you wish to bring back a man who is mortal, one long since doomed by his destiny, from ill-sounding death and release him?” The students are getting the point: all mortals, including them, must some day die, and they see Achilleus, consumed by rage and fiery emotion, hurtling helter-skelter towards his end, they have also seen him for the divided and pensive man his was in Book 9. Ultimately, the answer of how to live with the knowledge of death is not solved for the students by Achilleus, but the question, at least, is asked so that they know even the most divine of men was faced with the deepest existential question we know: “how should we then live?”

We then come to the stunning climax or anti-climax of the whole poem in Book 22: the death and desecration of Hektor. The moment is climactic in that all the story, at least since Book 16 (and really even the prophecy in Book 15.62-70), has been leading up to a battle between Hektor and Achilleus, never mind the fact that Aias has thoroughly thrashed Hektor twice already (7.244-276 ;14.409-420). The fight, too, is strange in that it is intricately set up. It is not, like the one on one combats between Paris and Menelaos or Hektor and Aias set up from the beginning, but rather comes about “naturally” but also with great interference from Athene. Hektor first chooses, finally, to stand and fight against Achilleus, but upon seeing Achilleus up close, he runs (22.131-167), and perhaps the most beautiful simile of the poem follows after several others: “As in a dream a man is not able to follow one who runs from him, nor can the runner escape, nor the other pursue him, so he could not run him down in his speed, nor the other get clear.” (22.199-201) This is hardly Hektor’s finest moment; nor is it highly courageous when Athene tricks him into standing alone against Achilleus by likening herself to Hektor’s brother Deiphobos, so that Hektor need not fear fighting Achilleus alone. Nor, yet, is it Hektor’s finest moment either when he tries to barter with Achilleus that whoever wins return the body of the fallen to his side (22.251-259). Hektor is no coward, but when Achilleus says “Hektor, argue me no agreements. I cannot forgive you. As there are no trustworthy oaths between men and lions, nor wolves and lambs…” (22.261-263) one sees just how terrifyingly predatory Achilleus has become. He is divine in his strength and pitiless in his aspect. Even the great Trojan hero, perhaps in a moment of sobriety, knowing there is no escape for him, finds himself, like a lamb, attempting to reason with what was once a man, but is now something vastly different.

The fight itself is short. Achilleus throws and misses with a spear-cast which Athene returns to him (22.275-278) (why she finds this necessary to do is beyond the students and me). And Hektor then strikes the shield of Achilleus, but like Aineias before him, the great shield Hephaistos wrought for Achilleus turns the spear away. Hektor then experiences his moment of ultimate doom in turning to Deiphobos for his spear just to realize that Deiphobos is not there and that he must have been tricked by a god. (22.293-305) He faces death admirably, at last: “But now my death is upon me. Let me at least not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.” (22. 303-305) Hektor, like Patroklos and Sarpedon dies honorably in the eyes of the students.

The students, then, are far less forgiving of Achilleus’ stringing “thongs of leather” through the heels of Hektor and dragging him through the dust behind his chariot in front of the city he loved and defended as his horrified people and family watch. There is some evidence that Hektor would have despoiled the body of Patroklos, however, and the students did notice that in Book 17.125-128: “But Hektor, when he had stripped from Patroklos the glorious armour, dragged at him, meaning to cut head from his shoulders with the sharp bronze, to haul off the body and give it to the dogs of Troy;” So, sagaciously, the students suggested that Achilleus had a similar intention to Hektor, but he simply had the means necessary to carry out his malicious wish. This certainly says something strong for the benefits of having normal human limitations. But a counter, if not a strong one, is that Achilleus almost certainly did not know the intent of Hektor to despoil Patroklos’ body, and even if Hektor did so, it would not be out of pure avarice and inhuman anger, but as a tactic motivated to attack the morale of the Achaians while rallying the battle spirit of the other Trojan men fighting for the protection of their home. So while the battle itself is somewhat anticlimactic (I do tell the students that the battle between Achilleus and Memnon, at least as told by Quintus of Smyrna in his Posthomerica, goes all day), it does bring Achilleus’ inhuman passion to the fore. He is unlimited by the wills and morals of other men, and ultimately, he uses this not to help others, but to tarnish his own image and the body of a beloved hero. In this moment, Achilleus becomes impossibly distant and unsympathetic to us. Perhaps in Book 24 he will find some redemption, in his own self-made underworld.

Conversations with Students VII: a Bounded Eternity

Last Tuesday’s seminar essentially covered Homer’s Iliad Books 18-20, but it also constantly referenced back to Book 16 and the death of Patroklos–which has become something of a lynch-pin for the thinking of this group of students. The main questions considered on Tuesday follow below:

1) What a world without strife look like? Achilleus suggests that he wishes strife would disappear from all the world, but would that world be a better world than, say, sort of utopia/dystopian world without emotions and strife like in Lois Lowry’s The Giver, which the students read in 8th grade, the year before my course. Later on in their careers they may consider the implications of these questions in relation to say A Wrinkle in Time, 1984, and Brave New World, and if they want a headache, perhaps even Anthem. The operant quote where Achilleus states this position comes in Book 18 in conversation with his mother after his dearest friend Patroklos has fallen to his fated death:

“Now, since I am not going back to the beloved land of my fathers, since I was no light of safety to Patroklos, nor to my other companions [is this grief for his actions?!–my add], who in their numbers went down before glorious Hektor, but sit here beside my ships, a useless weight on the good land, I who am such as no other of the bronze-armoured Achaians in battle, though there are others also better in council–why, I wish that strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals, and glass, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind, that gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man’s heart and becomes a thing sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey.” (18.101-110, Lattimore tr.)

The students became divided, then, on the issue of what a world without strife caused by emotions would be. For here Achilleus demonstrates his usual clear-minded perception of the case: had he not become angry, his friend and many other Achaians would not have died. And he does this in language which is rather damning of himself, calling himself a “useless weight” though “no other of the bronze-armoured Achaians” are his equal in battle. The students on one side claimed that one’s humanity is directly tied to one’s capacity to feel emotion, and some suggested that one’s emotions themselves make one a human, while other more sapient students suggested that the complexity of emotion, like compassion, mixed with one’s decisions based on how to express and deal with such emotion are what makes one a human. In either case, simply restraining emotion with a pill, like in The Giver or the movie Equilibrium, would strip one of his or her essential humanity, and would essentially replace one tragedy, loss, especially of loved ones, due to one’s own emotional decisions with the greater tragedy of denaturing and neutering mankind’s essential humanity. It does seem clear that one’s mistakes are an essential part of being human, and that living with them is just as much a part of being human as trying to rectify them (as the constant examples of Herakles in the text invoke).

There was, however, also a small contingent of students who maintained that emotions do cause all strife and that because of that they ought to be expunged from all human decision. While the point has a sort of pristine edge, it lacks philosophical depth in the wake of considering humans and their essential differences from machines: if a human were meant simply to be an object with purpose which carried it out with ruthless efficiency, would not a human be somewhat poorly adapted to this purpose through its emotions and the complexities which arise due to them and their relationship to personal and societal ethics? Tragic as the consequences of strong emotions and heated decisions may be, they are as dear and essential to human nature as any sophisticated teleological point about human end. In fact, it is the fact that some humans live out their purposes, in particular Achilleus, in the wake of such emotion, which is so impressive.

2) Is the shield significant? What about the cities of war and at peace? What about the heavens in the middle and ocean along the edge? This question could be answered for days, but essentially it considers the body of text between 18.474-616. In a way, all things in life and the world are represented on this shield. In its middle are the sources of all life and that which guides it, the sun and moon and earth and sea. And around these are five constellations strewn throughout the heavens. There are then two cities, one at peace, complete with a marriage, an act of ultimate union occurring, and one at war, complete with Athene and Ares and Hate, Confusion, and Death. There are then singing and playing youths, working women, cattle, dogs, and even a dancing floor like the one “Daidolos built for Ariadnes” where young men and women, in utter elegance, are dancing in finery. Around all this, as limit to both shield and world, lies Okeanos, mighty, large, and both beginning and end to all the world and every story regarding it. Naturally, we discussed all this, but for those seeking further depth of insight, I would only say that we determined through a clever syllogism that all things must exist within the shield because even an Xbox may be perceived within it. How one asks? Well, when the students are asked what an Xbox is used for, the response is for entertainment, often by means of video games. What sorts of video games? They suggested “Call of Duty”, a game which features modern warfare–and as it features warfare, and so does the shield, so must the shield comprise the Xbox as well. Such reasoning is at best entertaining, but the point is clear that the shield does run a wide gamut of major themes, celestial, natural, human, ordered, and chaotic which form and destroy this world periodically while encompassing the lion’s share of all our human experiences.

3) A question that invoked fire-like passion was whether Patroklos died a hero, a fool, or a man in love with honor. Some students, one in particular, were of the opinion that Patroklos simply disobeyed orders and fought beyond the Achaian wall because either a) he wanted to do himself honor, or b) because Zeus had placed bravery within him/besotted his wits. A cabal of other students, however, insisted that the very reason that Patroklos fought in the first place was out of care and concern for the Achaians–because he, unlike Achilleus, could be moved to pity–especially as he had just seen the injured Machaon and Eurypylos–and been in conversation with Nestor who related the injuries of Odysseus, Agamemnon, and Diomedes to him as well.

The question of whether Patroklos died honorably/nobly was most notable for not only its spirited nature, but also for its excellent references to the text in Books 15 (the prophecy of Zeus of Sarpedon, Patroklos, and Hektor’s deaths (15.64-76) and Book 16 where Patroklos chooses, seemingly of his own volition to fight–he comes crying to Achilleus, but that when he gets beyond the ships, there Zeus’ “mind” drives him on towards his doom (16.685-689). In any case, the issue remained unresolved, though generally more from a logical rather than emotional point of view. Few if any of the students truly doubted whether Patroklos, man with three slayers, who died boasting of the looming death of his third slayer died as a hero with great honor.

Conversations with Students: Causes of the Trojan War

In this series, “Conversations with Students”, we will list out the major questions from the daily seminar, and then we will report frequent and also exceptional answers from the conversation, with added depth as the medium provides.

The basic background comes from the story of the “Apple of Eris” which was conveyed to us by Pseudo-Hyginus in his Fabulae, Lucian, and Apollodorus in his Library. The basic story is as follows: The mortal hero Peleus (father of Achilleus) and Thetis, his immortal Nereid wife, were to have a grand wedding where all the gods and goddesses were to be invited. Eris, however, the goddess of discord and chaos, was noticeably excepted because of her naturally destructive nature. Being of a divine and therefore easily offended nature, Eris concocted a plan to throw one of the golden apples of the Hesperides into the wedding with the Greek superlative, Kallisti, on it, or, “to the fairest/most beautiful”. All the goddesses contended for this beautiful and vaunted apple, but in the end three were chosen as finalists: Aphrodite, Athene, and Hera.

Naturally, the three goddesses chose the king of the gods and principle of divine order as the natural judge of this high honor, but intelligently, Zeus recused himself due to his marriage to Hera, and his paternal relationship to both Aphrodite and Athene. There is, however, and perhaps even more perfidious, a theory that Zeus did this knowing all along that a war would ensue regardless of Paris’ choice, because he wished to cull the population of man and the heroes of the generation of Achilleus. In any case, the young shepherd son of Priam, Paris, was chosen to choose the fairest goddess. Poor boy.

At first, perhaps having some intuition into the nature of judging the gods as a mortal, Paris attempted to split the apple into three equal parts for the goddesses. Being goddesses, however, of course they did not accept this “cop-out” decision, and each attempted, knowing the nature of the others, to bribe the young mortal man. Athene offered Paris victory in any battle or war–a fine gift from the war-goddess always accompanied by Nike, goddess of victory. Hera offered the young man the power to rule on high. But it was Aphrodite’s offer of “the most beautiful woman in the world” which tantalized Paris most. He, not being as sharp as he was passionate, wrongly assumed that he would be receiving Aphrodite as bride. She however reminded him after his choice that she was a goddess, and no mere mortal woman, so a certain married Helen of Sparta, wife of Menelaos would have to do.* From there, it is all mythological-history: Paris visits Sparta and Menelaos’ court; Menelaos leaves to attend the funeral of Catreus, his maternal grandfather in Crete, and Paris absconds with Helen.

With that brief summary of the story so far presented, we will continue on to the questions of the seminar.

We talked first about the causes of the Trojan War and who was at fault: was it Eris, goddess of Discord’s, fault for throwing the apple marked kallisti in the first place? Or was it perhaps Peleus and Thetis’ fault for not inviting Eris. Surely she would have caused some sort of disturbance, but likely not one so large. Was the blame in fact on Zeus for delegating the task of choosing the which goddess received the kallisti apple to a mere mortal, Paris, or was it Paris for not choosing Athene or Hera in the first place?

We then considered which goddess and which bribe should have been accepted: Athene’s war-victories, Hera’s political power, or Aphrodite’s most beautiful woman in the world. At first, the students mostly thought that Athene’s gift was best, but slowly they started to see the consequences of each decision with each goddess. For instance, with the capacity to win all battles, they then started to consider what their day to day lives would be like–battling over and over. Watching friends, family members, and enemies die over and over again. Their every day would be filled with suffering and misery of all those around them, and they themselves might be turned cruel by the endeavor.

Hera’s gift is potentially not much better: to gain political power one must take that power from another, and as Paris is not the eldest son of his father Priam, he would supplant both Hektor and his father, and it is highly unlikely that he would attain his power without many deaths–and that after attaining it in such a way that he would not maintain it similarly. His life would be one conspiracy after another to maintain and garner power, never trusting another.

And of course Paris’ decision to go with Aphrodite led to him being awarded the chance to woo and win Helen away from her powerful husband, Menelaos of Sparta, and from this the Trojan War erupted which would eventually destroy his people. Choosing who the fairest (kallisti) goddess is is a rough deal indeed.

The final source of conversation was focusing on Agamemnon’s choice to sacrifice Iphigeneia at Aulis after Artemis turned the winds against the fleet there. On the one hand, why would Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter in order to save his sister-in-law? But the situation is more complex, because he is not only choosing to save his sister-in-law, but to honor his relation to his brother and increase his own personal honor. And to use an argument from Herodotus’ Histories and Sophocles’ Antigone many of the students decided that as Menelaos is the sole brother of Agamemnon, and their father Atreus is dead, and that Agamemnon both has two more daughters and the capacity for more–that his primary duty was to his brother, not his daughter, though she, and not his brother, was under his protection and tutelage.

On the other hand, with so many former suitors of Helen, had Agamemnon not allowed his daughter to be sacrificed, it is most likely that the men trapped at Aulis would still have been honor-bound to fight for Helen at Troy and that Artemis would stay un-appeased without blood spilled from the House of Atreus. Therefore, had Iphigeneia not been sacrificed, it is very possible that Agamemnon himself may have ended up on the chopping block. So, whether Agamemnon was acting to honor his brother, add to his own honor, or to save his own skin was subject to dispute.

Last but not least, we turned to the first book of Homer’s Iliad and considered the conditions under which Agamemnon took Achilleus’ concubine Briseis from him. It is true that Achilleus, out of turn, called an assembly of Achaians together and then rudely insisted that not even Agamemnon would lay a hand on the prophet Kalchas if he should give forth bad news (to Agamemnon that he must return his concubine Chryseis). So Agamemnon was likely already slightly irritated with the actions of his most powerful but also most overbearing warrior. Oh, and they had been fighting together for nine years during which time they had sacked 23 cities. So, tensions were riding fairly high. Agamemnon, fresh with the knowledge that he had to return his concubine Chryseis to her father, Chryses, was understandably annoyed and took it out on the person annoying him most: Achilleus. The question, however, was: was this an intelligent and strategic decision by Agamemnon as a leader? Clearly, he had to assert his authority in some way over the openly disrespectful Achilleus, but in taking his concubine, Achilleus retreats from the war and in fact–through his mother–turns the will of Zeus against the Achaians. So, in a way, the question of the rectitude of Agamemnon’s actions is self-answering.

This has been the first of weekly conversations with students. This year we will feature seminars on Homer’s Iliad, Odyssey, Vergil’s Aeneid, Sophocles’ Ajax and Philoctetes and more!

*Even though Herodotus suggests that Paris perhaps wished to steal Helen to make up for some injury done to Troy by the Achaians in a past generation, this theory is given little light in our discussion.