interpretation of opening of Ovid, Metam., book 13

Latin Learning Latin
1

I am trying to move beyond decoding the literal meaning, sentence by sentence. So my question is about interpretation rather than grammar.

Context: Ovid is retelling the story of the Iliad. Since Achilles isn’t fighting, the assembled Greek chiefs hear Ajax and Ulixes debate which should carry the shield of Achilles, an honor both want. Speaking first, Ajax begins by declaring himself a man of deeds not of words, of straightforward action, not of guile, and disclaims any skill at speechifying.

Nevertheless, this looks like a pretty good speech to me, perfectly representing the eternal complaint of the man who does bold deeds against the man of tricks and maneuvers.

I want to get the feeling right, because I made a quick look ahead, and it appears that Ovid will have Ulixes put on a dazzling forensic performance, with devastating consequences for Ajax. (It has been a long time since I last read the Iliad.)

Am I getting this about right?

2

The “quarrel of arms” in Book 13, I think, is a parody of exercises that students were required to perform in schools of rhetoric. Much of it elaborates on details from the Homeric poems. Ulixes’ speech is outrageously and hilariously disingenuous–very funny–but not too much more disingenuous than many of the arguments found in the Attic orators and Cicero. For example, Ulixes takes credit for all of Achilles’ achievements on the grounds that it was he (Ulixes) who found Achilles out when he was hiding among the women.

If you have an annotated edition, you might look up the passages cited from the Iliad and the Odyssey, and you’ll see how Ovid weaves the Homeric references into his narrative.

You’re correct to a contrast between the man of action who straightforwardly speaks his mind and the subtle trickster, but these qualities are developed in an almost cartoonish way.

3

To supplement Qimmik a little.

You’ve got the essence of it, all right. This episode is not actually represented in the Iliad, however, since it comes only after Achilles’ death, which it still in the future (amazingly enough) by the time the Homeric poem ends. But the contest over Achilles’ arms (not just his shield) and its sequel did feature in early epic (the “Little Iliad,” now lost), as well as in Greek tragedy, which provided prototypes for the contest itself, and of course both speeches comprehensively deploy episodes from the Iliad—as well as from other Trojan saga. They give Ovid an opportunity to juggle any number of Iliadic and other mythological data, the reader’s knowledge of which is taken for granted (or rather Ovid challenges his readers to match his erudition).

It’s a given of the tradition that Odysseus/Ulixes wins, thanks more to his skill with words than to the merits of his case. Traditionally Ajax has the stronger claim, and is cheated out of the prize that was his due. Inasmuch as Ulixes could be considered Ovid’s alter ego in his rhetorical ingenuity and artistry, there is some piquancy in his presentation.

It makes sense that Ajax speaks first, not just because he’s the designated loser but because then Ulixes can employ his sophistries in countering the points that Ajax makes. Ulixes must necessarily trump Ajax.

Any Ovidian speech is going to be a pretty good one. Ajax’s textbook rhetorical competence is amusingly paradoxical given his traditional character (which he himself insists on) as a man of deeds not words—he’s supposed to be bluff, not rhetorically skilled. The genealogical relationship between himself and Achilles, for instance, or the over-elaborated idea that the weight of Achilles’ arms would only slow Ulixes down as he runs away—these are pure Ovid, quite out of character for Ajax. Ovid turns everyone into himself, even Ajax. But in the (predetermined) event, Ajax’s points all just play into Ulixes’ hands, and his relatively brief speech is completely swamped by Ulixes’ performance.

The introduction of Ulixes draws on what had become a famous description in the Iliad of him as a speaker—he looked unimpressive until he spoke, but when he spoke, his eloquence was irresistible, his words fell like snow-flakes in winter.

Interesting that Ovid writes Athena/Minerva and Ajax’s madness out of the story. He wants a stark and crisp human finale.

You’ll note when you get to it that Ovid contrives to conclude the episide with a metamorphosis—of Hyacinthus, who has no mythological connexion with any of this.

Enjoy!

4

Before I saw mwh’s post, I went back and took another look at this. Actually, Aiax represents himself as a plain-spoken man of deeds and not words, but his speech, too, is full of disingenuous rhetoric, as well as bluster and arrogance. In fact, his claim to be a plain-spoken man of deeds and not words turns out to just that–disingenuous rhetoric. But his rhetoric is blunt and obvious, where Ulixes is subtle. I think mwh hits the nail on the head–Aiax’ rhetoric is conventional, while Ulixes’ brilliance lies in turning Aiax’ points on their head.

Again, if you have an annotated edition, it would help to follow the mythology, which, as mwh notes, is not just from the Iliad and Odyssey, but other traditions as well (Achilles’ disguise as a woman and Ulixes’ feigned madness, both to avoid going to Troy, Philoctetes, Palamedes, etc.).

This is a perfect example of Ovid’s deadpan, subversive humor.

5

Thanks to mwh and Qimmik for the helpful responses.

6

There is an annotated edition of Book XIII in the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics series:

http://www.amazon.com/Ovid-Metamorphoses-Cambridge-Greek-Classics/dp/0521556201/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1439304065&sr=1-1&keywords=hopkinson+metamorphoses

This would be helpful with the mythological background as well as with grammar and syntax. I have a copy. Like all entries in this series, it’s an excellent commentary.

7

After I looked over the Cambridge edition by Neil Hopkinson a bit more closely, it struck me that, while it does full justice to the mythological and rhetorical background, it fails to take notice of the irreverent humor in Ovid’s narrative. Maybe I’m the one who’s missing something, but I think this episode, culminating, as mwh notes, in the metamorphosis of the fierce warrior into a flower, is outrageously funny. Am I wrong?

8

Thanks also for the correction concerning the relationship of this Aiax v. Ulixes debate to the Iliad story. Getting the literal meaning line-by-line requires so much attention and mental energy that I often lost track of story continuity.

9

In response to Qimmik. As I see it: Ovid is always irreverent, inasmuch as he uses the gods just as he uses everything else that Greek myth provides him with: they’re good material. Callimachus is his model (esp. the Hymns). He’s never “serious,” never “sincere,” least of all when pretendng to be.

I don’t myself find anything especially subversive about this particular episode. Basically he just follows the script, in an exercise of exuberant virtuosity—a set piece to end all set pieces. Ajax’ speech is funny only in its built-in contradiction between his purported lack of verbal skill and his demonstrated possession of it, and Ulixes’ is funny in its transparent speciousness and in its patent identification of Ulixes with the poet himself (facundia, ingenium, etc.). I can see teachers of rhetoric approvingly checking off all the various arguments (in both speeches) and the inventio, even if like the humorless Quintilian they thought he was “nimium amator sui ingenii” (a view I admit to having a certain sympathy with as I reread the speeches).

Not even the suicide has an ounce of feeling in it. Cleverness is all. I don’t read the finale (which I should not have called an actual metamorphosis) as “fierce warrior into a flower,” which would import a sense of pathos excluded by the narrative (or so it seems to me). I read it only as an extra bit of cleverness, bringing in “Oebalius” for the sake of juxtaposing the two hidden aitia, aiai/aias. (He’s recyclng this from the Hyacinthus narrative.) It’s very Callimachean.

I can’t comment on Hopkinson’s commentary, which I haven’t seen.

10

I think I’m not in complete agreement. I think the speciousness that runs through both speeches is hilarious, read against the Homeric background. And I wonder whether quid facundia posset re patuit might be ironic in view of the speciousness of Ulixes’ speech–for example, how he manages to subtly deprecate Aiax’s genuine merits (as described in the Iliad). I wonder whether this might be an ironic comment on rhetoric itself–rhetoric that can make the weaker argument seem the better–despite Ovid’s presumed identification with Ulixes and Ovid’s own flair for rhetoric. And maybe what follows–fortisque uiri tulit arma disertus–might be ambiguous as to who was the fortis uir to whom the arms rightfully belonged.

I can see teachers of rhetoric approvingly checking off all the various arguments (in both speeches) and the inventio,

Yes, this is a parody of the techniques and tricks of conventional rhetorical training. And also a brilliant way of encompassing much of the Iliad (and the rest of the Trojan War legends) in Ovid’s universal history in a few hundred lines without explicitly narrating the events, but instead presenting them through the self-serving distortions of the participants. Rather than seeing this episode through the eyes of rhetoric teachers, I think it has to be seen through those of Ovid’s main readership, a large part of whose education will have consisted of (1) textbook rhetoric, and (2) the Iliad. May of them will themselves probably have been assigned to work up a speech for the “Quarrel of Arms” debate as an exercise, and I think they would have found Ovid’s brilliant parody extremely entertaining.

As for Ovid’s excessive love of his own cleverness–well, Q. has a point there: O. does get carried away sometimes, but sometimes the humor lies in the excess itself–the catalogue of dogs in Actaeon, for example, or the Lapiths and the Centaurs (although the Homeric/Vergilian parody becomes tedious after a while). Personally I think you have to accept Ovid’s excesses as the price of his successes. As for feeling, there are a number of deeply felt episodes in the Metamorphoses: Alcyone and Ceyx, Myrrha.

He’s never “serious,” never “sincere,”

I don’t agree. Never say never. Again, Alcyone and Ceyx, Philemon and Baucis, Myrrha . . .

The sheer range of Ovid’s genius for story-telling is overwhelming. As is his capacity for embellishment of the outlines of the myths with realistic or humorous details–Iuppiter kicking the foundations of the earth to check for stability after the flood, Mercury almost forgetting to flap his wings when he catches sight of a pretty girl–and in this passage, Ulixes’ gestures, wiping his eyes uelut lacrimantia when mentioning Achilles, baring his chest to show his wounds.

11

Qimmik, you write as if in disagreement, but I’m having difficulty seeing where your disagreement lies, except in my denying “seriousness” and “sincerity”—terms very hard to apply in any meaningful way to Mett., so hardly worth arguing about. I might query one or two things that you say (how specious is Ajax’s speech?, e.g.), but I think we see pretty much eye to eye. But never say never say never.

12

Well, let’s say we’re more or less in agreement then.

I’m just glad that I don’t have to choose between Ovid and Vergil.