Transient Lives: The Greek Lyric Poets

Writing a cohesive report on an anthology is difficult. While these collections typically feature a group of works linked either by a common tongue, culture, or era, the fact remains that each author is an entity unto themselves. Therefore, a commentary runs the risk of either saying too much or too little. If each writer received a substantial treatment the work would swell to an unseemly mass and be unreadable. Yet, any attempts, for the sake of brevity, to brush over (or worse, combine) the works of multiple authors would not do them justice. This is the issue that faces me when writing about Greek Lyric, a poetry anthology translated by Andrew Miller.

I entertained a few approaches before writing what you are now reading. The first was an analysis of the work of the editor and translator. However, given my current understanding of ancient literature I am not remotely qualified to undertake any criticism of this sort. Still more importantly, that was not my motivation for reading the collection. I wanted to grow in my understanding of the Greeks, not critique modern scholarship. My second solution was to pull three poets from the collection and give them a full analysis. While this approach was more in keeping with my aspiration, it still missed the mark. I would come to know the individuals more intimately, but not the Greeks.

A thematic approach seemed best to me. I selected a recurrent topic that arose as a kind of through line from the anthology. In this way an issue important to the culture, as evidenced by its repetition on the lips of its poets, will be analyzed. Likewise, I will be innocent of poor taste in my selection of excerpts since the theme will act as a razor determining relevance Therefore, Solon's political musings and most of Pindar's intricate odes will not be topics of my report. Instead I will restrict the discussion to the chosen topic: life's brevity.

"Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth,

now the living timber bursts with the new buds

and spring comes round again. And so with men:

as one generation comes to life, another dies away."

(The Iliad, Book 6, Lines 171-75)

As the cornerstone of Greek culture it seems fitting to let Homer set the stage for our topic. Even though The Iliad is not "lyric" poetry every Greek poet would have been intimately familiar with the work.These famous lines, spoken as two heroes were on the precipice of engaging in combat, are frequently plucked from their context and taken as a kind of philosophical meditation. Homer paints a striking natural analogy of the brief amount of time afforded to mortals. This frank confrontation with man's fated demise, void of the comforts of an afterlife, is characteristic of Greek thought.

Notably Homer references generations rather than individuals. That does not mean the prescription does not apply to all individuals; rather it is the opposite. Every man is understood to eventually face the fate of death. On this matter Simonides of Ceos writes,

"Small is men's

strength, and without effect his cares;

in a brief span of life there is toil on toil.

Inescapable, death hangs over all alike,

for an equal portion of it falls both to the noble

and to the man who is base."

(Simonides, Fragment 520)

This rather bleak image reveals a foundational truth for the Greeks: no one held hopes for an afterlife. Unlike their southern neighbors, the Egyptians--who could strive to succeed on earth and take their wealth with them after death--the Greeks, as we will see, have a less rosy image of the underworld. Still more sobering, it is a fate promised to both the "noble" and "base." No one is escaping it. Not even the tyrants of the Hellenic world are enshrined as immortal gods. Indeed it was a point of absurd humor when an Athenian tyrant claimed to be coronated by a goddess (see Histories 1.60).

The Greeks do not reach up to the heavens, hoping to become gods. Instead their deities stoop down to them. In form and action the Greek conception of "god" is closer to a human than most of their neighbors. This leads Xenophanes to remark, rather wittily, that if they could "horses would draw pictures of gods like horses, and oxen like oxen" (Xenophanes, Fr. 15 D-K). Yet, he is wrong. Gods in other cultures are routinely strange amalgamations of various animals. The Greek pantheon is the exception and not the rule for their age and place. This means that there is little reason to strive to become a god. A god is not much different from a human. Along the way the hope of immortality was dropped as well. This keeps Greek thinkers from always having one foot in the afterlife. Instead they must confront the natural world directly.

With such existential pain comes some benefit. Simonides's brutal frankness also betrays the democratizing effect of death. If the noble and base are both bound for an equal share of death then perhaps they should have an equal share in other aspects of the community; say the governance? While it is certainly a cocktail of factors that contribute to the rise of Greek democracy it is within reason that sentiments like those of Simonides's fragment played a role. For such a dreary topic this is something of a silver lining.

The passage of time takes on new significance with death being set squarely as an ending and not a gateway into an afterlife. Notably old age becomes a signpost of the end. Anacreon reflects, rather personally, on this in his Fragment 395. He comments on his gray temples, white hair, and old teeth, remarking, "of sweet life no longer does any large span remain." He is not mourning the passing of youth, but shaking in fear of the end:

"Therefore I weep and sob

often, in fear of Tartaros;

for Hades' inner chamber

is terrible, and full of grief

the road down. One thing is certain:

once down there, no one comes back up."

(Anacreon, Fr. 395)

For others though, the winter of our years are a kind of Hades unto themselves. In this light the mere loss of youth warrants tears. Mimnermus, mirroring Homer's earlier quote on generations, reflects,

"We, like the leaves which come forth in the flowery season

of spring, when they grow quickly under the radiance of the sun,

like them we enjoy the blossoms of youth for a short time only,"

(Mimnermus, Fr. 2)

Youth, with all its vibrance and flourishing takes precedence here. To Homer the generations of man passed when they perished. Mimnermus disagrees. He suggests that growing old is the end of meaningful life. He boasts of our early years as a beautiful blossoming of life filled with "clandestine love and cajoling gifts and bed." (Fr. 1). Old age in contrast:

"makes a man ugly and base alike,

Then dreadful anxieties constantly wear away at his mind,

and he takes no pleasure in gazing on the radiance of the sun,

but is instead hateful to boys, unhonored by women.

So grievous a thing have the gods made old age."

(Fr. 1)

Mimnermus sounds like a disgruntled teenager who has had a run in with a few ornery old men. Yet, his point is not as childish and shortsighted as it may seem. Mimnermus's grumbles become substantive in Fragment 2. There we are presented with a picture of the aged wallowing in "spirit-destroying" diseases, regret from not having children, and poverty. With such gloomy prospects the reader might even reluctantly agree with the conclusion that once "grievous and unsightly old age" arrives "then at once to be dead is better than life." (Fr. 5, Fr. 2). Mimnermus himself goes so far as to famously say: "May it happen that without disease or grievous troubles the fate of death might overtake me at sixty years of age." (Fr. 6). While Anacreon sees his gray hair and fears death, Mimnermus sees his youthful skin and fears age.

However, such desperate opinions are not universally held. Solon, the great Athenian reformer, stands out in opposition. He quipped about Mimnermus' death wish: "say it in this fashion, 'May the doom of death overtake me at eighty years of age.'" (Fr. 20). Being the only poet to write anything positive about old age, Solon remarks, "I grow old always learning many things." (Fr. 18). The pragmatic Solon is more politician than poet. While Mimnermus and Anacreon were given to romantic excess, writing about love and wine, Solon was sober minded and worldly. This has earned him critiques of his poetic sensibilities, but not his practical wisdom. Romance and the savoring of the fruits of life is a game for the young, but politics, as we in the United States know all too well, is played best by the old.

Still, even Solon admits that simply having enough food, romance, and youth is equivalent to great wealth. Then in the same fragment he laments that no one can ransom their way out of death, disease, nor "the approach of foul old age." (Fr. 24). He is pragmatic and somewhat optimistic, but not to a fault. Youth is still worth a fortune.

Yet, is youth truly priceless? Greek myth suggests not. Again we can consult Homer to help along our understanding, this time the Odyssey. After being shipwrecked on an isolated island, Odysseus attracts the eye of the beautiful and powerful nymph Calypso. She takes him in as her "husband" in a relationship that Homer describes as an "unwilling lover alongside a lover all too willing." (Odyssey, Book 5, line 172). Here he has the chance to live like a god: daily banquets, a divine romance, and eternal youth--all that Solon said was equivalent to great wealth.

But Odysseus still longs for his home, and his faithful wife, Penelope. Rejecting the offer from Calypso to live eternally with her on her paradisal island, Odysseus springs at the opportunity to continue his voyage home when Zeus forces his release. Some things are more valuable than even great wealth.

This is not an uninformed and foolish choice on the part of Odysseus. Chronologically in the Odyssey he has already ventured to the Underworld and seen what was waiting for him in death. There he heard the famous declaration from Achilles that he would "rather slave on earth for another man...than rule down here over the breathless dead." (Odyssey, Book 11, 556-558). Odysseus knows the stakes. Understandably for a man like Achilles, a young unmarried warrior, death should be avoided at all costs. But that is not Odysseus.

For the still living hero there is something essential to his humanity that is not found in paradise. He will even sacrifice immortality for the chance to return to it. The message is powerful: there can exist something redemptive in the frailty and brevity of our existence. This makes Odysseus a truly human hero. He has no divine blood and never shirks off his humanness. As a result he provides a route for confronting mortality. For him it is building a good home. The lyric poets arrive at different answers.

The first resolution to life's brevity that we will explore from the poets is, unsurprisingly, the immortal power of words. We will look at two similar excerpts and then discuss the continuity of their contents. The first is Theognis discussing his preservation of the name of Kyrnos in poems. The identity of Kyrnos--a lover, friend, or relative--is a matter of scholarly debate. Theognis writes:

"And when beneath the hollows of the murky earth

you go to Hades' halls ringing with lamentation,

not even then, though dead, will you ever lose your fame;

instead you will be known

to people of all time, your name imperishable,

Kyrnos" (Theognis, Lines 244-49)

Sappho shares a similar idea about her own name in her most biting lines. According to Plutarch here she is attacking "some uncultured and ignorant woman":

"But when you die you will lie there, and no memory of you

will linger in later time, for you have no share in the roses

that come from Pieria."

(Sappho, Fr. 55)

Names achieve everlasting fame when they have a "share in the roses that come from Pieria," the home of the muses. The implication from each poet is the same; Either due to their inclusion in the work, as with Kyrnos, or their accreditation as the author, as with Sappho, names that attach themselves to beautiful works of poetry will outlive their bearers. Theognis suggests a name takes on a new life and residence on the tongues of those who sing the songs. This gives the subject an everlasting fame that continues after they have gone "to Hades' halls ringing with lamentation."

Two obvious points should be made regarding this type of "immortality." The first is simply that the poets were correct. Everything else about him has been forgotten, but the name of Kyrnos certainly lives on. Likewise, Sappho's words are recited in languages that did not exist when she was alive, and on continents of which she knew nothing. Yet, the modern rationalist cannot help but to play foil to this success. They would ask what the utility of such fame might be. Frankly, to this question the Greeks do not provide a good answer. There are some who seem to disagree with this approach which will be looked at later. Still, for many an eternal reputation is simply assumed to be valuable.

In fact, it was so valuable that some poets, namely Bacchylides and Pindar, could charge for it. This came in the form of commissioned odes. While they wrote in many genres, it is primarily these odes that have survived. They are an odd genre which require a bit of context to understand.

At their pinnacle the Greeks loved athletic competition. Of course, the modern Olympics were modeled on the games that were held at Olympia, but that was only one of a host of different athletic competitions held throughout the Hellenic world. Athletes participated in these games--which typically accompanied a religious festival--in a type of circuit similar to how modern professional golfers and tennis players compete.

The winners, who were typically from wealthy and connected families already, received high honors and rewards, typically at the public's expense. This practice was so widespread and extravagant as to earn a harsh reproach from the often critical poet Xenophanes. In his Fragment 2 he questions the utility that athletes provide to society at large and suggests that honor is better owed to those who can properly run a government.

Yet, where Xenophanes sees a public disgrace others see financial opportunity. Odes are pieces that praise the athletic achievements of victors in the games and were often commissioned by a relative of the athlete or even the athlete themselves. The premise seems straight forward; the implementation is far from it. Typically an ode would tie in one or multiple mythological stories to highlight some feature of the athlete, or, more importantly, the paying patron and their family. This leads to a style that feels a bit stilted with sudden turns, and frequent jumps in reasoning that require an extensive knowledge of both the historical context and ancient Greek mythology. They are not pieces for the faint of heart.

Fortunately, we will only play in the shallow end of this corpus. Their sales pitch is most relevant to our topic. These works are for pay, and repeat clients are common. Therefore, it is in the poet's best interest to sell their words to the patron. Here is the typical proposal: All men are going to die. Admirable accomplishments (typically athletic) should be remembered. It will be remembered if it is written down. Ergo, in order to live on in memory, you should find someone to praise your accomplishments in song. This section from a Bacchylides ode will provides a good example:

"To the one of wit, the things I say are intelligible. The deep

sky above cannot be stained; the water of the sea

does not decay; gold is a thing of joy;

but man is not allowed to shake off hoary

old age and once again recover blooming

youth. However, the luster of accomplishment does not

waste away along with the flesh of mortals; rather,

the Muse sets it to growing."

(Bacchylides, Ode 3, Lines 85-92)

In case the reader misses the last line, Bacchylides restates the point: "Together with the truth of noble deeds, many a man will sing the graceful gifts of Keos' honey-tongued nightingale." (Ode 3, Lines 96-98). The "honey-tongued nightingale" is Bacchylides himself who comes from Keos. The insinuation is clear. His words have the power to permeate across space and time and are, therefore, a worthy investment.

Only Simonides would argue with this. He will conclude this section as the humorous foil to the power of words. In ancient times there was an inscription on the grave marker of the tyrant Midas which was commonly attributed to Kleobolous of Lindos. In the poem the personified gravestone promises to last as long as the water, trees, sun, and moon. One is vaguely reminded of Shelley's Ozymandias. Simonides mocks the inscription and Kleobolous in particular,

"who against the ever-running rivers and the flowers of spring,

against the flame of the sun and the golden moon

and the eddies of the ocean has set the force of a gravestone?

All things are weaker than the gods, but a stone

even mortal hands can shatter. A fool

was he who planned this."

(Simonides, Fr. 581, Lines 2-7)

Anyone who has wandered through a very old cemetery can speak to the effects of corrosion. Here Simonides does so with sharp wit, but given our topic his point is quite relevant. Words may outlast the speaker, and the subject, but there is something arbitrary about it. There is not a place to inscribe them which will guarantee their preservation. Indeed, the works from any Greek writer were preserved through the efforts of countless transcribers. A labor undertaken only as a consequence of the Hellenes's status as a cultural ancestor to Rome. Even with such a fortunate turn of events most of the Greek texts are lost today. How many writers who promised immortality to their names and the names of their subjects have been forgotten?

While words may preserve memory, this still leaves the issue of what actions warrant remembrance. It is not just any ordinary life that inspires the bards to song. Here the lyric poets seem to provide two answers: valiance in war and victory in the arena.

Simonides argues that eternal reverence is owed to those who give their lives in war. In his Fragment 531 we see him praising the Spartan contingent who fought so valiantly against the Persian invaders at Thermopylae. This is the famous "300" who all died defending the pass in northern Greece. Leonidas is the Spartan king who refused to retreat and abandon his men at the pass. Simonides writes,

"Of those who died at Thermopylae

glorious is the lot, noble the doom.

Their tomb is an altar; in place of lamentation,

remembrance; for pity, praise.

Such a funeral gift as this neither mould

nor time that conquers all shall make obscure.

This precinct of brave men has claimed the glory

of Hellas as its inhabitant; and to this Leonidas too bears witness,

the king of Sparta, who has left behind a great

ornament of his valor and everlasting fame."

(Simonides, Fr. 531)

The sacrifice of these Spartans cleverly turns the typical proceedings of death on their head. "Doom" becomes "noble" and their "tomb" turns into an "altar." The "lamentations'' and "pity" are replaced with "remembrance" and "praise." Neither will "time that conquers all" obscure the memory of their "valor and everlasting fame." Meanwhile, moving from the particular heroes to the abstract Callinus mirrors Simonides's sentiment when spurring on warriors in battle.

"and death will come at whatever moment

the spinning Fates determine. But let each man go forward,

holding his spear on high and with his shield protecting

his valiant heart, when battle first is joined.

For in no way is it fated that a man escape

death, not even if he is descended from immortal ancestors.

Often, after escaping the battle-slaughter and the thud of spears,

he returns, and in his house death's doom overtakes him;

but such a one is in any case not held dear by the community nor regretted.

The other sort, though, is lamented by small and great

alike if anything happens to him;

for the people as a whole feel regret for a stout-hearted man

when he dies, and while he lives he is equal in worth to demigods,

for they fix their eyes on him as on a tower of defense,

doing the deeds of many although he is only one."

(Callinus, Fr. 1, Lines 8-21)

Callinus takes the honor which Simonides says is owed to fallen warriors and offers valiance in battle as a prescription for inevitable death. He observes that such honors are preferred to the lonely and quickly forgotten death in peacetime. To bolster his case, Callinus highlights that respect is even paid to those brave soldiers who survive battle. The image of Hector springs to mind. He was honored in life and lamented in death. The only issue not clearly addressed is that of old age. The glory given to living warriors appears contingent on their ability to still fulfill that role. Once their strength is gone, it is natural to conclude that the respect goes with it.

Barring a few caveats, though, the principles of remembrance outlined by Simonides and mobilized by Callinus worked. Leonidas and his 300 were commemorated by an epic action film in 2006, about 3500 years after their final stand. The battle of Marathon is still taught in most high schools. They were not forgotten. But what was the cost? The irony of the advice is that by bringing a premature end to your time on earth you might bolster your honor and remembrance on earth. It is a strange bargain. Yet it was deemed acceptable to many.

For those whom the price of death seemed too high, or who simply lived in peacetime, there was another route to achieve eternal glory: athletics. These were the victors seeking odes from Bacchylides and Pindar to seal the memory of their triumphs. In retrospect this route seems far less successful than that of the brave warrior. We do not remember athletes as we do valiant soldiers. Their memory drifts away and is quickly replaced by a new winner. Still worse, the issue is clearly understood by the athlete who typically lives well past their prime. The dead warrior knows nothing of the magnitude and staying power of their glory. The athlete understands all too well that their success is a flash in the pan.

Suitably then it is this sad fate that Pindar discusses in the conclusion of his eighth Pythian Ode. He asserts that when someone has won a "nobel object" that they experience a type of euphoria that lifts their ambitions beyond "mere concern for wealth." Yet, sudden rises preclude sudden falls. "For mortals" the glories never last. Pindar concludes this thought with a bit of indulgence in philosophy:

"Beings defined by each new day! What is a man? What is he not? A shadow's dream

is humankind. But when the gleam that Zeus dispenses comes,

then brilliant light rests over men, and life is kindly."

(Pindar, Pythian 8, 95-97)

With a sober mind Pindar outlines how fickle are the peaks of one's existence. Rather than lasting a lifetime, only a day is fit to define our experience. This is vastly different from the tone taken by Bacchylides in the ode from the previous section. Where Bacchylides is sure of the eternal preservation of accomplishment, Pindar sees it as a passing wind. Still, they both write odes. Bacchylides writes because life is short. Pindar writes despite it. A pragmatist would be pleased to see that the prescription remains the same. Yet, the difference warrants investigation.

The eternal life that Bacchylides, Theognis, Sappho, and Simonides, point to is a life lived on the tongues of others. Pindar recognizes that this is useless. To simply be remembered bestows no benefit on the one being remembered. This is why he focuses on the emotion of the victor, the "euphoria" felt in winning. It is the peak of a lived experience that receives the attention. Likewise the long valley which follows is reality for the athlete, not the crystallized moment in a poem. There is no pretension that words can preserve the high point. The rationalist would be proud. Here is a reckoning with the idea that we can live on in the memories of others.

There are a few possible causes that brought Pindar to this oddly profound place in an athletic ode. First, it may be simply his age showing. This after all is one of his later odes. Second, some scholars have conjectured it arises from the troubling political situation of the hometown of the victor at the time of writing. Beyond their golden era, Aegina was seeing their neighbor, Athens, build an empire of sorts spanning the Hellenic world. Lastly, the tone could be a result of the topic. He is writing about a young athlete whose uncle, in his day, was also a great wrestler. The “past his prime” uncle next to his victorious nephew paints a poignant picture. In one moment Pindar can see the discrepancy between what once was, and what is. The brevity of the moment is fully realized.

Regardless of the cause, the conclusion is concerning. He has dismantled the potency of immortal words, and with it, the actions that merit them. It is a small step from there to either shortsighted hedonism or outright nihilism. Yet, he stops short. After calling mankind a "shadow of a dream", almost as a concession, he writes "But when the gleam of Zeus comes, then brilliant light rests over men, and life is kindly." Somehow, life is redeemed in those moments. While many who combat nihilism point to the undeniable reality of pain and suffering, Pindar takes a different route. He views the moments of good as absolutely real. Is this why he still writes his odes? Perhaps. As he sees it, the moment that comes after accomplishment retains merit despite its transience.

In this way the focus moves from outlasting existence with immortal acts and words, to the poets who embrace the passing moment. This seems like a rather quaint notion. Yet, while it does produce profound pieces, it also gives us some of the most childishly hedonistic poems of the anthology. These are a personal favorite. They tend to argue that since the only promised reality is the moment in the face of inescapable death there is but one reasonable solution: Drink!

"Drink and get drunk with me Melanippos. Why do you suppose

that when you have crossed great Acheron's

eddying stream you will see the sun's pure light

again? But come, do not aim at things so great."

(Alcaeus, Fr. 38a, Lines 1-4)

Someone familiar with Alcaeus would reasonably contend that he needs little excuse to write about drinking. Indeed, as a writer whose works were often sung in the symposium (a type of intellectual drinking party) Alcaeus could connect wine to nearly any subject. However, in this same fragment he concludes with a bit broader call: "Now if ever, while youth is ours, we must accept whatever of these things God gives us to experience..." (Lines 11-12). Of course, the things "to experience" in this particular verse are the fruits of Dionysius. Yet, in this somewhat humorous seed lies the kernel of the last Greek solution to the problem of death: enjoy the moment, as best can be managed. Theognis writes,

"Let us devote our hearts to merriment and feasting

while the enjoyment of delights still brings pleasure.

For quick as thought does radiant youth pass by,

nor does the rush of horses prove to be swifter

When carrying their master to the labor of men's spears

with furious energy"

(Theognis, Lines 983-988)

The allusion to horses rushing warriors to battle makes a subtle point. Whether by the wars of Callinus or the simple passage of time, your youth will be gone soon. Still, Theognis does not believe pursuit of glory is how that youth should be spent. Instead, he preaches pleasure. We should raise a glass for the good things we have while we still have them. This is the hedonism that Pindar managed to sidestep.

The critic of this interpretation might call the fragment tongue in cheek. Much like the modern phrase "YOLO", perhaps Theognis is simply being ironic. Yet, a kernel of belief lies within most jokes. Here the kernel is that the moment is all that is promised. It should be esteemed above any potential future glory.

An obvious issue with this philosophy is suffering. What are we to do when the present is tormenting? We might assume that hope is the proper balm for our wounds in such circumstances. But it is not obvious that optimism is a virtue in Greece. After all, it was no accident that Pandora's box of ills contained hope. Semonides can help us better understand this perspective:

"My son, loud-sounding Zeus holds final power

over all things that are and arranges them as he wishes.

Understanding is not within men's grasp; from day to day

they live like animals, in no way knowing

how god will bring each thing to fulfillment.

But hope and confidence encourage all of them

as they set their thoughts on unachievable things."

(Semonides, Fr. 1, Lines 1-7)

Greeks are too rational for hope. Man's fortunes are at the mercy of Zeus, whose intentions cannot be known. The hope that men hold onto is that of a fool grasping at "unachievable things." Semonides goes on to sardonically remark that "there is no one of mortals who does not think that next year he will become a friend to wealth and good things." He then goes on to list various miserable ways in which a man might die. The juxtaposition is the message: Every day men die still hoping for a better life. If we accept this we might learn not to "love our misfortunes, nor torment ourselves by keeping our hearts fixed on our grievous ills."

This is in stark contrast to the motivation of the athlete or the warrior. Their operating principle is that through some combination of effort and bravery they can achieve not only an improved position, but also an eternal remembrance. Where Semonides's fatalism encourages apathy in the face of difficulty, the way of the athlete or warrior calls on one to lean into it. Thereby, they might find a path out of their misery. A society needs a good portion of people following the latter philosophy to function. Yet, there is no shortage of adherents to Semonides's camp in ancient Greece.

This is reminiscent of a Greek saying which Herodotus attributes to Solon. I will paraphrase it: "Do not call someone happy until they are dead." The neutrality of this statement should not be taken for optimism. It is typically only used when one finds success to remind them that the future is still perilously beyond their control.

This world view is closer to Greek reality than the aspiring athletes and soldiers might want to believe. For instance, Themistokles, the great Athenian hero of the Persian wars, is eventually ostracized from the city he fought to defend. Socrates for all his musings is put to death by his fellow citizens. Even Croesus, the Lydian king to whom Solon presumably made the original assertion, eventually finds himself on an execution pyre at the hands of the Persian Ruler, Cambyses. Understandably, Simonides warns not to predict "when you see a prosperous man, how long he will be so" (Simonides, Fr. 521). Greek life is rarely a linear rise or fall.

Ultimately, this school of thought ends with a bit of a disappointment. It is so rationalistic and blunt about provable reality that it provides nothing for the typical adherent to turn to when bearing tragedy. A pilgrim on this path would not be judged for staying with Alcaeus for a life of drinking. Much like modern atheism, for the real burdens in life the only offerings here are somewhat vague platitudes.Simonides writes,

"One thing the Chian poet said very well indeed:

'like the generation of leaves is the generation of men'

Yet few among mortals who hear this with their ears

lay it away in their hearts for each man has Hope,

Hope which grows by nature in the hearts of the young.

So long as a man possesses the much-desired flower of youth

his spirit is light and foolish, and he thinks to no purpose;

for he has no expectation of growing old or of dying,

nor, while he is healthy, does he entertain thoughts of pain.

Childish and vain are those who think thus and do not know

how brief is the time of youth and life

for mortals. But you, heed what I say as you move toward life's boundary:

stand firm in endurance, taking delight in all good things."

(Simonides, Eleg 19 + 20)

Understandably, we have returned to Homer, the "Chian poet." It seems his musings on the passing generations had quite the impact. Yet, after reading Simonides's work it is no surprise that "few among mortals" heed his warning. This poems is not a circumstantial denial of "Hope." It is an aggravated assault on it. The young and healthy reader is forced to confront pain, and the "expectation of growing old or of dying." The only comfort that is offered in exchange for this disheartening reality is the wisdom to "stand firm in endurance, taking delight in all good things." That is little comfort.

Now we must leave behind what has been said explicitly about life's brevity by the lyric poets. The terrain traversed was existentially difficult, though likely not unfamiliar to the reader. It would be unfair to leave such a morbid impression of the Greeks. We might be mistaken that they were a rather doldrum bunch who passed the hours reflecting on mortality like a medieval monk. That could not be further from the truth. This recognition of life's brevity seems to have made them creatures of the moment. They approach life with a certain vivacity that will not be content to wait for some promised day of glory. Whatever is to be experienced must be seized.

Herodotus may write unobjective–and occasionally outright bad–history, but one would never accuse him of being disinterested. Homer does not care to write the annals of the Trojan War. He writes a very human story. It simply happened to take place during the Trojan War. Even Hesiod, the seasoned farmer who is rough around the edges, passes on instruction for this life and not the next. Greek art is not cold and distant like what you might find in the empires of their contemporaries. It is alive with movement: an athlete poised to throw a discus, a warrior collapsed with a fatal wound, two heroes playing a board game. The agora, the amphitheater, and even the government were not distant pleasures of the nobility, but crucial forums where all were expected to engage with the difficulties of existence. This was Greece at its best.

It seems fitting then to end not with their morbid reflections on old age and death, but with an example of someone being captured by the moment. For this we can turn to Sappho who is the most skilled Greek hand at absorbing a reader in an experience. Here she ironically uses the all encompassing experience of illness to illustrate the pangs of love. This is where the Greeks find eternity: not in the afterlife, but in the moment. I will leave the poem as my conclusion so that the reader might live in Sappho's words for as long as their experience will allow:

"He seems to me equal to the gods,

that man who sits across from you

and listens close at hand

to your sweet voice

and lovely laughter. Truly it sets

my heart to pounding in my breast,

for the moment I glance at you, I can

no longer speak;

my tongue grows numb; at once a subtle

fire runs stealthily beneath my skin;

my eyes see nothing, my ears

ring and buzz,

the sweat pours down, a trembling

seizes the whole of me, I turn paler

than grass, and I seem to myself

not far from dying.

But everything can be endured, because..."

(Sappho Fr. 31)