Homeric Responses

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Chapter 3. Homeric Responses [1]

Irreversible Mistakes and Homeric Clairvoyance

This chapter is divided into two parts. In the first of the two, I argue generally, in purely poetic terms, that the two Homeric examples chosen by Janko involve not “mistakes” but just the opposite, feats of artistic virtuosity. In the second part, I go on to argue more specifically that such virtuosity can be appreciated in oral poetic terms.

For Aristarchus, the duals in the Embassy Scene had to be explained as referring only to two persons rather than three, and his solution was to argue {50|51} that Phoenix is not really one of the ambassadors. According to this explanation, the only ambassadors are Odysseus and Ajax.

There are other details, besides the point made by Crates about ἔπειτα ‘then’ at Iliad 9.170, that need to be brought to bear. For example, whereas Nestor says that Phoenix ἡγησσάσθω ‘should lead’ the embassy (9.169) and ἔπειτα ‘then’ Ajax and Odysseus should follow along (9.170), we see at a later point in the narrative that it is Odysseus who now leads the embassy as the ensemble approaches the tent of Achilles:

Τώ δὲ Βάτην προτέρω. ἡγεῖτο δὲ δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς
The two of them went ahead, and radiant Odysseus was leading.

Iliad 9.192

Nestor had said at 9.169 that Phoenix should lead, but now we see at 9.192 that Odysseus is leading. What has happened in the interim? Why is Odysseus now leading instead of Phoenix, and who are the two characters that must now be following? How can Ajax and Odysseus be the followers, now that Odysseus is leading?

The artistry of recombining older and newer narrative elements in the “Embassy Scene” is marked by the ostentatious usage of words referring to visual signals involving exchanges of looks between characters in the narrative, as if to signal communication that is not stated explicitly by way of words. At Iliad 9.196, for example, Achilles acknowledges eye-contact with the ambassadors by pointing toward them (δεικύμενος) as they approach him – and the pronoun form for ‘them’ is in the dual (τώ). At Iliad 9.167, Nestor says that the ambassadors to be chosen by him will be the ones that he looks at: ἐπιόψομαι ‘I will look [in their direction]’. Presumably, he will exchange looks with each one in turn. Only in the verses that follow, 9.168-170, does he actually name his three choices. Needless to say, the looking and the naming can be imagined as simultaneous. Still, the point is that Nestor makes his expectation explicit already at 9.167: the chosen ones are to agree to be ambassadors at the very moment that he looks at them – and the verb form for ‘let them agree’ is in the dual (πιθέθων). Later, at Iliad 9.180, Nestor is described as δενδίλλων ‘blinking, making eyes’ in the direction of ‘each’ of the ambassadors (ἐς ἕκαστον), ‘especially at Odysseus’ (Ὀδυσσῆϊ δὲ μάλιστα), just as they are about to set off on their embassy.

The wording that describes the intervention of Odysseus is suggestive:

νεῦσ᾽Αἲας φοίνκι νόησε δὲ δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς.
Ajax nodded [ neuō ] to Phoenix. But radiant Odysseus took note [ noeō ].

Iliad 9.223

The verb noeō ‘take note, notice, perceive’, as I have argued elsewhere, is a special word used in archaic Greek poetic diction in contexts where a special interpretation, a special “reading,” as it were, is signaled. [23] In passages like Odyssey 17.281 [24] and Iliad 23.305, [25] it is clear that the verb noeō designates a complex level of understanding that entails two levels of meaning, one of which is overt while the other, the more important one, is latent. When Odysseus ‘took note’, νόησε [noeō], at Iliad 9.223, he was in effect taking an initiative with an ulterior motive, a latent purpose, in mind. As Cedric Whitman argues, the offer to Achilles by Agamemnon, as reformulated by Odysseus in his quoted speech from the Embassy Scene, endangers the very status of Achilles in epic. [26] It may be argued further that a potential ulterior motive of Odysseus, to undermine the heroic stature of Achilles, is understood by Achilles. [27] We recall what Achilles says: whoever says one thing and hides {54|55} something else in his thoughts is as ekhthros ‘hateful’ to him as the gates of Hades (9.312-313). By implication, Achilles is portrayed as understanding a latent strategy of deceit on the part of Odysseus. [28] It may be that such a subtle understanding on the part of Achilles justifies the formalistic use of the dual in Achilles’ greeting of the emissaries: this greeting in effect snubs Odysseus by excluding him from the ranks of those who are philoi, near and dear, to Achilles. [29]

To sum up my analysis of the Embassy Scene, I hold that the “formalistic” use of dual forms amounts to a virtuoso redeployment of two levels of meaning, one of which is overt while the other, the more important one, is latent.

We now come to the second of Janko’s two prime examples of “irreversible mistakes” in Homer. As in the case of the Embassy Scene, I will first argue more generally, in purely poetic terms, that this second example chosen by Janko involves not a “mistake” but just the opposite, a feat of artistic virtuosity. Then and only then, as I have already indicated, will I go on to argue more specifically that the virtuosity can be appreciated in oral poetic terms.

The second example in question comes from the Odyssey. We see Odysseus in the act of praying to Zeus for both an omen and a phēmē ‘prophetic utterance’ as indications telling him that he will indeed prevail over the suitors (20.98-101). Zeus responds by sending both thunder (20.103-104) and a phēmē (20.105).

The phēmē takes the form of a prayer uttered by an anonymous woman grinding grain with her mill (20.112-119): she is not sure for whom the sign of the god’s thunder is intended (τεῳ, 20.114), but she prays to Zeus that he should intend it for her too (καὶ ἐμοί, 20.115) by bringing to fulfillment the epos ‘utterance’ that she now speaks (20.115). The narrative framing her utterance likewise refers to the woman’s prayer as an epos, adding that this epos is meant to be a sēma ‘sign’ for Odysseus (20.111).

For Janko, an irreversible mistake can be found here in what seems to be a contradiction between the words of the narrative framing the phēmē and the words of the “quoted” phēmē itself. In the words of the phēmē uttered by the woman, she says that the thundering of Zeus came from the starry sky (οὐρανοῦ ἀστερόεντος 20.113), where no cloud is to be seen: οὐδέ ποθι νέφος ἐστί ‘and there is not a cloud [nephos] anywhere’ (20.114). This, then, was the sign that the woman had received: it was a thundering from a clear sky. By contrast, the narrative that frames her utterance refers to the thundering of Zeus, from radiant Olympus (ἀπ᾿ αἰγλήεντος Ὀλύμπου, 20.103), and the thundering had come ὑψόθεν ἐκ νεφέων ‘from on high, from out of the clouds [nephea]’ (20.104).

Of course, no Homer critic would have any problem if the narrative frame here had been more simple, featuring only one sign – that is, if Odysseus had prayed for only one sign, the thunder of Zeus. The problem seems to arise from the combining of two signs in the narration – the thunder of Zeus and the song of the woman. It is this combination that has led to what appears to be a contradiction between these two signs. And yet, I propose that the combining of two narrative signs here amounts to an artistic narratological elaboration, which succeeds in producing a special poetic effect by way of juxtaposing the perceptions of the woman and the perceptions of Odysseus.

The prophecy, of course, starts with Zeus, whose thundering is in itself the primal act that leads to the cledonomancy. Zeus himself is ultimately prophetic in his manifestations of weather, and his meaning can be ambivalently bright or dark, clear or cloudy, positive or negative. The Indo-European form *dyeu-, which becomes Greek Zeus (Ζεύς), means basically ‘sky’, thus conveying a cledonomantic ambivalence: it portends either clear or clouded weather. Despite this ambivalence of clear or clouded, positive or negative, in the meaning ‘sky’, the Indo-European noun *dyeu– stems from the verb *diw-, which has only the positive meaning ‘be bright / clear’, not the negative ‘be dark / cloudy’ – which is the other side of Zeus.

There is a similar cledonomantic ambivalence in the meaning of the Indo-European form *nebhos, which becomes Greek nephos (νέφος) ‘cloud’: it means basically ‘cloud’ in ambivalently good or bad weather. This ambivalence explains the fact that in some Indo-European languages the derivative of *nebhos means primarily ‘sky’, by way of metonymy. Such is the case with Russian nebo ‘sky’. Thus in Russian idiom, na nebe ni oblaka means ‘there’s not a cloud [oblako] in the sky [nebo]’. From the standpoint of Indo-European linguistics, we see here a new word for ‘cloud’, oblako, while the old word for ‘cloud’ has become, metonymically, the new word for ‘sky’. This new word can even stand for a cloudless sky, as in the idiom we have just seen: na nebe ni oblaka means ‘there’s not a cloud [oblako] in the sky [nebo]’.

I propose, in fact, that the theme of the Will of Zeus, as a conventional plot device of Homeric narrative, is essential for understanding the double omen of Zeus’ thunder and the woman’s song in the Odyssey. I propose, further, that the weather in this passage of the Odyssey depends on the Will of Zeus, and that the sudden shift from a cloudy to a clear sky is a choice in Homeric narratology, not a mistake in Homeric meteorology.

To sum up, I repeat my earlier formulation: when Zeus thunders ὑψόθεν ἐκ νεφέων ‘from on high, from out of the clouds [nephea]’ (Odyssey 20.105), he is essentially thundering from the sky, through the metonymy of the clouds. This poetic description in the framing narrative does not contradict, per se, the later perception of a clear sky within the framed speech: οὐδέ ποθι νέφος ἐστί ‘and there is not a cloud [nephos] anywhere’ (20.114). But that later perception does indeed clarify the earlier narrative perception of a sky that may be clouded over. Now the sky is clear, as the cledonomantic words have finally been clarified.

The time has come to rethink the two Homeric passages that we have examined, one from the Iliad and the other from the Odyssey, in terms of oral poetics, not just poetics per se. I hold that the complexities of these passages reflect the accretions of a highly sophisticated oral poetic tradition that kept on continually recombining its older and its newer elements in the productive phases of its evolution. These older and newer elements may at times seem to contradict each other if we stop and view each of them as individual parts, but I suggest that such contradictions were transcended by the actual re-combinations {59|60} of these parts into the totality of an ongoing system that we know as Homeric poetry. In order to account for such an ongoing system, I developed my evolutionary model for the making of Homeric poetry, and it is this model that I seek to test in what follows.

This testing of my theory will require a confrontation with two alternative theories: (1) Homeric literacy and (2) Homeric dictation. The first of these theories, as formulated by Adam Parry and others, requires a Homer who is too sophisticated for oral poetry. The second, as formulated by Janko, allows for a Homer who is capable of making major as well as minor mistakes in composition and who is therefore lacking in the kind of sophistication that typifies the written poetry of later periods. Both of these formulations, I submit, undervalue the potential of artistic sophistication in oral poetry. My evolutionary model, by contrast, is designed to explore that potential to the fullest.

Let me begin the testing of my model by affirming the obvious: I have no doubts that irreversible mistakes could indeed have happened at any given moment of performance in the Homeric tradition. But the fundamental question is, did such mistakes persist in the transmission of the Homeric text? This question is linked to another one, which is even more fundamental: to what extent can we apply to the text of Homer the empirical findings of Parry and Lord concerning composition-in-performance in the South Slavic oral traditions?

In order to see what exactly is at stake whenever we compare a living oral tradition, South Slavic or otherwise, with what we find in the Homeric text as we have it, it is essential to review briefly the comparative methodology shared by Parry and Lord.

It is only after reading 30 of the 53 pages of Adam Parry’s introduction to his father’s work that we find, finally, the first mention of Lord’s book, The Singer of Tales. [47] Even here, the context is negative: Adam Parry goes out of his way to detach his father’s work from Lord’s and to attach it instead to the work of Classicists who resist the application of the comparative South Slavic evidence to Homer. Referring to the South Slavic oral traditions as simply an “analogy” used by both Parry and Lord in their study of Homer, he remarks: “To Lord, possibly even more than to Parry, the {62|63} analogy is clear and certain.” [48] Then, as an alternative to Lord’s book, he refers to “others” for whom “the analogy is far less sure,” citing an article written by himself and a book by G. S. Kirk. [49] These alternative works consistently undervalue the comparative methodology of Parry and Lord, which had been founded on the central comparandum of the living South Slavic oral traditions that both of them had studied internally as well as comparatively. Further along in his introduction, Adam Parry sums up his own view: “Not the slightest proof has yet appeared that the texts of the Iliad and Odyssey as we have them, or any substantial connected portion of these texts, were composed by oral improvisation of the kind observed and described by Parry and Lord and others in Jugoslavia and elsewhere.” [50] He finds it “quite conceivable” that “Homer made use of writing to compose a poem in a style which had been developed by an oral tradition.” [51]

Not only Lord but also Parry himself rigorously avoided speculating about the historical circumstances of Homeric poetry. The questions of why, how, when, and where the Homeric poems were recorded are left open by both Parry and Lord. This fact needs to be stressed, because there are those who appropriate to their own historical or linguistic reconstructions the legacy of Parry and Lord, as if these reconstructions were the be-all and end-all for such a legacy.

The many disagreements growing out of the various dictation theories, which do not even agree among each other, have led to considerable confusion, at the moment of this writing, about the methodology of Parry and Lord in the field of Homeric studies. In the wake of all this confusion, it seemed to me essential to reaffirm in this book not only the methods but also the results of the work accomplished by Parry and Lord. Their results, like their methods, had practically nothing to do with the various dictation theories that are now in circulation.

I propose here to concentrate on the results. The evidentiary core of the legacy left behind by Parry and Lord is simply this: the Homeric text as we have it is comparable – on the levels of both form (formula) and content (theme / type-scene) – with what we observe in the recordings of living oral traditions, especially as collected in the historical context of the South Slavic traditions.

Such rhetoric is pointless and even misleading, given that the theory of a dictating Homer is hardly a keystone of Lord’s work, let alone Parry’s. To repeat, Lord’s formulation of a general “dictation theory” is purely comparative, and he makes no inferences about the historical background of Homer.

My own answer concerning the whys, hows, whens, and wheres of Homeric poetry is reflected in my evolutionary model. This model, I must repeat, is not at odds with dictation models per se.

The differences between my evolutionary model and Janko’s dictation model bring us back, one last time, to the question of irreversible mistakes in Homeric poetry. According to Janko’s theory, an eight-century Homeric dictation had left in its wake the vestiges of such mistakes in the Homeric textual tradition, which is supposedly the only direct line of continuity between Homer in the eighth century and our own text of Homer in the present.

Thus I resist the idea of a Homer who was nodding off at such dramatic moments as when the thunder of Zeus suddenly switches from a cloudy sky to a clear one, or when the dual forms of the Embassy Scene suddenly switch from situations requiring two characters to situations allowing three or more. I prefer the idea of a narrative plan that dares to call itself the Will of Zeus, and the god nods his assent in the positive sense of neuō, hardly in the negative sense of nodding off.

In the end I doubt that Homeric poetry, as performed by rhapsodes through the ages in the historical course of its ongoing reception in the archaic and classical periods and maybe even beyond, could ever have left its adoring audiences with any lasting impressions of irreversible mistakes committed by their prototypical poet, their very own divine Homer. {71|72}


[ back ] 1. The original version of this chapter is Nagy 1999b.

[ back ] 2. The central works, again, are [M.} Parry MHV and Lord 1960, 1991, 1995.

[ back ] 3. Lord 1960:28.

[ back ] 4. Janko 1998b:7.

[ back ] 5. Ibid.: 8.

[ back ] 6. Again, Lord 1953, later reprinted in Lord 1991:3-48, with an addendum.

[ back ] 7. As Casey Dué pointed out to me, Lord in the 1991 addendum (pp. 47-48; repeated for emphasis at pp. 11-12) raises important questions centering on the idea that composition-in-dictation may be different artistically – or even cognitively – from oral composition-in-performance without dictation.

[ back ] 8. The most informative and insightful summary of the ongoing debate, I find, is Wilson 2002: 71-108.

[ back ] 9. See Broggiato 1998.

[ back ] 10. See Scholia A to Iliad 13.586a and the commentary of Broggiato 1998:140 n. 15.

[ back ] 11. On scholiastic evidence for situations where Aristarchus reacts to Crates’ editorial and exegetical judgments about the Homeric text, see Broggiato 1998:141; also Nagy 1998a:219-223.

[ back ] 12. HQ 141 n. 123, with bibliography. Two possibilities are considered there: Does the dual refer here to Ajax and Odysseus, so that Odysseus as leader is included in the dual, or (as I prefer) does it refer to Phoenix and Ajax, so that Odysseus as leader is excluded from the dual? Louden (2002:75) argues that the dual refers to Phoenix and the herald Eurybates, so that Odysseus as leader is excluded, again, from the dual. I find this explanation unconvincing. In his article, Louden attempts to reconstruct an “underlying type scene” (p. 63) in order to account for most, if not all, of the variations he finds in the embassy scenes of the Iliad and in related passages. I see serious problems with Louden’s assumption of a “basic” (p. 64) or “original” (p. 76) version. Also, when he says that a verse like Iliad 9.192 serves as an “archetype” for other verses (p. 72), I can accept his formulation only to the extent that the ambiguity of referents in such a verse may lead to further opportunities for variation. For example, the leader may or may not be included in the reference made by the dual construction (see the previous discussion). I agree, in any case, with Louden’s point that the Odyssus figure was associated with dual constructions in his own right. Also, I value Louden’s observations about the thematic affinity of Odysseus with the herald Eurybates.

[ back ] 13. See HQ 139-140, esp. with reference to Iliad 1.387 as parallel to 9.182. This discussion is ignored by Louden (2002:74 n. 18).

[ back ] 14. See the scholia to Iliad 1.567, 3.459, 6.112, 8.503, 13.627, 15.347, 18.287, 23.753; Odyssey 1.38, 8.251; cf. Rengakos 1993:76 n. 4; also Broggiato 1998:138 n. 5.

[ back ] 15. See the analysis of Rengakos 1993:76-78.

[ back ] 16. BA 49 par. 9 n. 1.

[ back ] 17. BA 56 par. 20 n. 6.

[ back ] 18. BA 2 xvii. I emphasize here the relative distinction between older and newer forms, as opposed to an absolutizing distinction between “original” and “derivative.” For more on “cross-referencing” in terms of oral poetics, see the introduction above, “Question 4.”

[ back ] 19. Nagy 1997c:179-180, with reference to HQ 138-145 and to BA 42-58.

[ back ] 20. Ibid.

[ back ] 21. BA 54.

[ back ] 22. HQ 142. For another situation where Odysseus speaks out of turn, see Muellner 1976:21 on Odyssey 14.439; corroboration by Wilson 2002:83 and 200 n. 41. See also BA 40 par. 17 n. 2 on Odyssey 8.474-483; where Odysseus is the guest of Alkinoos but acts like the host of Demodokos in offering the singer a choice cut of meat.

[ back ] 23. GM 202-222.

[ back ] 24. GM 208.

[ back ] 25. GM 217-219.

[ back ] 26. Whitman 1958:191-192. Cf. Martin 1989:116-117, 123. See now also Wilson 2002:85, which demonstrates how “Odysseus omits any reference to compensation. His speech contains no compensation theme, no recognition of the harm Agamemnon had inflicted, and no resolution to Achilleus’ poinē [revenge] theme.”

[ back ] 27. BA 52-53. When I say “understood by Achilles,” of course I mean it only in the sense that the understanding conveyed by the overall narrative is in such cases subjectively transferred, by the narrator, to the hero of the narrative. Cf. Martin 1989:197 n. 82, 210-212.

[ back ] 28. BA 52-53. See also Wilson 2002:85, “Achilleus’ acid response unmasks the trickter’s deception, revealing that he is not taken in by Odysseus’ rhetoric.’ As Wilson argues (ibid.), an essential aspect of this rhetoric is the moment when Odysseus replaces Agamemnon’s objectionable term apereisi’ apoina ‘unlimited ransom’ (Iliad 9.120) with his own neutralized term axia dōra ‘worthy gifts’ (Iliad 9.261).

[ back ] 29. This paragraph is an expanded version of HQ 142-143.

[ back ] 30. GM 221. The quotation is by way of Plutarch Banquet of the Seven Sages 157e (note esp. the wording that introduces the “quotation” of the singing woman in Eresos, τῆς ξένης ἢκουον ᾀδούσης πρὸς τὴν μύλην).

[ back ] 31. Again, GM 221.

[ back ] 32. At the moment of fulfillment, Odysseus rejoices at both omens: (1) the prophetic utterance, kleēdōn, and (2) the thundering of Zeus (χαῖρεν δὲ κλεηδόνι … | Ζηνός τε βροντῇ, Odyssey 20.120-121).

[ back ] 33. Scholia V to Odyssey 20.104 actually cite this Iliadic passage, explaining the usage of nephea at 20.104 in terms of metonymy. A similar explanation is offered in Scholia BQ: that the word nephea at Odyssey 20.102 is to be understood as referring to a realm where clouds can be expected to happen.

[ back ] 34. Cf. the analysis of this double omen in Austin 1975:119-121. With reference to Odyssey 20.92-101, Austin remarks (ibid.:119): “Just before [Odysseus] falls asleep on the eve of his vengeance, outside his palace, Athena appears at his head to give him encouragement; just before the following dawn he hears Penelope’s lament…and imagines that she has recognized him and is standing at his head. Athena and Penelope appear like two dream figures but with contrary import. Penelope weeping seems to be a bad omen which annuls Athena as good omen. It is a further complication that the good omen happens at night, the bad one just at dawn [emphasis mine].” As Austin argues (p. 120), Odysseus’s prayer for a double omen is meant as a resolution to the Athena-Penelope omens.

[ back ] 35. GM 221, with reference to sēma ‘sign’ in this passage of the Odyssey, 20.111.

[ back ] 36. GM 222.

[ back ] 37. HQ 20. My formulation here, as quoted from HQ, is echoed by Janko1998b:4.

[ back ] 38. On this discipline, see Guillén 1993, esp. pp. 173-179, with reference to Parry and Lord; also Davidson 2000:xiii-xiv. Lord, during his years as professor at Harvard University, was an active member of the Comparative Literature Department. His book, The Singer of Tales, was originally published as volume 24 (1960) of that department’s monograph series, Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature.

[ back ] 39. A fundamental work on the comparative method is Meillet 1925; cf. Nagy 1974:19-20.

[ back ] 40. Fragments of this work have been published in MHV [1933-1935]:437-464. Adam Parry describes these fragments as “extracts” (MHV [1971]:xxxix).

[ back ] 41. [M.] Parry MHV [1933-1935]:439.

[ back ] 42. See also Milman Parry’s remarks in MHV [1928]:8-9, 20-21; [1928]:244;[1932]:326 n. 3.

[ back ] 43. [A.] Parry MHV [1971]:ix-lxii.

[ back ] 44. Ibid.:xxiii.

[ back ] 45. For extensive documentation of the undervaluing of Meillet’s methodology in Adam Parry’s introduction, see Lamberterie 1997, esp. p. 7; also Mitchell and Nagy 2000:xvii.

[ back ] 46. See the negative remarks of Adam Parry in MHV [1971]:xxxvii n. 3, 1, xliii n. 1, and, most overtly, xlviii (twice on this page). On the unfinished work of Milman Parry entitled The Singer of Tales, see the wording of Adam Parry MHV [1971]:xxxix, xli.

[ back ] 47. [A.] Parry MHV [1971]:xxxviii.

[ back ] 48. Ibid.

[ back ] 49. Ibid. The article is A. Parry 1966; the book is Kirk 1962. In note 1 of his introduction (MHV [1971]:ix), Adam Parry acknowledges the advice of G. S. Kirk, among others – including Eric Havelock and Hugh Lloyd-Jones. There is no mention of Albert Lord.

[ back ] 50. [A.] Parry MHV [1971]:lxi n. 1. On the problems created by the casual usages of the word “improvisation,” see HQ 26.

[ back ] 51. [A.] Parry MHV [1971]:lxi n. 1.

[ back ] 52. HQ 14.

[ back ] 53. Cf. HQ 18, 22-25.

[ back ] 54. Lord 1953, reprinted in Lord 1991, pp. 3-48, with an addendum.

[ back ] 55. Janko 1982:191, Jensen 1980:92, West 1990:34, Powell 1991:221-237. See introduction, “Question 3” above.

[ back ] 56. Janko 1998b.

[ back ] 57. Janko’s 1998b article and by 1996 book (HQ) mostly agree, even in our various disagreements with others.

[ back ] 58. Janko 1998a, 1998b, 1998c.

[ back ] 59. Janko 1998a (no pagination).

[ back ] 60. [M.] Parry MHV [1971]:451.

[ back ] 61. Ibid.

[ back ] 62. Ibid.:452.

[ back ] 63. Ibid.

[ back ] 64. Ibid. I have silently corrected “Ludwig” to “Ludwich.”

[ back ] 65. Nagy 1997b (no pagination), Nagy 1998b (no pagination).

[ back ] 66. Janko 1998b.

[ back ] 67. Janko 1992:99-100; also pp. 37-38.

[ back ] 68. On the formulaic integrity of this variant reading στενάχοντε adduced by Aristarchus, see below.

[ back ] 69. Janko 1992:99-100.

[ back ] 70. Nagy 1998b (no pagination).

[ back ] 71. This paragraph is excerpted from Nagy 1998b (no pagination).

[ back ] 72. Ibid. (no pagination).

[ back ] 73. BA 2 x-xi; cf. HQ 31.

[ back ] 74. BA 2 xi; cf. PP 107-152.

[ back ] 75. BA 2 xiv. See also the introduction above, “Question 2.” See in general PP ch. 5 (“Multiform Epic and Aristarchus’ Quest for the Real Homer”), ch. 6 (“Homer as Script”), and ch. 7 (“Homer as ‘Scripture’”). On hermeneutic models of “transcript,” see PP 110-113 and Bakker 1997:208 n. 3.

[ back ] 76. For important insights into the Cypria, see Burgess 1996, esp. 79-80. On the Epic Cycle in general, see Burgess 2001.

[ back ] 77. This paragraph is excerpted from HQ 43. Janko’s (1998b:12) restatement of my diffusion model is not accurate (also, his cross-reference at p. 12 n. 66 to his n. 7 should be corrected to n. 18). Nor is he accurate in equating my model with the “memorial transmission” theory of Kirk 1962:88-98 and 1976:130-131. For my disagreement with Kirk’s “devolutionary” model, see HQ 110-111.

[ back ] 78. For a prototype of this formulation, see PP 177-1789. For more on the model represented by the metaphor of the “Panathenaic Bottleneck,” see Nagy 2001a.

[ back ] 79. Further argumentation in Nagy 1997c:183.