Shinjan Pramanik
UG- III, Roll no.-14
Lucian of Samosata began his journey as a rhetorician, around 140 A.D. By 160 A.D., he abandoned Rhetoric and adopted the Comic Dialogue instead. This paper shall consider two of his texts following this period—“How to Write History” and “A True History”. I shall attempt to demonstrate, through close comparison, how these two texts are connected in their critique of style and content in historiography, rather than contradictory works produced by a contrarian. The larger point that I shall try to make is that Lucian, as a satirist, is concerned with communicating a serious truth through texts that are often quite frivolous on the surface—because this is the only appropriate way in which he can attempt to do so without making the same mistakes as the ones he satirizes in his works.
Lucian wrote “How to Write History” around 165 A.D., while “A True History” or “A True Tale” was most probably composed during 165-175 A.D.
1. “How to Write History”
Lucian wrote “How to Write History” during the Roman-Parthian War of 161/162-166 A.D. It is addressed to Philo, presumably a potential historian. In this text, Lucian does not wish to write an actual history and teach by example. Instead, his primary purpose is to analyse the flaws of the existing histories of the war, and offer suggestions for improving the practice of historiography. The text can be largely divided into two parts along these lines. In the first part, Lucian critiques the “slipshod writing” (183; sec. 7) of a number of historians of the war—illustrating, through their mistakes, exactly what to avoid—and in the second part, he offers constructive advice on how to write history in general. Recounting an anecdote concerning Diogenes of Sinope, he says:
When Philip was reported to be already approaching, the Corinthians were all in a turmoil of activity . . . everyone involved in some useful task. When Diogenes saw this, as he had nothing to do (no one was making use of him), he girded on his old cloak and all on his own he energetically rolled the wine-jar, in which he happened to be living, up and down Craneion. Asked by one of his friends, “Why are you doing this, Diogenes?”, he replied, “I’m rolling my wine-jar so that I don’t seem to be the only idle man in all this bustle of activity.” (182; sec. 3)
Lucian claims to be doing the same thing. He rolls his wine-jar, regardless of whether the reckless historians choose to heed his advice.
The success of Lucian’s ridicule depends partly on his rhetoric. Lucian makes a very important distinction between a good historian and his shabby contemporaries in section 7—while the role of the former is to chronicle, to record what has happened, he finds most of his contemporaries engaged in sycophantic behaviour under the guise of writing history. Through comparisons and distinctions he tries to prove the unsuitability of the style utilized by his contemporaries—Lucian primarily utilizes this strategy throughout the first part of the text. A significant reason for this unsuitability is their “playing at being Thucydides and Herodotus and Xenophon” (182; sec. 2). The other reason is their ignorance of the fundamental principles of poetry and history. Lucian also juxtaposes their styles or subjects of writing with hyperbolic examples. This serves a specific purpose—the discordant nature of the hyperboles enables him to draw attention to the incongruous style of his contemporaries. Lucian claims that if praise is to be present in a history, it must not become a panegyric—that is, the praise must be delivered in moderation, and avoid becoming ludicrous. The result of failing to keep this in mind, and resorting to recording falsehoods is suitably demonstrated by another reasonable and humorous anecdote:
For instance, Aristoboulos included in his history the fight between Alexander and Porus, and made a point of reading this passage to Alexander, thinking he would greatly gratify the king by falsely attributing acts of prowess to him, and by inventing deeds far surpassing the truth. At the time they were sailing on the river Hydaspes, and Alexander took the book and flung it straight into the water, saying, “That’s what you deserve too, Aristoboulos, for fighting such single-handed combats on my behalf, and killing elephants with a single spear-cast.” (186; sec. 12)
He continues “How to Write History” with specific examples of aberrant historians. In these sections, Lucian categorically lampoons the hubris of his contemporaries, who wish to profit simply from the slavish imitation of pre-existing models. What is of particular relevance is Lucian’s emphasis on uniformity—not just of the textual material, but also of tone. For example, he calls the disjunction arising from the mixture of poetical turns of phrases and banal, commonplace words a “tragic actor wearing the high boot of tragedy on one foot and a sandal on the other” (190; sec. 22).
Yet, all the stylistic faults may be forgiven as long as the historian does not make factual errors. He suggests that in spite of making the most egregious of errors (geographical or otherwise), the pretensions of the writers who claim certain knowledge, derived from credible sources, never cease—they might even get emboldened by the popularity of their fictional representations. The relation of history and truth is of great concern to Lucian. He repeatedly states that it is the function of history to reveal the truth—
My belief is that when actions are finished and done with, not even Clotho the Spinner can unspin them nor Atropos the Unchanging change them back. The single task of the historian is to tell of things as they happened . . . if you are going to write history you must sacrifice to truth alone, ignoring everything else. In short, your one clear rule and yardstick is to keep your eye not on your present audience, but on those who will come to your work in the future (196; sec. 38-39)
—and thereby offers advice appropriate to this purpose. Lucian claims that history “cannot tolerate introducing a lie” (184; sec. 7); however, it is evident from “A True History” that he himself fairly revels in falsity and dissimulation (this shall be taken up in the next section of the paper).
In sections 34-63 of “How to Write History”, Lucian attempts to delineate the desirable traits of a chronicler. The historian, he says, should be:
. . . fearless, incorruptible, frank, a friend of free speech and the truth, determined, as the comic poet puts it, to call figs figs and a tub a tub, indulging neither hatred nor friendship, sparing nobody, not showing pity or shame or diffidence, an unbiased judge, kindly to everyone up to the point of not allowing one side more than it deserves, a stranger without a state in his writings, independent, serving no king, not taking into account what any man will think, but simply saying what happened. (197; sec. 41)
The ideal historian should moreover be technically and stylistically competent. He must be lucid, yet moderately poetic (only insofar as they are able to use poetry to harmoniously introduce an element of the sublime), and adept at maintaining the uniformity of their style. Additionally, they must be a capable editor of their own works. Lucian contends that the proper collection and representation of facts and details contribute to the overall quality. Thus, organization—not just of words and phrases, but of accounts of events—also plays an important role in the chronicling process.
Historiography is as complex a process as composing poetry; in spite of his initial insistence, poetry and history are not disparate entities. A compelling historical account is at once as engaging to read, as it is communicative of the truth. The task of the historian, he writes, is “to arrange events artistically and to exert all his powers to make them vivid” (199; sec. 51). The emphasis in “How to Write History” is on avoiding the dissemination of myths or fictions as the historical truth, and not on a disavowal of the poetic faculties altogether. Therefore, it is not surprising, if understood this way, that “A True History” makes extensive use of poetic devices in its framework. But, returning to “How to Write History”, the figure that assists Lucian in conveying his point is simple repetition. He overtly states, a number of times, that there is a particular need of moderation when it comes to the rhetoric of historians; moreover, this moderation must be judiciously exercised in the whole work—descriptions of landscape, as well as human constructions, must be recounted skilfully, and not be mediated by bombastic phrases designed specifically to impress the reader. Keeping all this in mind, Lucian says that even myths or fictions may indeed be recorded, as long as they are self-admittedly recognized as narratives, and not as a version of the truth or the real[i]. He clearly outlines what the aim of the historian should be—to write keeping posterity in mind, rather than to seek the praise of the present:
. . . If a myth happens to arise, you must record it but not believe it totally: set it out for your audience to make their own conjectures about it. You yourself should run no risks by leaning to one side or the other.
On the whole, I ask you to remember this––and I shall keep on repeating it: don’t only write with an eye to the present, hoping that the present generation will praise and honour you. You should aim at eternity, writing for posterity and claiming payment for your book from them; so that it can be said of you: “He was a free man, totally frank in his speech, untouched by flattery or servility, showing truthfulness in everything.” Any sensible man would rate that above all present hopes, seeing how short-lived they are. (201; sec. 60-61)
Thus, the principles he discusses, if followed, may enable histories to become “a monument more durable than bronze” (Horace, Odes III.XXX), and come closer to receiving the reverence assigned to earlier models of history and poetry—Herodotus, Thucydides, Homer, and so on. If not, Lucian will continue rolling his wine-jar, poking at the chinks in the armour of poorly conceived narratives simply meant to stoke pride.
2. “A True History”
The apparent deviation from these principles, by Lucian himself, in his “A True History”, has disconcerted a large number of critics. However, the motive for dissimulation is different in Lucian’s case, than in the case of false chroniclers, and that is precisely the point he tries to establish in the prefatory section. Referring to writers who deal in falsehoods, Lucian says:
Well, when I read all these writers I didn’t blame them greatly for their lying, as I’d already seen that this was habitual even to those professing philosophy. But what did surprise me was that they thought they could report untruths and get away with it. So, as I too was vain enough to want to leave something to posterity, and didn’t want to be the only one denied the right to flights of fancy, and since I had nothing truthful to report (not having experienced anything worth recording), I turned to lying. But I am much more honest in this than the others: at least in one respect I shall be truthful, in admitting that I am lying. Thus I think that by freely admitting that nothing I say is true, I can avoid being accused of it by other people. So, I am writing about things I neither saw nor experienced nor heard about from others, which moreover don’t exist, and in any case could not exist. My readers must therefore entirely disbelieve them. (204; sec. 4)
Here lies Lucian’s pièce de résistance. He illustrates the issues accompanying fantastical narratives posing to be truthful tales by first acknowledging that everything he will write will be outright false, followed by a long, two-book text that employs the very conventions of false, fabulous histories. This is a rather Socratic stance to adopt; perhaps there is a correspondence between this phase of his writings and the transition in his personal life—from being a rhetorician to a practitioner of the Comic Dialogue.
From section 5, the narrator of the text sails beyond the Pillars of Hercules. David Marsh, in his book-chapter “The Fantastic Voyage”, from Lucian and the Latins, writes:
By invoking intellectual curiosity and a thirst for adventure, Lucian’s explorer clearly recalls the prototype of Odysseus. But there is an important difference. Odysseus was bound on a homeward voyage, returning to his wife, family, and kingdom. By contrast, Lucian’s narrator sets forth with no cultural context . . . he resembles the Menippus who undertakes an outlandish journey to appease his intellectual curiosity. And his quest, like that of the Lucianic Menippus, ends without providing a larger lesson. (183)
There is another important difference from section 5 onwards. The tone suddenly changes, from the earlier tongue-in-cheek declaration, to a rather serious one—a seriousness befitting a respectable travel-narrative, for example. David Marsh continues:
The Pillars of Hercules constitute an important metatextual marker, for they delimit the known world from the unknown. Lucian takes this signpost as a symbolic point of departure for his narrative. In classical terms, the Pillars of Hercules were the farthest point of the oikoumenē, or inhabited earth. The bronze tablets discovered by his adventurous crew thus read like a border sign warning the traveler “You are now leaving the civilized world.” The passing of this boundary thus signals that Lucian is leading his reader into a geographical and a narrative terra incognita. (183-184)
Not only that, but from the moment the narrator crosses the Pillars of Hercules, Lucian’s readers, too, are forced to make a choice. They must either opt to sail by the Scylla of reading his text with the knowledge of its falsity, in the hopes of arriving at some meaning or scintillating truth beyond Scylla’s rock and the layers of untruth; or they must sail into the Charybdis of dismissal, inferring that there is no value to be gained from reading the lies fantastic; or, they must temporarily suspend judgement, and passively keep sailing until they are sucked either closer to the Scylla or Charybdis of interpretation.
2.1. Scylla
The problem awaiting critics at this juncture is to make a further decision. Is “A True History” to be taken at its face value, read as a genuine account of proto-science-fiction and proto-fantasy? Or is it to be consistently interpreted in light of the irony pervading the entire text, as the epitome of a historical or travel narrative, and thus, a satire on the historiography of his times? David Marsh notes that Lucian’s text:
. . . presupposes a realm of truth—a real world as common sense defines it—against which the outlandish details of the narrative must clash . . . Indeed, it is possible to read [it] as yet another Lucianic hybrid, one that combines the sober tone and meticulous accuracy of history with the outlandish creatures and episodes of poetry. (186-187)
While Marsh, like other critics, considers the text to deviate from the principles of “How to Write History”, a point that must be kept in mind is that Lucian is not writing a serious work of history. He is writing a serious work demonstrating the fallibility of histories written in a certain way. In this respect, “A True History” is not a text that directly contradicts what Lucian discusses in “How to Write History”. Let us recall what he writes towards the beginning of “How to Write History”:
I thought it expedient to roll my own wine-jar as well as I can. I’m not rash enough to write a history or record men’s actual deeds: never fear that I would do that. I know the danger if you roll it over the cliff, especially a badly baked little jar like mine. It only has to hit a small bit of rock and you’ll be gathering up its broken pieces. (182; sec. 4)
Lucian does not wish to take the risk of writing a poor history. Therefore, in “How to Write History”, he directly dissects the predominant flaws of existing and upcoming narratives, while “A True History”, at the other end of the spectrum, obliquely critiques the existing conventions. The latter text is conscious of its falsity; the subversion operates through imitating and thus exhibiting the absurdity of the very conventions that existed and were imitated in popular, contemporary texts.
One of David Marsh’s pertinent arguments is about the careful organization of the two-book text:
As [Graham] Anderson[ii] has shown, [it] consists of two books that share a tripartite structure: each narrative features a preliminary journey, a main episode, and several minor adventures. Many of Lucian’s episodic building blocks—such as the escape from monstrous hazards, the mourning of lost shipmates, and the prophecy of a safe homecoming—derive from the archetype of travel narratives, Homer’s Odyssey. And Lucian’s promise of a sequel at the end of book 2 serves a subtle purpose by implying to the reader that his fictional account could be continued ad infinitum.
In his two-book structure, Lucian clearly balances events and motifs: . . . The narrative of book 1 includes two wars, the first between the Sun and the Moon and the second between the inhabitants of the whale . . . Book 2, by contrast, is relatively peaceful and dwells on the harmonious society of the Isle of the Blest[iii]. (186)
Careful organization, structural or rhetorical, is one of the principles that Lucian desires historians to follow. Even though “A True History” is about events that are at the farthest possible reaches from the “true”, Lucian cannot help but bestow a stylistic polish upon the text that is in consonance with the principles he clearly outlines in “How to Write History”, while in dissonance with what he claims to be the crude writing practices of his contemporaries. In fact, upon closer examination, the narrative of “A True History” possesses all the good qualities of writing history that Lucian espoused in the earlier text: lucidity, poetic devices in moderation, uniformity of style, and so on. The two texts are moreover similarly funny—however, the outlandish examples of “How to Write History” or the bizarre occurrences of “A True History” are not the only sources of humour in these two texts. The overarching irony of the narratives, and the consciously-maintained tension between the contents of the narrative and the authorial voice, consistently enhance the comic aspects of these texts.
The narrator of “A True History” possesses Lucianic qualities as well. He extensively repeats himself, simultaneously recalling the formulaic epithets used in epic poetry due to necessity, as well as Lucian’s fondness for repetition—different events during the travels occur after intervals (mostly seven and eight days), and very rarely do multiple bizarre incidents occur during the same day. The narrator also utilizes hyperboles, a jocoserious perspective, and enjoys an ironic distance from the initial declaration that everything recorded in the text will be a lie. Consider these sentences, for example—“If anyone doesn’t believe all this, he’ll know I’m telling the truth should he ever get there himself” (212; sec. 26); “I was put in mind of Aristophanes, a wise and truthful poet whose works are quite unreasonably distrusted” (213; sec. 30); “I know no one will believe what I’m going to report, but I’ll say it anyway” (217; sec. 40). The best of these is when he reports, with deadpan seriousness:
. . . the severest penalties awaited those who had written falsehoods––these included Ctesias of Cnidos and Herodotus and many others. Seeing them I had good hopes for the future, for I have never knowingly told a lie. (228; sec. 31-32)
All of this is uniformly maintained in the text. Naturally, at the end of Book 2, when Lucian’s narrator promises a third book continuing the accounts of the journey, it is safe to assume that it is never going to be written.
Commenting on the technique Lucian employs to at once innovate and communicate the truth through falsity, Marsh succintly writes:
By forcibly welding poetry and history together, Lucian has invented a radically new and unpredictable form of narration that is marked by the random and unforeseeable vicissitudes of a voyage of exploration. . . . Lucian’s absurdist narrative thus conceals a deeper truth about travel. The exotic worlds he encounters beyond the Pillars of Hercules are perceived as chaotic versions of the familiar world of Greek culture. The cognitive basis for exploring the new world remains the old world left behind. As in much science fiction, the mores and motives of alien beings mirror our own, and even the most grotesque creatures, while not speaking our language, understand our intentions[iv]. . . . On the one hand, the depiction of true phenomena is distorted toward falsehood through hyperbole and hybridism. On the other hand, the false world of the fictitious voyage is made to ring true by its assimilation to intelligible patterns of culture and language. In Saussurean terms, there is no truth or falsehood; there are only differences. In effect, Lucian . . . presents a narrative theory of relativity. (188-190)
The strategy of comprehending the new or the unknown, through standards of the known, and subsequently recording it, is perceivable in most of the histories until that time. But this is also something that becomes ubiquitous in human history—as it is found in travel narratives, science-fiction, horror, fantasy, and a host of other genres as well. Consider a section where Marvin the Paranoid Android converses with a mattress from Squornshellous Zeta, in Douglas Adams’ Life, the Universe and Everything, the third book in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:
“My name,” said the mattress, “is Zem. We could discuss the weather a little.” Marvin paused again in his weary circular plod.
“The dew,” he observed, “has clearly fallen with a particularly sickening thud this morning.”
He resumed his walk, as if inspired by this conversational outburst to fresh heights of gloom and despondency. He plodded tenaciously. If he had had teeth he would have gritted them at this point. He hadn’t. He didn’t. The mere plod said it all.
The mattress flolloped around. This is a thing that only live mattresses in swamps are able to do, which is why the word is not in more common usage. It flolloped in a sympathetic sort of way, moving a fairish body of water as it did so. It blew a few bubbles up through the water engagingly. Its blue and white stripes glistened briefly in a sudden feeble ray of sun that had unexpectedly made it through the mist, causing the creature to bask momentarily. . . . “I gave a speech once,” [Marvin] said suddenly, and apparently unconnectedly. “You may not instantly see why I bring the subject up, but that is because my mind works so phenomenally fast, and I am at a rough estimate thirty billion times more intelligent than you. Let me give you an example. Think of a number, any number.”
“Er, five,” said the mattress.
“Wrong,” said Marvin. “You see?”
The mattress was much impressed by this and realized that it was in the presence of a not unremarkable mind. It willomied along its entire length, sending excited little ripples through its shallow algae-covered pool. (350-352)
The mattress flollops, globbers, floopily asks a question, vollues, flurbles, willomies, and gupps. When definitions are provided by Adams, they are just as incomprehensible as the words themselves—that is to say, only slightly incomprehensible, because the natural tendency is to define and associate these words with a particular familiar emotion, rather than accept them for what they are, even while reading a text as unconventional as Adams’.
Lucian’s narrative is filled with extraordinary incidents and encounters and individuals—Vulture-Cavalry, Solefeet, Lamp City, the Fortunate Isles, Asslegs. It cannot be quickly categorized as just science-fiction or fantasy or the slipshod writing of an ambivalent individual. A plethora of bizarre and humorous accounts accompany the ironic undertone of the text, and is never separated from it. The narrator wholeheartedly believes and accepts what happens to be true, and never pretends that the journey to the moon or surviving in a whale’s stomach are inconceivable experiences. Lucian, too, does not pretend to record a true history of anything beyond the several references and cultural allusions. To recall a previous metaphor, the ironic preface is equivalent to Circe’s advice to Odysseus regarding Scylla and Charybdis; not registering the presence of irony in Lucian’s text would be reckless. However, the irony does not detract from the nature of Lucian’s work, which, I claim, is overall serious. In both “How to Write History” and “A True History”, there is a steady confluence of parody and irony with hyperbole and the unexpected. “A True History”, then, is truly a stellar text (weak pun fully intended)[v] in terms of its versatility. Moreover, because it is a proto-science-fiction or proto-fantasy narrative, it is retrospectively one of the earliest examples of “alternative” or “genre” writing that demands serious consideration. In writing “A True History”, Lucian does not simply “aim at eternity, writing for posterity” (201; sec. 61)—the advice offered in “How to Write History”—but he also anticipates posterity and inscribes a two-book text that will permanently pique curiosity, even if the improbable were actually probable. This is achieved through the variety of the contents themselves; it consistently retains something or the other that will remain bizarre, a subject that is to be approached with awe or disbelief, because of how consciously and coherently it aims at being a strange text.
2.2 Charybdis
I have nothing to offer in this context as I decided to sail towards Scylla instead.
3. Rolling the wine-jar
It is evident, then, that the two texts represent two different modes of satire. In “How to Write History”, Lucian’s satire is direct, and he offers constructive advice on how to actually write a serious work of history. In “A True History”, the satire is largely indirect; the greater lesson that he leaves readers with (in the absence of any lesson offered by the narrator) is awareness of the incongruity of poor historiography. If Lucian’s text elicits outrage, then his inspirations should also evoke a proportionate amount of outrage and dissatisfaction. In dealing with descriptions of the fabulous, Lucian is quite precise in his details—following his own principle of precision, as well as highlighting the degree of falsity accompanying the historians’ accounts of the unknown. But what is Lucian’s predominant aim? Consider an anecdote towards the end of “How to Write History”:
You know about the achievement of that architect from Cnidos? He built the tower in Pharos, the largest and most splendid of all works, so that it might send a beacon-light to sailors far over the sea, and stop them being driven on to Paraetonia, a very dangerous spot, they say, from which there is no escape once you hit the reefs. Well, when he had finished the building, he wrote his own name on the stonework inside, plastered it over with gypsum, and having thus concealed it wrote over it the name of the reigning king. He knew (which indeed happened) that after a very short time the letters would fall off with the plaster, revealing “Sostratus of Cnidos, son of Dexiphanes, to the saviour gods, on behalf of those who sail.” In this way not even he was looking to the immediate present or his own brief lifetime, but forward to our time and to eternity, as long as the tower stands and his skill survives. (201; sec. 62)
Lucian’s aim is the same. Both the texts aspire towards eternity. The idea seems to be something along the lines of what Shakespeare writes, in a different context, as “So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee” (Sonnet XVIII, 147). As long as Lucian’s writings are perused, and assigned with an equivalent reverence as that of the Classical poets, the readers shall be entertained. The larger implication is that this entertainment shall be accompanied by a better, virtuous result—as there is a greater truth to be derived, even from his lies, because he is the only one truthful enough to admit when he is lying.
In spite of his preoccupation with history rather than poetry, in trying to attribute a greater degree of sophistication and reverence to history, “A True History” throws up yet another interesting paradoxical situation for consideration. At the Elysian Fields and Fortunate Isles, the narrator meets Socrates, Homer, Odysseys, Pythagoras, Stesichorus, Diogenes, and a number of other personages, fictional or otherwise. Meanwhile, at the Isles of the Wicked, he watches how liars and adulterers are punished:
. . . with Nauplius as our guide we saw many kings being punished, and many ordinary people too, some of whom we recognized. We saw Cinyras hanging by his genitals over a slow fire. The guides told us about the lives of each one and the crimes for which they were being punished, and the severest penalties awaited those who had written falsehoods––these included Ctesias of Cnidos and Herodotus and many others. Seeing them I had good hopes for the future, for I have never knowingly told a lie. Well, I quickly turned back to the ship, for I couldn’t bear the sight of this, and bidding farewell to Nauplius I sailed away. (228; sec. 31-32)
What is the truth here? In a narrative inundated with falsehoods and fictions, are the respective fates of Homer and Herodotus lies as well? Or is this a rare moment where the vitriol aimed at perpetrators of falsehoods overpowers the constructed fiction of the entire text? On the surface, it would certainly not seem out of place to assign Homer, the proto-poet, a spot in the Fortunate Isles, in a text that is punctuated by poetic invention, while Herodotus, the proto-historian/liar, is abandoned to torture. But that would be a hasty conclusion, as Homer is guilty of “lying” even before Herodotus. In the preface to “A True History”, Lucian says:
Iambulus also wrote a lot about the marvels to be found in the countries of the great sea: he concocted a lie which is obvious to everyone, yet his subject matter is not unattractive. Many others with the same idea have written ostensibly about their journeys and visits abroad, giving accounts of huge creatures and brutal men and strange ways of living. Their leader and teacher in such tomfoolery is Homer’s Odysseus, who tells Alcinous and his court all about captive winds and one-eyed men and cannibals and savages; creatures, too, with many heads, and how his comrades were transformed by drugs. All this was the fantastic stuff with which he beguiled the simpleminded Phaeacians. (204; sec. 3-4)
How, then, is the difference between Homer and Herodotus’ fate supposed to be reconciled, when they both commit similar actions? Is Homer spared torture because he is stylistically superior to Herodotus, in Lucian’s opinion? Perhaps not, as, during the Festival of the Dead on the Fortunate Isles, “In poetry Homer was in fact much the best performer, but Hesiod won the prize” (225; sec. 22). Instead, it is probably because Lucian would have preferred to pretend to have a conversation with Homer rather than Herodotus, as Homer was an enigmatic figure even in Lucian’s time.
The relation between truth and fiction is as important in Lucian’s writings as that between history and truth. Marsh sums it up as follows:
. . . [Lucian’s writings] insist repeatedly on the contrast between truth, alētheia, and falsehood, pseudos. This is evident from his choice of titles like Alēthē diēgēmata [“A True History”], Philopseudeis (The Lover of Lies), Alexandros ē Pseudomantis (Alexander the False Prophet), Pseudologistēs (The Mistaken Critic), and Pseudosophistēs ē Soloikistēs (The Sham Sophist or The Solecist). Nearly all these titles speak of shams and liars, but in them Lucian is urging a veracious critique . . . By contrast, when he titles a work [“A True History”], he confesses that it contains nothing but lies. (182)
But “A True History” is not “nothing but lies”—it, too, is a veracious critique delivered in the form of a satire, as I have been trying to argue. It is unique in its achievement, and Lucian is aware of this:
It would be suitable recreation for [students of literature] to occupy themselves with the kind of reading which not only affords simple diversion derived from elegance and wit, but also supplies some intellectual food for thought––just the qualities I think they will find in this work of mine. For they will be attracted not only by the exotic subject-matter and the charm of the enterprise, and by the fact that I have told all manner of lies persuasively and plausibly, but because all the details in my narrative are an amusing and covert allusion to certain poets, historians, and philosophers of old, who have written a lot of miraculous and fabulous stuff. (203; sec. 2)
Thus, Lucian’s text is simultaneously entertaining and thought-provoking; it poses as a serious example of history, which, ironically, due to the very irony pervading the narrative, allows it to become a serious study of the nature of writing history.
Finally, Lucian satirizes because this is what he knows to do; this is how he knows not to be useless. At the end of “How to Write History”, he writes that history should be written with:
. . . truthfulness and a regard for future hopes, rather than with flattery aimed at getting pleasure out of present praise. Here is your rule and standard for writing impartial history. If any will make use of it, that is all to the good, and my work has served its purpose. If not, I’ve rolled my wine-jar in Craneion. (202; sec. 63)
Throughout “A True History”, Lucian is still rolling his wine-jar, but just in a different fashion. He innovates in this respect as well; but both “How to Write History” and “A True History” are equally compelling and intriguing texts, demonstrating his wine-jar rolling skills up and down the paths. One must imagine Lucian happy.
Notes
[i] Herodotus, in his Histories, for example, often records extraordinary details and claims that they are merely narratives; he usually declares that they are not inferences derived from firsthand experiences, but rather information provided to him by others. At other times, he fails to do so.
[ii] See Graham Anderson, Studies in Lucian’s Comic Fiction. Mnemosyne, supplement 43, E. J. Brill, 1976c, pp. 1-11.
[iii] Book 1 and Book 2 respectively inspired Jonathan Swift and Thomas More, according to Marsh; his chapter primarily deals with charting the influence of Lucian’s fantastic voyage on later writers like Thomas More, François Rabelais, Jonathan Swift, Edgar Allan Poe, and a few others.
[iv] Consider the ethnographies by various historians, up to Lucian’s time, for example.
[v] This came to me in a waking fantasy.
Works Cited
Adams, Douglas. “Life, the Universe and Everything.” The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The Random House Publishing Group, 2002, Chapter 7, pp. 350-352.
Herodotus. The Histories. Translated by Walter Blaco, W. W. Norton and Company, 1992.
Homer. Odyssey. Translated by E. V. Rieu and D. C. H. Rieu, Penguin Books, 2003.
Horace. “Book III: Ode XXX.” The Complete Odes and Satires of Horace. Translated by Sidney Alexander, Princeton University Press, 1999, pp. 150.
Lucian. Selected Dialogues. Translated by C. D. N. Costa, Oxford University Press, 2009.
Marsh, David. “The Fantastic Voyage.” Lucian and the Latins: Humor and Humanism in the Early Renaissance, The University of Michigan Press, 2001, pp. 181-210. Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet 18.” Shakespeare’s Sonnets, edited by Katherine Duncan-Jones, Arden Shakespeare, 1998, pp. 147.
History, Literature, Criticism 