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A young Corinthian aristocrat named Lucius travels to Thessaly, where he secretly spies on
a witch as she transforms herself into an owl. Eager to satisfy his wish to see for himself what
it is like to be a bird, Photis, the witchs maid and Lucius girlfriend, makes a tragicomic
mistake by giving Lucius the wrong magical ointment, which transforms him into a donkey.
Luckily, there is a very simple antidote against this spell: all Lucius would have to do to
regain his human shape is to eat some roses, which Photis of course cannot procure until the
following morning. But during the night, Lucius the ass is abducted by robbers. Subsequently,
he repeatedly changes owners, while experiencing innumerable adventures and listening to
countless entertaining stories. In the end, the great Egyptian goddess Isis suddenly intervenes
in Lucius comic life, arranges for his re-transformation during her festival, and as a result
saves him not only from his asininity but also from his uninitiated ways.
The surprising epiphany of Isis in the eleventh book of Apuleius Metamorphoses has
always fascinated, irritated, and puzzled scholars. One scholar, for instance, expresses
a widespread opinion when he notes that in terms of narrative structure, the ending
[of Apuleius Golden Ass] is not circular or parallel but tangential, introducing a new topic,
unconnected to the rest of the work. Others are not content with establishing the novels
structural looseness and attempt to discover a deeper meaning behind the narratives
seemingly unwarranted turn from a collection of entertaining tales into an account of religious
enlightenment. Some see Lucius life as a straightforward tale of spiritual progress towards
salvation and thus as a kind of pagan gospel designed to proselytize for the Isis cult, while
others regard the portrayal of the Isis cult as a clever satire on religion and thus as another
element in the motley literary entertainment that constitutes the essence of the narrative as
a whole. Finally, Jack Winkler, in his 1985 book, which still remains one of the most
influential works of Apuleian scholarship, reads the novel as an instance of hermeneutic
entertainment, in which the first-time reader, surprised by Isis, rereads the narrative
searching for, but not necessarily finding, anticipatory signals of her epiphany.
In contrast to all these approaches, my goal in this paper is not to decipher what the novel
supposedly means, but rather to ponder on what it does to us as readers. In other words,
I would like to regard meaning not as something inherent in the text and, for that reason,
extractable from it by means of a sophisticated interpretive procedure, but rather as a perfor-

mative process that happens to us as we read. I would like to begin by taking a brief look at
the image drawn at the very end of the novel. In the last scene, the great Egyptian god Osiris
appears to Lucius in a vision (Apul. Met. 11.30):
Ac ne sacris suis gregi cetero permixtus deservirem, in collegiu m me pastoforum suorum, immo
inter ipsos decurionum quinquennales adlegit. Rursus denique quaqua raso capillo co lleg ii
vetustissimi et sub illis Su llae temporibus conditi munia, non obumbrato vel obtecto calvitio, sed
quoquoversus obvio, gaudens obibam.
And so that I should not be one of the rank and file attending to his rites, he appointed me to the
college of the pastophori [one of the lower priestly colleges of the Isis cult] and also one of the
quinquennial ad min istrators. So I had my head completely shaved once more, and gladly
performed the duties of that most ancient college, founded as long ago as the days of Sulla. I d id
not cover or conceal my bald head, but sported it open wherever I went.

This is how the novel ends. Apuleius extremely verbose narrative leaves us with a memorable visual image, which receives no comment whatsoever. We see a bald Isiac priest

Fresco from the temple of Isis in Pompeii. Museo Archeologico Nazionale (Naples)

a figure familiar to every Roman reader a figure that could be, depending on ones preconceived point of view, either highly respectable or extremely ridiculous. But the text
doesnt tell us what to do with this image. It shows it to us and falls silent leaving us to our
own devices as to how to deal with it.
Of course as readers we are not confronted with this image in isolation, but reach it at the
end of a long series of narrative impressions, all of which have a share in shaping our
understanding of it. It is, however, of particular importance that the ambiguity of silent visual
images is again and again self-referentially accentuated within the fictional world of the novel
(e.g. Apul. Met. 1.3, 3.9-10, and the metamorphosis scene at 3.22ff.). I would now like to
discuss in detail one such passage, which explicitly draws our attention to the cognitive and
emotional complexity of viewing representational images.
On his second day in Thessaly, Lucius accidentally runs into his close relative Byrrhena,
who takes him to her house. Upon entering the lavishly decorated atrium, Lucius is
confronted with a stunning sculptural group, which he describes in great detail (Apul. Met.
2.4). His description begins with the image of Diana surrounded by dogs and continues by
belaboring the typical clich of all Greco-Roman descriptions of art from the Homeric shield

24

of Achilles to Philostratus Imagines namely the deceptive verisimilitude of the visual


representation: although made from Parian marble, the entire composition looked so real that
if one were to hear dogs barking in the vicinity one would think that the barking came from
the marble dogs; the grapes were so naturalistically carved that one felt almost tempted to
taste them, etc. It is only at the very end of the passage that Actaeon is mentioned as he is
focusing his curious gaze on Diana.
Not only does the narrator explicitly identify the statue as a representation of the Diana
and Actaeon myth, but his text also contains an oblique reminiscence of the most famous
literary version of the myth in Ovids Metamorphoses (Ov. Met. 3.155160). When
describing the grapes and the apples overhanging the marble cave, Apuleius stresses that it
was art rivaling nature that made them look lifelike (quas ars aemula naturae veritati
similes explicuit). At first glance, this sounds like nothing but another instance of the
indispensable ekphrastic emphasis on verisimilitude. Juxtaposed with Ovids description
of Dianas cave, however, this c lich acquires an additional meaning. For Ovid speaks of
a wooded cave, not fashioned by art: it is nature that in her ingenuity had imitated art (arte
laboratum nulla: simulaverat artem / ingenio natura suo). From this perspective, Apuleius
art begins to seem to rival not just reality in general, but Ovids art-like nature in particular.
This realization in turn urges us to regard Apuleius description as in some sense emulative of
Ovids narrative.
And this is where it becomes really interesting, because on closer look the two do not
have much in common. Even more revealingly, Apuleius statue does not have much in
common with any known visual or literary representation of the Actaeon myth. In the
earliest representations of the myth in art, we see Actaeon punished by Artemis for his
hybris in that he is torn apart by his own hounds either as if he were a stag or while being
transformed into one.

M etope from the temple of Hera in Selinus, 550530 BC

Red-figured crater, 450440 BC. Louvre

Red-figured crater, ca 470 BC. Boston

Red-figured vase, late classical. Karlsruhe


25

In all these images, the chief reason why the male figure can be identified by the viewer
as Actaeon is that it is surrounded by dogs. The version in which Artemis punishes Actaeon
for seeing her naked is first mentioned in Callimachus fifth hymn and later, thanks to Ovid,
becomes the standard version of the myth both in literature and in art. In Ovids narrative,
Diana is bathing in a fountain surrounded by nymphs who try to protect her nakedness when
Actaeon suddenly intrudes on the scene. As a consequence of Ovids popularity, Diana,
bathing naked and surrounded by naked nymphs often in combination with partly or entirely
transformed Actaeon (with or without his dogs) becomes an indispensable feature of visual
representations of the myth and is in fact the primary visual marker that allows the viewer to
recognize the myth in the image.

Roman M osaic. AD 3rd century. Philippopolis, Syria

None of this matches Apuleius description, however. This is how he describes Diana
(Apul. Met. 4.2):
ecce lapis Parius in Dianam factus tenet libratam totius loci medietatem, signum perfecte
luculentum, veste reflatum, procursu vegetum, introeuntibus obvium, et maiestate numinis
venerabile. canes utrimquesecus deae latera muniunt, qui canes et ipsi lapis erant.
But the notable feature was Parian marble chiseled into the likeness of Diana, which occupied the
center of the whole atrium, and was raised off the ground. The image gleamed spectacularly; with
its garment breeze-b lown, its lively figure was hastening forward as if to confront the inco mer with
the august majesty of its godhead. Hounds escorted the goddess on both flanks, and these ho unds
were also made out of marble.

So, there is neither nakedness nor are there any nymphs. Instead we see a majestic image
of the fully dressed goddess surrounded by dogs. One could for a moment think that Apuleius
could have a more archaic version of the myth in mind, in which there is no bathing and in
which Artemis is portrayed as a fully dressed huntress punishing Actaeon for his hybris. But
this theory is immediately refuted by the fact that Apuleius Actaeon is explicitly said to

26

appear to be waiting for Diana to undress and bathe (loturam Dianam opperiens visitur)
as indeed she should in the Ovidian version of the narrative.
But the description of Actaeon himself is even more perplexing. In a characteristic
instance of Apuleius artful Latinity, Actaeon is said to be in cervum ferinus. In order to save
the description as a whole as a legible representation of the Actaeon-and-Diana myth,
translators tend to render this phrase along the lines of on the point of being transformed into
a stag and see in the image as a whole a compression of time typical of visual narratives in
general: Diana, still dressed and hunting, is notionally fused with Diana bathing, while
Actaeons anticipation of Dianas nakedness is notionally fused with the moment of his
metamorphosis. Even if the phrase in cervum ferinus could be understood this way, the
resulting image would hardly work as a comprehensible representation of the Actaeon-andDiana myth: all visual representations of the myth that do collapse different moments of the
narrative into a single static image do so by establishing a visually perceptible causal link
between Actaeons crime and punishment between the irate or naked goddess and Actaeon
either attacked by his dogs or in the process of transformation (or both); an image of Actaeon
turning into a stag while simply looking at Diana, who is surrounded by dogs and wearing her
hunting attire, would utterly lack this kind of visual causality and, for that reason, would not
make much sense as a representation of the myth in question.
What makes matters even worse is the fact that the Latin, although potentially ambiguous,
seems to mean something rather different. What the preposition in with the accusative would
most likely signify in the context is not so much the direction in which the incipient
transformation is going to proceed as the ultimate result of the process. In the same passage,
lapis in Dianam factus clearly means stone made into Diana (i.e. the stone has already
become Diana), while in a sentence from the Risus-Festival episode Lucius describes his
notional petrification by using the phrase fixus in lapidem (I felt like I had become a stone
statue). Danielle van Mal-Maeder, in her commentary on Book 2 of the Metamorphoses,
provides further parallels indicating that the most natural meaning of iam in cervum ferinus is
already fully an animal as a result of being metamorphosed into a stag.
So, what we end up seeing on the basis of Apuleius description are two different things at
once: on the one hand, we see Actaeon and Diana, but first and foremost because this is how
the narrator identifies the subject of the representation; on the other hand, we are explicitly
made to visualize Diana as a fully dressed huntress surrounded by dogs along with a stag
hiding in the foliage. The question is whether under normal circumstances we could ever
identify the latter image as a representation of the Actaeon and Diana myth. I dont think we
could. Deer is notoriously one of Artemis favorite animals, which no doubt increases the
irony of Actaeons transformation into a stag. But not every deer depicted next to Artemis has
necessarily to be understood as Actaeon: Artemis is often accompanied by a fawn, rides in
a deer-drawn chariot, the golden-horned Cyreneian hind the victim of Herakles third
labor is sacred to her, and during the sacrifice at Aulis she replaces Iphigenia with a deer.
And more generally, one of Artemis cult epithets is (deer-hunting, e.g. Hymn.
Hom. 27.12) and she is regularly portrayed as such throughout antiquity.

27

Red-figured pelike, 370350 BC. British Museum

Roman mosaic. AD 3rd century. Tunis

When hunting deer, Artemis can of course be accompanied by dogs as for instance in
Callimachus Hymn to Artemis (Call. h. 3.98104 (
) / / ,
.) as well as in art.

Diana with a dog and a deer. AD 2nd century. Ostia

And this is more or less what Apuleius description makes us see a representation of
Diana as a huntress surrounded by dogs and a deer maybe as a potential object of her hunt.
Actaeons appearance in the image, however, is not just a willful misinterpretation by the
viewer. For Apuleius text explicitly draws our attention to the inherent duality of the image
conjured up by the description. The reason why it becomes possible for the viewer to see two
different representations in the same image is due to the images juxtaposition with reflective
surfaces. It is these reflective surfaces that, as it were, transform Diana the deer-huntress into
the bathing Diana spied on by Actaeon the deer. On the one hand, the marble statue of the
hunting Diana is said to be reflected in the polished surface of the marble cave (splendet intus
umbra signi de nitore lapidis) notionally transposing her image into the cave where she
would be in the Ovidian version of the Actaeon myth. On the other hand, the surface of the
water, which seems to endow marble representations of nature with the faculty of movement,
reflects the image of the goddess as well (et si fontem, qui deae vestigio discurrens in lenem

28

vibratur undam, pronus aspexeris, credes illos ut rure pendentes racemos inter cetera vertatis
nec agitationis officio carere. inter medias frondes lapidis Actaeon simulacrum, curioso
optutu in deam <deor>sum proiectus, iam in cervum ferinus et in saxo et in fonte loturam
Dianam opperiens visitur) thus notionally transposing her into the water where she would
be in the Ovidian version of the Actaeon myth.
So, it is not entirely impossible for the viewer to make the Actaeon myth emerge from the
reflections cast by the image of Diana the deer-huntress. But the ability to project those
reflections back onto the image itself is of course a matter of the viewers subjectivity: one
wouldnt necessarily be able to see Actaeon here, unless one looked really hard. But what is it
about Lucius as a viewer that makes him see Actaeon? To find this out, we have to look at the
very beginning of Book 2, where it finally dawns on Lucius that he has arrived in the very
midst of magical Thessaly (Apul. Met. 2.1):
suspensus alioquin et voto simul et studio, curiose singula considerbam. nec fuit in illa civitate
quod aspiciens id esse crederem quod esset, sed omnia prorsus ferali murmure in aliam effigiem
translata, ut et lapides quos offenderem de homine duratos, et aves quam audirem indidem
plumatas, et arbores quae pomeriu m ambirent simiter foliatas, et fontanos lattices de corporibus
humanis flu xos crederem; ima statuas et imagines incessuras, parietes locuturos, boves et id genus
pecua dicturas praesagium, de ipso vero caelo et iubaris orbe subito venturum oracu lu m
So in expectation and enthusiasm alike I was quite alert, and I studied each feature with curiosity.
I did not believe that anything which I gazed on in the city was merely what it was, but that every
object had been transformed into a different shape by some muttered and deadly incantation.
I thought that the stones which caused me to trip were petrified persons, that the birds which
I could hear were feathered humans, that the trees enclosing the city -limits were people who had
likewise sprouted foliage, that the waters of the fountains were issuing from hu man bodies.
I imagined that at any mo ment the statues and portraits would parade about, that the walls would
speak, that oxen and other cattle would prophesy, that the very sky and the suns orb would
suddenly proclaim an oracu lar message.

So, Lucius expectation of wonder endows his vision with a metamorphic power, and his
gaze transforms the ordinary world that he sees into the world of Ovids Metamorphoses, in
which more or less each element of nature and each static representational image could in
theory be a metamorphosed human. For that reason, it comes as no surprise that in Byrrhenas
atrium, too, Lucius sees more than meets the eye and that what he ends up seeing is an
Ovidian story of metamorphosis.
Quite significantly, by indentifying the stag as Actaeon, Lucius essentially sees himself in
the image without quite realizing it, though. On the one hand, he projects his own
metamorphic desire onto the imaginary figure of Actaeon by attributing to Actaeon his own
curiosity which makes him see something different from what is actually there. On the other
hand, Lucius fails to realize that he himself is already in the process of becoming an Actaeon.
As he is rejoicing in the metamorphic beauty of the image, Byrrhena suddenly utters a highly
ambiguous, indeed oracular, saying (tua sunt <...> cuncta quae vides: all you see is yours)
and then proceeds to warn Lucius against his hosts wife Pamphile, who happens to be
a powerful Thessalian witch. Needless to say, Lucius disregards this, as well as numerous
other warnings, spies on Pamphile as she undresses und transforms herself, and is as a consequence metamorphosed too, like Actaeon although not into a deer, but into a donkey.
But while looking at the statue at Byrrhenas atrium, Lucius of course doesnt see any of this:

29

in a way like Ovids Narcissus, he fails to recognize himself in the image and loses his
identity as a result.
All you see is yours: Seeing is a highly subjective matter. All Lucius is eager, and able,
to see are metamorphoses a metamorphosis of marble into Diana, dogs, and grapes, as well
as a metamorphosis of the stag into Actaeon and of Actaeon into a stag. What we are made to
see in addition, however, is an analogy between the Actaeon myth and Lucius own fictional
life story. Once this analogy is established, the image begins to function as a visually
powerful metaphor for the narratives moral-philosophical potential by drawing our attention
to the pernicious consequences of misplaced curiosity in general. But the text doesnt seem to
urge us to make any choice between activating this moral potential and joining Lucius
enthusiasm about the miracles of magic and art. Instead, it enacts the dialectic complexity of
viewing representational images in that it allows us to see the statue as many different things
at once. The image obviously allows us to experience the illusion of seeing objects of
empirical reality and of sensing the immediate presence of the deity; at the same time,
however, it doesnt let us forget that it is nothing but a piece of Parian marble and a beautiful
work of art produced by a skillful sculptor; it can obviously function as a surface onto which
a variety of the viewers pre-existing anxieties and desires can be projected; but at the same
time, it can make us understand something about, lets say, life (both Lucius and maybe even
our own). But on top of all that, this episode is, first and foremost, an integral part of
Apuleius comic narrative, which amuses us by making us see that the protagonist fails to get
the message that in fact should be obvious to anyone!
In the final book of the novel, the conjunction between text and image plays
a similarly important role. We are once again presented with a succession of different aspects
of visuality that have determined the entire course of the narrative the ability of images (and
texts) to conjure up objects of reality, to activate our innermost anxieties and desires, to
symbolize the truth, and ultimately to make us wonder. The carnival-like procession, which
precedes the parade of the devotees of the Isis cult, is a celebration of unbridled mimeticism,
which makes the viewers happy precisely because they can see two things at once not only
an upper-class matron, Ganymede, and Pegasus, but also a tame bear, a monkey, and donkey
impersonating these characters (Apul. Met. 11.8). The Isiac procession proper is, on the other
hand, replete with symbolic images, which point to deeper truths: a representation of the left
hand is a symbol of justice; a vessel formed like a lactating female breast is probably
a representation of Isis as the universal principle of procreation, etc. (Apul. Met. 11.10).
In fact, visually striking images dominate the entire progression of Book 11 from its very
beginning, where Lucius is shown to be intently looking at the moon as it rises from the sea
(Apul. Met. 11.1). Just as in Book 2 Lucius anticipation of wonder transforms the ordinary
cityscape into a collection of metamorphoses, so here, too, his metamorphic gaze transforms
the moon into the composite image of a long catalogue of goddesses (Apul. Met. 11.2). Quite
significantly, when Isis soon thereafter reveals herself to Lucius in a dream, he describes this
image in terms that suggest a description of a cult statue focusing on various outward
attributes by which Isis would normally be identified in a visual image (Apul. Met. 11.3).
When Lucius becomes a devotee of Isis, his emotional attachment to her statue his inability
to keep his eyes off it is repeatedly emphasized. But most importantly, his initiation is
described as a notional transformation into a statue positioned next to the statue of Isis the
statue of the Sun god next to the statue of the Moon goddess a sculptural group in many
ways reminiscent of the Diana-and-Actaeon statue in Book 2 (Apul. Met. 11.24):
30

Namque in ipso aedis sacrae meditullio ante deae simulacru m constitutum tribunal ligneu m iussus
superstiti byssina quidem sed floride depicta veste conspicuus. Et u meris dependebat pone tergum
talorum tenus pretiosa chlamida. Quaqua tamen viseres, colore vario circu mnotatis insignibar
animalibus; hinc dracones Indici, inde grypes Hyperborei, quos in speciem p innatae alit is generat
mundus alter. Hanc Oly mp iacam stolam sacrati nuncupant. At manu dextera gerebam flammis
adultam facem et caput decore corona cin xerat palmae candidae foliis in modu m radioru m
prosistentibus. Sic ad instar Solis exornato me et in v icem simu lacri constituto, repente velis
reductis, in aspectum populus errabat.
I took my stand as bidden on a wooden dais set before the statue of the goddess at the very heart of
the sacred shrine. The linen garment that I wore made me conspicuous, for it was elaborately
embro idered; the expensive cloak hung down my back fro m the shoulders to the heels, and from
whatever angle you studied it, I was adorned all round with mult icolored animals. On one side
were Indian snakes, and on the other Hyperborean gryphons begotten by a world beyond this in the
shape of winged birds. This garment the initiates call Oly mpian . In my right hand I wielded
a torch well alight; a garland of glinting palm-leaves projecting like the suns rays encircled my
head. When I was thus adorned to represent the sun and set there like a statue, the curtains were
suddenly drawn back, and the people wandered in to gaze on me.

It is quite remarkable that here the narrator again emphasizes the possibility of different
modes of viewing. On the one hand, the people wander in to gaze at the statue-like, visually
stunning appearance of the new initiate. On the other, this image both reveals and conceals
a deeper religious significance at which the narrator, in the presence of the uninitiated, can
only hint in a roundabout symbolic way (Apul. Met. 11.23):
Accessi confiniu m mortis et, calcato Proserpinae limine, per omnis vectus elementa remeavi; nocte
med ia vidi solem candido coruscantem lu mine; deos inferos et deos superos accessi coram et
adoravi de proxu mo. Ecce tib i rettuli quae, quamv is audita, ignores tamen necesse est. Ergo quod
solum potest sine piaculo ad profanorum intellegentias enuntiari, referam.
I drew near to the confines of death and trod the threshold of Pro serpina, and before returning
I journeyed through all the elements. At the dead of night I saw the sun gleaming with bright
brilliance. I stood in the presence of the gods above, and worshiped them fro m close at hand.
Notice, then, that I have referred to things which you cannot possibly know, though you have heard
about them.

You cannot know because you have not seen. And hearing is by no means an adequate
substitute for seeing. All of this begins to sound not just like a Platonic myth (perhaps
a variation on the myth of Er at the end of the Republic?) but almost like an instantiation of
the Platonic notion of theoria, which means both a pilgrimage to a religious festival and the
process of seeing philosophical truth, or even like a distant anticipation of Neo-Platonic
theurgy of non-discursive cognition of truth and the unity with the divine achieved on the
basis of visual often Egyptian religious symbols (cf. Plot. Enn. 5.8.6).
But this is not how the novel ends. Just as the viewing of the Diana-and-Actaeon statue in
Book 2 ultimately leads to Lucius metamorphosis into an ass, so his posing as an extension
of the statue of Isis, too, results in a transformation this time into a bald-headed Isiac priest.
The structural parallel between Lucius the ass and Lucius the Isiac is not the only potentially
disturbing thing here, however. The short remaining portion of the narrative between Lucius
first initiation and the novels conclusion is replete with signals that greatly complicate our
perception of this final image. The gods first urge Lucius to undergo one exorbitantly
31

expensive initiation after another and even force him literally to sell his last shirt to afford
paying for one of the ceremonies. In return, however, they assist him in his rhetorical career,
and as a result Lucius emerges on the last pages of the novel as a successful Roman orator.
As I have argued elsewhere, :)

the overall trajectory from Lucius fascination with magic to his career in rhetoric makes the
narrative cohere along the lines of the rhetoric-as-magic paradigm reflected, for instance, in
Aristophanes Clouds, where an implicit parallel is drawn between Thessalian magic and sophistic
rhetoric, both of which allow one to make things look different from what they really are (cf. Ar.
Nu. 749754 and 10191021). To Plato, too, rhetoricians are nothing but conjurers producing
mere appearances (cf. Pl. Sph. 234e7235b7). That Apuleius bald-headed priest turns out to be
such a conjuror an imitator of reality a creator of mimetic images is hardly coincidental,
because Apuleius has in fact urged us all along to view his novel as precisely such an elusive
image in many ways analogous to the statue described in Book 2.
Paradoxically, however, the analogy between the text and a visual image, far from diminishing the novels philosophical momentum, in fact enhances it. It is of course not in the dogmatic sense of the word (in which middle Platonists, such as Apuleius himself, practiced philosophy) that the text can be described as philosophical. Rather, the ambiguity characteristic of
visual images is the quality that makes the novel truly dialogic it is the quality that urges one
not to formulate but to question dogmatic assumptions to be amused by their always provisional nature and at the same time to think about the way we see and about the way we think.

32

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J. A. Pavlin, E. M. Eitzen, Jr. Biological Warfare: A Historical Perspective // Journal of American Medical Association. 1997. Vol. 278 (5). P. 412417. , ,
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.: Dizionario biografico degli italiani. Vol. 39. Roma, 1991, s. v.


Matthaei Devarii Liber de Graecae linguae particulis. Romae, 1588.
3
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2

. 19611962. . 12. . 387411.


4
A. Meschini. Epigrammi inediti di Matteo Devars // Miscellanea [dellIstituto di studi bizantini e neollenici
dellUniversit di Padova]. 1978. Vol. 1. P. 5367.
5
Ibid. P. 57.
6
. . .
7
10 . . Humanist
Greek in Early Modern Europe: Learned Communities between Antiquity and Contemporary Culture.
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.
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. : B. K. Gold. Pompey and Theophanes of Mytilene // AJ Ph. 1985. Vol. 103. P. 312327.
5
. : W. Fabricius. Theophanes von Mytilene
und Q. Delius als Quellen der Geographie des Strabon: Diss. Strassburg, 1888.
6
.
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53

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, , . Strab. XI, 2, 2: 11 Die Vorstellung dass der Don im Kaukasus entspringe <> erklrt sich offenbar daraus dass man den
Nebenfluss Many, der etwa 30 km vor Rostov vom OSO her in den Don mndet, fr den
Hauptfluss hielt, Herrmann RE s. v. Tanais 2162, 58 ff..
, der
Mermadalis wird <> ebenso wie der Achardaios, einer der im nrdlichen Kaukasus
entspringenden und sich ber den Many und den Don ins Asowsche Meer ergieenden
Flsse gewesen sein. 12
. , (658665): - (sc. ) , ,

A. Herrmann. // RE. 1931. Hlbd 29. Sp. 1035.

,,

.
10
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XI, 5, 2), , , (. 1947. 4.
. 225).
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Strabons Geographika. Bd. 7. Gttingen, 2008. S. 241.
12
Ibid. S. 265266.

54

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22
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56

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57

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Hebraicus et sermo et numerus (Orig. V, 37, 3). iubilaeus : Iubilaeus sacratus est annus (Exc. Sat. II, 108).
, iubilare,
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) 3 .
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., ., Greg. Naz. Or. 41, 2.


ThLL s. v. iubeleus.
3
ThLL s. v. iubilo, 2.
4
Hunc numerum etiam in diebus Pentecosten et ipsi celebramus post Domini resurrectionem, remissa culpa
et totius debiti chirographo evacuato, ab omni nexu liberi suscipientes advenientem in nos gratiam spiritus sancti
(Isid. Orig. V, 37, 4).
2

, , (Or. 41, 2).


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, , , , jubil () anniversaire (), . , 1836 . . . , . . , , , :
39. 11 . . ,
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14

: 25, 50 100 ( ),
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5

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. 1313.
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- / . . . , 1900. . 236.
8
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9
.
10
. . . <> // . 88 (2).
., 1910. . 351.
11
39 14 .

62

FROM:
SUBJECT:

!
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:

: , , : 4,5 , 5,4. : 4 .
: , .
: (?).
: IVIII . . .
: L. Stephani // Compte-rendu de la Commission archologique pour lanne 1874.
P. 106107; E. Diehl. Defixionum ostraca duo // Acta Universitatis Latviensis. 1923. Vol. 6. P. 225
227; P. Thomsen // PhW. 1924. Bd 44. S. 11571152; SEG III, 595; IGDOP 108.
: Fr. Pfister // PhW. 1925. Bd 45. S. 381; A. Avram, C. Chiriac, I. Matei. Defixiones dIstros // BCH. 2007. T. 131, 1. P. 387.

()

()
5

___________________________
1 : Ephesia grammata (Stephani), () Diehl,
() Belousov, ceteri 7 Diehl, Stephani et Pfister.

:
, , .
:
.
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,
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65

. . 1 , , ,
: (<); , IV . . . 2 ,
() (. ),
, 3 ,
. 4
.
,
*, - devoveo
. , , , , : Le mot est mystrieux. 5
, ()
:
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).
:
(VI, 22; XXIX, 14)
, , parma,
,
IV III . . .?
, .
; , ,
, (. , . . ) . , ,
parma .
( parmula palmula [. ], *parc-ma [ . pareo,
compesco; . ]), (. *parma . parfa
Schutzplatte, Feuerglitter parfaes ; . ), . . crman
, . ( ; . . )

.: A. Thumb. Die griechische Sprache im Zeitalter des Hellenismus. Strassburg, 1901. S. 231; F. Bechtel.
Die griechischen Dialekte. Bd 3. Berlin, 1924. S. 129; A. Thumb, A. Scherer. Handbuch der griechischen Dialekte.
2. Teil. Heidelberg, 1959, 312, 11; . . . , //
XIII ( . . ): , 2224 2009 . ., 2009. . 506515.
2
.: A. Thumb, A. Scherer. Op. cit. 312, 2; IGDOP. P. 187.
3
: IPE I, 78 ([]/<>,[
]) IPE I, 401 ([]/,).
4
A. Thumb, A. Scherer. Op. cit. 323, 3. defixiones:
Ibid. 330, 3.
5
IGDOP. P. 175.
66

, parma . 6

, parma.
(Strom. I, 16) ,
; , (s. v.) : <>()
(),, . , , , , , , IVIII . . . .
, ,
(). , , . :
(DTA 68, 71, 7475, 84), (75), (87), (7071, 85,
87), (73) et al. , , , , , , , ; , , , . : , .
, ( ), ,
, ,
.
: (LGPN IV, 312). 7 , (LGPN IV, 162). , (LGPN IV, 120121), defixio. 8

A. Ernout, A. Meillet. Dictionnaire etymologique de la langue latine: Histoire des mots. 4me d. Paris, 1967.
P. 735; A. Walde. Lateinisches etymologisches Wrterbuch / 3. Aufl., bearb. bei J. B. Hoffmann. Bd 2. Heidelberg,
1938. S. 256; H. Hofmann. Die lateinischen Wrter im Griechischen bis 600 n. Chr. Erlangen; Nrnberg, 1989.
S. 318319 (, , ).
7
.: IGDOP. P. 175.
8
. . . // . 2007. 4. . 4849;
S. R. Tokhtas'ev. A New Curse on a Lead Plate from the North Pontic Region // ACSS. 2009. Vol. 15. P. 13. Fig. 1.
67

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SUBJECT:

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, VII .
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1
.: . . . //
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: . . . . ., 2013. . 175
.
2
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, 1984. . 271275).

, . , 5 , 4 (socrus , anus ),
, 4 5 , () . 3 2 ,
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: , , [agricola, nauta, pirata] .),
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Hyperboreus. 2008. Vol. 14. P. 131.

73

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3
M. Hillgruber. Peek // Neue Deutsche Biographie. Bd 20. Berlin, 2001. S. 158.
4
MDAI(A). 1932. Bd 57. S. 142144; 1934. Bd 59. S. 252254; Hermes. 1932. Bd 68. S. 353356.

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C. M. Bowra. The Epigram on the Fallen of Coronea // CQ. 1938. Vol. 32. P. 8088.

77

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if this text or something like this it, is right, it must surely mean: The oracle which he had
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C. M. Bowra. Op. cit. P. 83.


Ibid. P. 80.
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JHS. 1955. Vol. 75. P. 158159.
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Ibid. P. 158.
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: M. Fragulaki. Kinship in Thukydides. Oxford, 2013. P. 135136.

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If the first linguists had been Oodham speakers, and if they were predisposed to assume
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does their native language (as have the majority of scholars of language to date), then English
would be viewed as a free word-order language). 2 , :
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D. L. Payne. Nonidentifiable Mentions and Order in Oodham // Pragmatics of Word Order Flexibility /
Ed. by D. L. Payne, Amsterdam, 1992. P. 137166.

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amicitia / Rec. brevique adnotatione critica instr. J. G. V. Powell. Oxonii, 2006. .
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M. Tullii Ciceronis. De legibus libri tres. / Erkl. von A. Du Mesnil. Leipzig, 1879. S. 37. , , Naturae est igitur e. q. s. naturae .
4
Cicron. Trait des lois / Texte t. et trad. par G. de Plinval. 2me tir. Paris, 1968. P. 14.; Cicero.
De re publica. De legibus / With an Engl. transl. by C. W. Keyes. Cambridge (Mass.) etc., 1994.
P. 325.
5
R. Khner, C. Stegmann. Ausfhrliche Grammatik der lateinischen Sprache. 2. Teil: Satzlehre.
Bd 1. Darmstadt, 1971. S. 307 ff.
6
. .: M. Tullius Cicero. Tusculanae disputationes. Lipsiae, 1918 (repr. Stutgardiae,
1967).
95

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Ex imo corde de lustris tibi feliciter clausis exsultans convivioque sollemni sociorum
iubilantium cura et opibus instructo labra admovere praegestiens et poculum plenum genio
tuo natali libandum manu iam festinante arripere paratus duas tibi annotatiunculas quasi
flosculos communi serto intexendos offerre ausus sum; et ita quidem, ut de nostris potius
poetis Gallica plectra aemulantibus, quam de antiquioribus dissererem. Namque et Helenae
cuiusdam monitionem (hoc ceterum inter te et illam interest, quod senescere nescis), et amicitiae sanctissimi numinis mentionem tibi vel modico spero fore voluptati.

1.
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Descends des cieux, lance tes flammes,
Triomphe, Amour, dieu des grands curs;
Anime les vertus et les nobles ardeurs
Qui doivent rgner dans nos mes.

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