Chapter 2. Epic as Music: Rhapsodic Models of Homer in Plato’s Timaeus and Critias [1]

Plato’s Timaeus and Critias contain valuable references to the performative techniques of rhapsōidoi or ‘rhapsodes’ and to the compositional techniques of Homeric poetry. These techniques belong to the tekhnē ‘art’ known to Plato and his contemporaries as mousikē. [2] The word’s meaning is self-evident: mousikē is the art of the Muses. As we will see from the testimony of inscriptions and other evidence, this term mousikē included the ‘music’ of (1) rhapsodes, (2) citharodes = cithara-singers = singers self-accompanied by the cithara or ‘lyre’, (3) aulodes = aulos-singers = singers accompanied by the aulos or ‘reed’, (4) cithara-players, and (5) aulos-players. In Plato’s time, the high point of this kind of mousikē in the civic calendar of Athens was the Festival of the Panathenaia. [3] Primarily by way of {36|37} the Timaeus and the Critias of Plato, in addition to his definitive work concerning rhapsodes, the Ion, we can make considerable progress in reconstructing a central event in the agōnes or ‘contests’ of mousikē at the Panathenaic Festival of Athens, that is, rhapsodic competitions in the performance of Homer. Also, the Timaeus and the Critias reveal details about the “musical” techniques of rhapsodes and of “Homer” himself. These details provide a basis for understanding the nature of the Timaeus and the Critias as artistic—even “rhapsodic”—productions in their own right.

It is important to start by stressing that the rhapsodic performances of Homer at the Panathenaic Festival were based on the principle of competition. The key word is agōn ‘competition, contest, ordeal’, as evoked in the striking expression of Friedrich Nietzsche, “der agonale Geist.” [4] The agonistic principle underlying the rhapsodic performances of Homer at the Panathenaia is evident in Plato’s Ion. This dialogue is named after a rhapsode from Ephesus who comes to Athens to compete for first prize at the Panathenaia (καὶ τὰ Παναθήναια νικήσομεν, Ion 530b2). Plato’s wording makes it explicit that the occasion for the performing of Homer by rhapsodes at the Panathenaia is in effect a competition or contest among rhapsodes, an agōn (ἀγῶνα at Ion 530a5, picked up by ἠγωνίζου and ἠγωνίσω at a8), and that the agonistic art of the rhapsōidoi ‘rhapsodes’ falls under the general category of mousikē (μουσικῆς at a7). These words agōn and mousikē are essential for understanding the traditional art or tekhnē of the rhapsodes. [5] {37|38}

Let us start with mousikē, as mentioned in the passage just cited, Plato Ion 530a7. To repeat, the word’s meaning should be self-evident: mousikē is the art or tekhnē of the Muses. And yet, as we shall see, mousikē is subject to misunderstandings. Accordingly, it is essential to stress right away what our passage in Plato Ion 530a7 indicates clearly: that the art of mousikē includes the art of the rhapsode. [6] The art or tekhnē of mousikē is an agonistic art: those who practice this tekhnē must compete with each other in formal and institutionalized competitions called agōnes.

At the Panathenaia, there are agōnes of mousikē not only for rhapsodes but also for kitharōidoi ‘citharodes’ [= cithara-singers], aulōidoi ‘aulodes’ [= aulos-singers], cithara-players, and aulos-players, as we learn directly from an Athenian inscription dated at around 380 BCE, IG II² 2311, which records the winners of Panathenaic prizes. [7] We also learn about these categories of “musical” competition from Plato Laws VI 764d–e (mention of rhapsodes, cithara-singers, and aulos-players), where the wording makes it clear that the point of reference is the Panathenaia. [8] The wording also makes it clear that competition is involved: this kind of mousikē is described as ‘agonistic’, agōnistikē (Laws VI 764d). In fact, the only aspect of mousikē that is not overtly competitive is the educational: mousikē is subdivided into two aspects, agōnistikē and paideia (Laws VI 764c6–7).

As we take a closer look at the Panathenaic inscription dated at around 380 BCE, we may notice straight off that the winning competitors received prizes of high monetary value: for example, the first prize in the competitions of citharodes was a {38|39} crown of gold worth 1000 drachmas in addition to 500 silver drachmas. This same inscription must have mentioned the prize-winning rhapsodes at the beginning of the document, lines 1–3, where the stone is broken off. It is unfortunate that the break happens at exactly the point where we would expect the victorious rhapsodes to be listed. [9] The author of a most influential work on the Panathenaia, J.A. Davison, has expressed doubt that this fourth-century BCE inscription had mentioned the prize-winning rhapsodes at lines 1–3, [10] adding: “rhapsodic competitions are known only to the literary tradition.” [11]

But there is in fact a very important piece of direct epigraphical evidence about rhapsodic competitions. The document in question comes from a city other than Athens. It is IG XII ix 189, an inscription from the city of Eretria in Euboea (ca. 341/0 BCE) concerning a festival of Artemis. [12] Right at the beginning, the program of the Artemisia is explicitly formulated: [13] As we read on, we find more details:

This inscription from Eretria contains valuable comparative evidence for helping us understand the agōnes of mousikē at the Panathenaia in Athens. These Athenian competitions seem to be the historical basis for the theoretical models discussed in Plato Laws VI 764d–e, where we read of competition (agōnistikē d5) in mousikē (d6) for rhapsodes, citharodes, auletes [= reed-players], and so on (other categories are not specified). [15] Such theoretical references in the Laws, I argue, are based on the specific historical realities of the Panathenaia.

Moving beyond Plato, we may turn to Aristotle for a less theoretical and more historical perspective on the Panathenaia. Aristotle gives a brief outline of the main features of the Panathenaia at Athens in his Constitution of the Athenians 60.1–3:

1. agōn ‘competition’ in mousikē (τὸν ἀγῶνα τῆς μουσικῆς); prizes awarded: gold and silver. {40|41}
2. agōn ‘competition’ in athletics (τὸν γυμνικὸν ἀγῶνα), including equestrian events (horse-racing and chariot-racing: ἱπποδρομίαν); prizes awarded: Panathenaic amphoras containing olive oil.
3. peplos ‘robe’ = the ceremonial robe, Peplos (τὸν πέπλον); woven for the goddess Athena, it was formally presented to her at the Panathenaia.
4. pompē ‘procession’ = the Panathenaic Procession (τήν τε πομπὴν τῶν Παναθηναίων); at the climax of this procession, the Peplos was formally presented to Athena. Aristotle does not say it explicitly, but the occasion of this climactic moment is a thusia ‘sacrifice’, more on which later.
5. athlothetai = a board of ten magistrates, with one from each phulē appointed (by lot) every four years for a term of four years; their function was to organize and supervise all the events of no. 1, no. 2, no. 3, and no. 4, including the arranging and awarding of prizes in the case of no. 1 and no. 2.

For the moment, I have kept this outline at a minimum, recapping as closely as possible the main features as reported by Aristotle (he orders them differently, however: 5, 4, 1, 2, 3).

Aristotle’s reference in Constitution of the Athenians 60.1 to an agōn ‘competition’ in mousikē (τὸν ἀγῶνα τῆς μουσικῆς) which he says was held at the Panathenaia does not make explicit the correlation of rhapsodic competitions with the citharodic, the aulodic, and so on. Aristotle’s elliptic reference has led to some confusion about the “musical contests” of the Panathenaia, and the conventional but anachronistic translation “musical” confuses the matter even further, since the English word seems to suggest, misleadingly, an exclusion of rhapsōidoi ‘rhapsodes’ and the inclusion only of kitharōidoi ‘citharodes’, {41|42} aulōidoi ‘aulodes’, and so on. [16] Still, what I infer to be implicit in Aristotle’s statement is made explicit in a corresponding mention of the Panathenaia by Isocrates, Panegyricus 159, whose words specify that Homeric performances were taking place ‘in athloi [contests] of mousikē’, ἐν…τοῖς τῆς μουσικοῖς ἄθλοις. [17] Other sources too provide explicit evidence about the institution of rhapsodic contests at the Panathenaia, and many of these specify the correlation of contests in athletics with contests in mousikē. [18]

The rhapsodes at the Panathenaia not only competed with each other in performing the poetry of Homer: they also had to take turns following the narrative sequence of that poetry in the process of competition. In the Hipparkhos of “pseudo-Plato,” as we have seen in the previous chapter, there is a story that purports to explain an Athenian law requiring that the Iliad and Odyssey be performed in sequence by the rhapsōidoi ‘rhapsodes’ at the Panathenaia: {42|43}

In this extract, I have highlighted two words with special rhapsodic implications: ephexēs ‘in sequence’ and hupolēpsis, which I translate as ‘relay’ for reasons that I have already outlined in the previous chapter. In the present chapter, I concentrate on the expression ephexēs auta diienai ‘go through them [= the epē ‘poetic utterances’ of Homer] in sequence’, to which I will compare the contexts of Plato Timaeus 23d3–4 / 24a1–2: panta … hexēs dielthein / ephexēs diienai ‘go through everything in sequence’ / ‘go through in sequence’. At a later point in the present chapter, we will return to these contexts in the Timaeus.

As in the previous chapter, I supplement the passage just quoted from the Hipparkhos with a passage taken from a speech delivered by the Athenian statesman Lycurgus (330 BCE):

As I noted in the previous chapter, I infer from these two passages that the Homeric epē ‘poetic utterances’ performed at the Panathenaia were the Iliad and Odyssey. According to these passages, there existed in Athens a custom of maintaining a fixed narrative sequence of Homeric performance at the Panathenaia. According to this custom, known to classicists as the “Panathenaic Rule,” each performing rhapsode was required to take up the narration where the previous rhapsode left off. {44|45}

As we saw earlier, the Panathenaic event of Homeric performances by rhapsodes is designated by ancient sources in terms of an agōn or an athlon, both words meaning ‘competition’ or ‘contest’. Thus there are really two aspects of the Panathenaic Rule: not only must the rhapsodes take turns as they perform the Iliad and Odyssey in sequence, they must also compete with each other in the process. [23]

These two aspects of the Panathenaic Rule, sequencing and competition, are neatly reflected in two different mythologized versions of the concept of the rhapsode, as reported in the scholia to Pindar Nemean 2.1:

The myth in version 2, which restates the principle of sequencing as stated in the myth of version 1, adds the principle of competition. According to version 2, the principle of competition was there all along, and the principle of sequencing was added to it only later. So we have here a myth that narrates an “evolution” of sorts, from an unsequenced competition for the prize of an arēn ‘lamb’ to a sequenced competition for a prize {46|47} that is no longer that of a lamb. [25] The rhapsodes no longer compete for the prize of a lamb, but they still compete with each other even as they “sew together” the parts of the two poems. The two aspects of the Panathenaic Rule are hereby both aetiologized. That the myth refers to the Panathenaic Rule is indicated by the explicit reference to two poems: when we combine this detail with the testimony of Lycurgus, we can see that the Rule applies to the Iliad and the Odyssey.

The myth in version 2 motivates the principle of rhapsodic competition in terms of the institution of sacrifice, specifically the sacrifice of an arēn ‘lamb’. In this connection, let us return to the inscription from Eretria that we have just considered, concerning agōnes ‘competitions’ of mousikē. We find here a remarkable analogy with the myth in version 2, since these Eretrian competitions of mousikē are motivated, again, in terms of the institution of sacrifice, specifically the sacrifice of arnes ‘lambs’. In this case, however, the motivation is formulated explicitly from the synchronic viewpoint of the organizers of the festival themselves. At the very beginning of the Eretrian inscription we read:

The inscription goes on to specify that the mousikē should begin on the fourth day before the end of the month of Anthesterion (lines 8–10: ἄρχειν δὲ τῆς μο|υσικῆς τετράδα φθίνοντος τοῦ Ἀνθεστηρι|ῶνος μηνός). Then the inscription lists the categories of competition in mousikē (lines 10–14), and I repeat here my translation of the wording: “and that [the city] is to organize the mousikē for rhapsodes, aulodes, citharists, citharodes, and parody-singers; further, that those who compete [agōnizesthai] in the mousikē should all compete [agōnizesthai] in the prosodion [= processional song] for the sacrifice [thusia] in the aulē, having the same costume that they have in the competition proper.” As at the beginning of the inscription, we see here again the highlighting of thusia ‘sacrifice’ (line 13) as the central theme of the institution of competitions in mousikē.

The climactic sacrifice at the place called the aulē is marked by a prosodion ‘processional song’ (line 13) in which all the competitors in the individual competitions of mousikē are to “compete” in a preliminary way. I infer that this merged “competition” is a sort of review of the individual competitions, after which the athla ‘competitive prizes’ (line 15) are to be awarded (lines 15–20): [28] {48|49}

Category	Prizes	Drachmas
Rhapsodes	1st prize	120
	2nd	50
	3rd	20
Aulodes (boys’ category)	1st	50
	2nd	30
	3rd	20
Citharists	1st	110
	2nd	70
	3rd	55
Citharodes	1st	200
	2nd	150
	3rd	100
Parody-singers	1st	50
	2nd	10

The inscription goes on to specify the details of per diem payments to be made to the agōnistai ‘contestants’ (line 20): one drachma daily, starting no more than three days before what is called the pro-agōn at line 22 and extending up to the point where the agōn proper takes place (μέ|χρι οὗ ἂν ὁ ἀγὼν γένηται, lines 22–23). [29]

In reality, then, the contestants compete for cash prizes. Notionally, however, the prizes are sacrificial, in that they are awarded in the context of a grand thusia ‘sacrifice’ inaugurated by a prosodion ‘processional song’ in which all the contestants notionally “compete” in a preliminary agōn, that is, in the {49|50} pro-agōn mentioned at line 22. Moreover, this processional song is the climax of an actual procession, pompē (line 39), in which all the agōnistai ‘competitors’ of the mousikē are required to participate (lines 37–38). The explicit reason given for this required participation of competitors is this:

The homology between the pompē ‘procession’ and the thusia ‘sacrifice’ is highlighted by the syntax (ἡ πομπὴ καὶ ἡ θυσίη, line 39). The competitors in mousikē, then, participate in and become part of the entire religious program of the Artemisia, a continuum that extends from the procession to the climactic sacrifice and from the sacrifice to the competitions themselves.

This homology between procession and sacrifice—not even to mention the religious mentality of sequencing that connects one to the other—is strikingly parallel to what we find at the Panathenaia in Athens. On that seasonally-recurring occasion as well, though of course on a vastly larger scale, we see a procession climaxing in a sacrifice: the Panathenaic Procession starts from the Kerameikos and passes through the Agora and ends up on the heights of the Acropolis, reaching its climax in a grand sacrifice within the sacred space of Athena on high. The Parthenon Frieze gives a mythologically synchronic picture of {50|51} the whole continuum of the Panathenaic Procession as it approaches its climax in the sacrifice to Athena. [31]

From the evidence of such comparisons between the Artemisia of Eretria and the Panathenaia of Athens, I infer that we are dealing here with two institutions that are not only parallel but even cognate. A particularly telling point of comparison, as I have stressed, is the custom of holding agōnes ‘competitions’ in mousikē. The categories of competition are remarkably parallel, even in the relative rankings of these categories.

There is, granted, a vast difference in scale between the Artemisia of Eretria, as recorded in the inscription IG XII ix 189 from ca. 341/0 BCE, and the Panathenaia of Athens, as recorded in the inscription IG II² 2311 from 380 BCE. In that era of the Panathenaia, as I have already noted, the monetary value of the first prize in the competition of citharodes, a gold garland, was worth 1000 drachmas—and that figure does not even include the additional cash prize of silver worth 500 drachmas. When we compare that sum of 1000 drachmas at the Panathenaia of that time to the sum of 200 drachmas, which was the cash prize for first place in the competition of citharodes at the Artemisia of Eretria just forty-odd years later, we can appreciate all the more the magnitude of the Panathenaia. The monetary value of the gold garland bestowed on the top citharode at the Panathenaia in the decade of 380 BCE is the equivalent of the entire budget of the Artemisia in 341/0 BCE.

Despite the differences in scale, the Eretrian inscription IG XII ix 189 shows enough structural parallelisms with the Panathenaia to encourage extrapolations in areas where we do not have direct information about the Athenian festival. Here I return to the all-important elements of procession and sacrifice. The districts of the city, called khōroi, are each to contribute animals (cattle are specified) that are krita ‘chosen’ by state {51|52} overseers for the sacrifice (lines 25–31). Sacrificial animals can also be bought, in the sacred precinct, by individual sacrificers from individual sellers (31–34), as also in the agora (35). All those who wish to sacrifice are to march in the procession, which is to be marshaled in the agora by officials called dēmarkhoi (34–35); the sacrificial animals are to be led in the procession by their respective sacrificers, in a prescribed sequence determined by the categories of animals: first come the dēmosia or victims of the State, including the choicest entry or kallisteion ‘fairest prize’ (35–36); then come the krita ‘chosen ones’, presumably the ones contributed by the khōroi (36); and then, finally, all other victims, elliptically indicated by a formula that refers not to the animals but to their sacrificers, and this category includes any private individual who wishes to participate in the procession (sumpompeuein: 37).

It is essential to stress here a detail just noted, that the organizers of the procession culminating in the grand sacrifice are officials called the dēmarkhoi (34–35). Earlier on in the inscription, these same dēmarkhoi are described as the officials in charge of the entire agōn of mousikē (τὸν δὲ ἀγῶνα τιθόντων οἱ δήμ|αρχοι, 23–24). By extrapolation, we can say that the dēmarkhoi of the Artemisia are analogous to the athlothetai of the Panathenaia.

Participation in the grand procession of the Artemisia, then, is an option open to any individual. For the actual competitors in the mousikē, however, participation is required. The inscription specifies that all the agōnistai ‘competitors’ are to take part in the procession (37–38), and we have already noted the explicit reason given for this required participation: ‘in order that the procession [pompē] and the sacrifice [thusia] become the most beautiful possible’ (39). Since the other participants in the procession are conducting the various sacrificial animals to the grand sacrifice, can we say the same for the competitors as well? If so, perhaps the sacrificial animals to be conducted by {52|53} the competitors are the lambs mentioned at the beginning of the inscription, the enkritoi of line 8.

The inscription ends by providing for its words to be inscribed on a stele and to be placed in the precinct of Artemis (40–41), with the following express purpose: One last time we see the all-important factor of sacrifice, and, this time, the homology is between the thusia ‘sacrifice’ and the mousikē.

A parallel homology is at work in the Timaeus of Plato. The dramatized occasion of this dialogue is “the thusia of the goddess” (τῇ … τῆς θεοῦ θυσίᾳ 26e3), that is, the Panathenaia. [32] The story of Atlantis and Athens, about to be narrated by Critias, is described by him metaphorically as a humnos to be sung as an encomium of the goddess: to recall the story, he says, would be a fitting way both to please Socrates “and at the same time to praise the goddess on the occasion of her Festival in a righteous and truthful way, just as if we were making her the subject of a humnos” (καὶ τὴν θεὸν ἅμα ἐν τῇ πανηγύρει δικαίως τε καὶ ἀληθῶς οἷόνπερ ὑμνοῦντας ἐγκωμιάζειν 21a2–3). [33] {53|54}

The story of Atlantis and Athens, about to be recalled by Critias, goes back to his childhood memories—all the way back to a time when he was only ten years old: his grandfather Critias, whose namesake he is, had told him the story on a day of initiation, Koureotis Day, during the Feast of Apatouria (21a–b). [34] As a ten-year-old, however, Critias would have been too young to be initiated, and this detail about his under-age status underlines the inherent childishness of the listener. [35] In this specific context, Plato adds an interesting further detail that reinforces the idea of childish perceptions: on Koureotis Day, Critias reminisces, he and his little friends used to engage in a very special game. They played rhapsode, competing for prizes, athla, arranged by their fathers (ἆθλα γὰρ ἡμῖν οἱ πατέρες ἔθεσαν ῥαψῳδίας 21b). In the general context of the Timaeus, the occasion of which is actually the Panathenaia, this mention of rhapsōidia is suggestive: it evokes the prime occasion of rhapsodic contests for prizes. This occasion is in fact the Panathenaia. [36] On the occasion of the real Panathenaia, rhapsodes competed—and cooperated—in performing the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey. On the occasion of that Koureotis Day of long ago, according to Plato’s dramatized reminiscences of Critias, the boys were competing in rhapsodic performances of “many poets” (πολλῶν μὲν οὖν δὴ καὶ πολλὰ ἐλέχθη ποιητῶν ποιήματα 21b). Among the “new” poetic compositions of that era, many of the boys “sang” the poems of Solon (ἅτε δὲ νέα κατ’ ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον ὄντα τὰ Σόλωνος πολλοὶ τῶν παίδων ᾔσαμεν 21b). [37] Why is Solon highlighted in these reminiscences, and not Homer? Solon’s general pertinence to the Timaeus is obvious: what this lawmaker had heard from priests in Egypt is {54|55} supposedly the source of the grandfather Critias’ story about Athens and Atlantis. Solon’s specific pertinence to the Panathenaia, however, is no longer obvious to us. The immediate context of the Timaeus will now help provide an explanation.

The poetry of Solon, as we know from the surviving fragments, was composed in elegiac and iambic meters; these two meters, along with the dactylic hexameter, are the three basic “non-lyric” media that rhapsodes specialize in performing, while most other meters belong to the “lyric” media performed by citharodes or aulodes. [38] Solon’s status as a composer of rhapsodic poetry is pertinent to the Timaeus because he is pointedly compared by the grandfather Critias to Homer and Hesiod themselves: if only Solon had not left unfinished his poetic composition about Atlantis and Athens, says the grandfather, this statesman would have surpassed even Homer and Hesiod in poetic fame (21c–d). If this unfinished poetry of Solon had been performed by rhapsodes at the real Panathenaia, the performers would have become the continuators of a never-ending story.

We may note a formal parallelism of rhapsodic repertoires in Plato’s Ion: the rhapsode Ion, who is about to compete in the Panathenaia (530b), is potentially a grand master in performing Hesiod and even Archilochus, not just Homer (531a); he tells Socrates that he specializes in Homer only because Homer is the best poet and, by implication, the only poet whose poetry is performed by rhapsodes at the Panathenaia (531a-532c). The rhapsode is a master performer—without musical accompaniment (533b5–7)—of dactylic hexameter (Homer and Hesiod) as also of elegiac and iambic meters (both these meters were primary compositional media of Archilochus). From such formal parallelisms, we can see that the poetic medium of Solon—elegiac and iambic meters—is appropriate to the performance repertoire of rhapsodes. Solon’s poetry is rhapsodic poetry. But is this poetry appropriate for rhapsodic performance at the Panathenaia?

Plato’s Timaeus implies that the rhapsodic poetry of Solon could have replaced the rhapsodic poetry of Homer at the {55|56} Panathenaia, if only the great Athenian statesman had found the leisure time to finish his unfinished poem about Atlantis and Athens (21c–d). By further implication, the rhapsodic tale told by grandfather Critias could have become the poetic centerpiece of the Panathenaia. But Solon did not complete his rhapsodic masterpiece—just as Plato did not complete his trilogy of Timaeus, Critias, and Hermocrates. As I will now go on to argue, this state of incompleteness is expressed by Plato in a nostalgically playful way, and the playfulness cleverly mimics the childish mentality of a ten-year-old boy playing at a game of rhapsodes, where the object of the game is to win celebrity status as the star rhapsode of the Panathenaia.

Critias looks back at those early days when he and the other children playing rhapsode had not yet become eligible to enter the “real” world of grownups. Now, in the Timaeus and the Critias, we find the adult Critias still at it—playing rhapsode on the occasion of the Panathenaia. Plato’s wording of Critias’ reminiscences leaves the impression that Critias’ game is still in some ways a children’s game. [39]

In the Timaeus, which features the dramatis personae of Socrates, Timaeus, Critias, and Hermocrates, we find references to the subject-matter of an encounter of the same dramatis personae that had taken place “yesterday,” khthes (17c, 26c, etc.). The subject-matter of “yesterday” had concerned an ideal city-state or republic (politeia: 17c, etc.), and Socrates had talked about them “yesterday” in the form of a muthos (ἐν μύθῳ: 26c, etc.). These references in the Timaeus are cross-references, it would seem, to Plato’s Republic, which begins with a highlighted reference to khthes ‘yesterday’ (κατέβην χθὲς εἰς τὸν Πειραιᾶ: 327a). And yet, the khthes ‘yesterday’ of the Timaeus {56|57} involves the dramatis personae of the Timaeus, not the dramatis personae of the Republic (Socrates, Kephalos, Thrasymachus, and so on). [40] So we cannot say that the Timaeus cross-refers to the “real” Republic.

What we can say, however, is that the Timaeus fictionalizes the Republic, since we do know for a fact that a “real” Republic exists—if indeed we have already read it. Plato’s Timaeus is marked throughout by the genre of “fiction”—that is, of εἰκὼς λόγος (eikōs logos: for example, 48a, 53d). [41] Since Plato knows that we know fiction when we see it, if indeed we have read the “real” Republic carefully, he cannot expect us to take the khthes literally.

In the interplay of cross-reference, the fact that the word khthes is consistently juxtaposed with politeia ‘republic’ in the Timaeus may be viewed, in and of itself, as a reference to the Republic, in light of the prominent featuring of that word at the beginning of the Republic. For the reference to be a cross-reference, you do not have to reconcile the logic of the immediate context with the logic of the ultimate context, which controls the ultimate purpose of reference.

In terms of the immediate context of the Timaeus, its own dramatic moment is the eve of the concluding day of the Panathenaia, on the 28th of the month Hekatombaion. By contrast, the dramatic moment of the Republic was the feast of the Bendideia, on the 19th of the month Thargelion. Recognizing the dramatic moment of the Republic, Proclus infers that the dramatic moment of the Timaeus must have been the 20th of Thargelion—that is, the day after the Republic. In other words, Proclus is taking the usage of khthes ‘yesterday’ in the Timaeus as a historical reference to the setting of the Republic. At the {57|58} same time, he does not want to let go of the immediate context of the Timaeus, from which he infers that the feast in question is indeed the Panathenaia.

Proclus attempts to reason his way out of such contradictions by conjecturing that the feast in question is not the Greater Panathenaia, held every four years, but the Lesser Panathenaia, held on each of the other three years. He is guessing that the Lesser Panathenaia in Athens were held in the month of Thargelion, the same time when the Bendideia were held at the Peiraieus. Here he gets caught in a mistake from the standpoint of modern scholars, who have access to more evidence about the scheduling of the Panathenaia in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE than did Proclus, who lived almost a millennium later, in the fifth century CE. [42]

Such a mistake is really a mistake only if we follow Proclus in assuming that the dramatic dates of the Republic and the Timaeus need to be connected historically. For Plato, however, I submit that any intended thematic connection between the Republic and the Timaeus is purely literary, not historical: the Republic of “yesterday” had dealt with the topic of the ideal state, while the Timaeus of “today” announces a new topic, that is, a state that must be pure fiction.

That seems as far as we can go in looking for intertextual connections between different works of Plato. It is self-defeating to attempt to go further, as Proclus did, by seeking connections between the internal consistencies of one distinct work of Plato with those of another. [43] Platonic cross-reference cannot be expected to impose an overall sense of order on any single work from the cumulative totality of the outside. Still, my point remains that the usage of khthes ‘yesterday’ in the Timaeus is a case of partial intertextuality, that is, where a cross-reference in {58|59} one given work of Plato to another does not interfere with the individual philosophical and literary agenda of either work. [44]

The intentionality of this kind of intertextuality is reflected, I submit, in Plato’s use of the language of rhapsodes. From what I am about to show, it appears that Plato is making a point about individualized rhapsodic style and even individualized rhapsodic content, within the framework of an imposed and previously-agreed-upon sequence of narrative. When it is Critias’ turn in the Critias to take up where Timaeus in the Timaeus had left off, Timaeus says: “I hand over [paradidomen] to Critias, as prearranged, the continuous discourse [ephexēs logos]” (Critias 106b: παραδίδομεν κατὰ τὰς ὁμολογίας Κριτίᾳ τὸν ἐφεξῆς λόγον). I draw attention here to the expression ephexēs logos ‘continuous discourse’. We may compare the rhapsodic expression ephexēs in the passage I quoted earlier from “Plato” Hipparkhos 228b–c.

Critias responds by saying that he will now “take up the continuous discourse” at the point where it was handed over to him by Timaeus. I draw attention to the precise wording: dekhesthai ‘I take up’, with the direct object ephexēs logos ‘continuous discourse’ understood. The whole idea is worded in a noticeably compressed clause marked by the particle men, to be followed by an expanded clause, marked by the particle de, which expresses the idea that the discourse will now become {59|60} even more challenging than before, and that the speaker must therefore beg the indulgence of his audience all the more: ἀλλ᾿ὦ Τίμαιε δέχομαι μέν· ᾧ δὲ καὶ κατ᾿ἀρχὰς σὺ ἐχρήσω, συγγνώμην αἰτούμενος ὡς περὶ μεγάλων μέλλων λέγειν, ταὐτὸν καὶ νῦν ἐγὼ τοῦτο παραιτοῦμαι … ‘all right, then, Timaeus, I’m taking it up [dekhesthai] here [that is, the continuous discourse], on the one hand [men]; on the other hand [de], I ask for the very same thing that you too made use of at the beginning when you asked for indulgence on the grounds that you were about to speak about great [megala] things’ (Critias 106b–c). Critias goes on to say that his subject matter is surely even greater (106c).

The usage of the verb dekhesthai ‘take up’ in this context (106b) is crucial. We may compare the participle of this same verb as applied to Patroklos at Iliad IX 191: he sits in a state of anticipation, “waiting” (δέγμενος) for the moment when Achilles will leave off (verb lēgein) singing the klea andrōn ‘glories of heroes’. As I have argued, Patroklos is apparently waiting for his own turn to sing, and what we see here in capsule form is “the esthetics of rhapsodic sequencing.” [45] The verb lēgein ‘leave off’ is elsewhere attested in explicitly rhapsodic contexts, as in the following passage:

Critias remarks that his topic, the genesis of humans, is even more difficult than the topic that had just been treated by Timaeus, the genesis of the gods and of the cosmos, since the audience will demand greater verisimilitude about topics that seem closer to their own world of direct experience (107a–b). Socrates jokingly responds that the topic of the next slated speaker, Hermocrates, will surely become even more difficult (108a–b).

Of course, Plato’s readers will never get to see even the beginnings of Hermocrates’ topic, since the sequence of a would-be trilogy of Timaeus, Critias, and Hermocrates is cut short well before even the Critias can come to a finish. An obvious inference, then, is that Plato never finished his intended trilogy. [48] There is, however, also a less obvious inference that could be drawn: perhaps Plato intended the sequence of Timaeus / Critias to remain unfinished. [49] In support of this {61|62} inference, we may point to the open-endedness that typifies Plato’s dialectic in general. [50]

Critias’ speech stops short at exactly the point where he is about to quote the Will of Zeus (δίκην αὐτοῖς ἐπιθεῖναι βουληθείς 121b–c). Plato’s wording evokes the epic theme of the boulē or ‘Will’ of Zeus, as announced at the very beginning of the Iliad, I 5 (Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή) or at the very beginning of the Cypria fr. 1.7 Allen (Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή). At the point where Critias’ speech stops short, Zeus is about to announce that he will now inflict a Flood on the Golden Generation—the last of a doomed race who have finally exhausted their divine genetic destiny (moira) because of their habitual interbreeding with ordinary mortals (Critias 121c). This point of stopping short, I argue, is analogous to a given point in epic narrative where one rhapsode could leave off the narration and another rhapsode could take it up.

In support of this argument, I draw attention to two points in the overall narrative of the Iliad: one of them comes at the end of Book VIII, and the other at the end of Book XV. As Bruce Heiden points out, both Books VIII and XV end on a note of asserting the boulē or “Will” of Zeus. [51] Heiden argues that both endings seem to signal major breaks in the performance of the Iliad. In stressing the factor of performance, not just composition, he is following the theory of Oliver Taplin, who posits three successive units or “movements” in three successive nights for the actual performing of the Iliad: I–IX, X–XVIII 353, XVIII 354–XXIV. [52] Heiden modifies this theory by positing a different set of divisions for the three “movements,” which he thinks were performed in three days rather than nights: Iliad I–VIII, IX–XV, XVI–XXIV. [53] He argues that these posited divisions in the course of Iliadic performance were meant to mark points of {62|63} suspense, not of resolution: at the end of both VIII and XV, the Will of Zeus is being asserted at a moment when the outcome of the overall plot seems as yet undecided. [54]

I agree with Heiden’s specific inference that these major divisions at the endings of Iliad VIII and XV are compositional as well as performative. I also agree with his general inference that the endings of all Homeric “books” are likewise both compositional and performative. [55] As I have argued in my earlier work, the division of the Homeric Iliad and Odyssey into twenty-four “books” (a better word would be “scrolls”) stems from distinctly rhapsodic traditions of performance, and even the traditional word for designating one of these “books,” rhapsōidia, reflects the technical language of rhapsodic practice. [56]

I disagree, however, with the position taken by Heiden when he argues that the divisions of the Iliad and Odyssey into twenty-four books “were designed and textualized by the composer himself.” [57] I also disagree with the position taken by Taplin on the other extreme: he argues not only that the book-divisions “do not go back to the formation of the poems” but also that they are relatively recent, probably the work of Alexandrian scholars. [58] The major narrative breaks that Taplin posits for the {63|64} Iliad are more distinct, he contends, than the breaks separating the Books of the Iliad as we know them. [59]

As an alternative to these positions, I offer here an intermediate formulation, based on an evolutionary model for the making of Homeric poetry. [60] In terms of such a model, I have argued, “what may be a three-part division in one stage of the tradition, which is what Taplin posits for the Iliad, may not necessarily be incompatible with a 24-part division at another stage.” [61] These “divisions,” I should stress, are not textual in terms of my formulation: rather, they are simultaneously compositional and performative. That is, they are aspects of a process of recomposition, evolving over time in the historical contexts of each reperformance. In short, “I hold open the possibility that the eventual division of the Iliad and Odyssey each into twenty-four Books results from the cumulative formation of episodes in the process of equalized or even weighting.” [62]

Having noted my disagreements with Heiden’s formulation of performative breaks in Homeric poetry, I return to a central point of agreement, concerning the suspenseful endings of Iliad VIII {64|65} and XV. So far, we have seen that the effect of suspense is achieved by way of breaking the narrative at a point where the Will of Zeus is not yet fully realized. The choosing of such points for breaking the narrative, I have been arguing, reflects a distinctly rhapsodic practice. Further, I have been comparing these points for breaking the Homeric narrative with the point in Plato’s Critias where the text breaks off, at the precise moment when the Will of Zeus is about to be quoted directly.

The analogy seems incomplete, however, since the Will of Zeus, as spoken in his own words, is “quoted” in Iliad VIII and XV not at the end of these “books” but further back (VIII 470–483 and XV 14–33, 49–77). Still, the actual effects of the words spoken by Zeus are suspensefully held back by the narrative of each of these “books,” all the way to the very end of each.

The analogy becomes clearer if we trace the overall metaphorical world of the Will of Zeus in the Iliad. From Iliad I through Iliad XV, as I have argued at length elsewhere, the Will of Zeus is visualized as an archetypal Conflagration inflicted by the thunderbolt of Zeus, and this visualization is applied metaphorically to the fire of Hektor as it threatens to destroy the ships of the Achaeans. [63] In terms of the overall plot of the Iliad, if the fire of Hektor had burned down the ships of the Achaeans, these seafaring ancestors of the Hellenes would all have perished, and Hellenic civilization itself would have become extinct. [64] This extinction, had it happened, would have been caused immediately by the fire of Hektor—but ultimately by a Conflagration sent by the Will of Zeus.

Fortunately for the Achaeans, the Will of Zeus stops short of Conflagration: “for Zeus, the selas ‘flash’ of Hektor’s fire at XV 600 signals the termination of the Trojan onslaught, which was inaugurated by the selas of his own thunderstroke at VIII 76.” [65] The Trojans will not be so fortunate: from Iliad XV 600 onward, the Will of Zeus will start to turn against them, and the rest of the plot of the Iliad will lead inexorably toward their own ultimate extinction by way of Conflagration.

This Homeric theme of ultimate extinction is pertinent to the themes of Plato’s Timaeus and Critias. Already in the Timaeus, we see a polar opposition between two kinds of eschatological disaster, that is, Conflagration (Ecpyrosis) and Flood (Cataclysm): the first is exemplified by the myth of Phaethon (22c) and the second, by the myth of Deukalion (22a). At the {65|66} point where the Critias breaks off, the Will of Zeus is about to unleash the second kind of eschatological disaster, the Cataclysm.

In the Iliad, the alternative eschatological themes of Ecpyrosis and Cataclysm are in fact both applied: the first threatens both the Trojans and the Achaeans, while the second threatens only the Achaeans. [66] Either way, the essential fact remains: Ecpyrosis and Cataclysm are the visible epic manifestations of the Will of Zeus.

In sum, the Critias of Plato breaks off at a point that corresponds to a break in rhapsodic performance. What then, could this correspondence tell us about the narrative sequence of the Timaeus and Critias?

In the wording of the Timaeus, the narrative about Atlantis was told to Solon hexēs ‘in sequence’ (23d) by the Egyptian priests, after they had re-read their own written record ephexēs ‘in sequence’ (24a). The contexts of these terms hexēs / ephexēs are analogous to the context of ephexēs logos ‘continuous discourse’ in Critias 106b, which I have already compared to the overtly rhapsodic context of ephexēs in “Plato” Hipparkhos 228b–c. As we have seen, the context of Critias 106b is in fact likewise overtly rhapsodic. When it is Critias’ turn in the Critias to take up where Timaeus in the Timaeus had left off, Timaeus says: “I hand over [paradidomen] to Critias, as prearranged, the continuous discourse [ephexēs logos]” (Critias 106b: παραδίδομεν κατὰ τὰς ὁμολογίας Κριτίᾳ τὸν ἐφεξῆς λόγον).

The problem is, Critias can never finish narrating this “continuous discourse,” just as Solon never finished turning this narrative into his own poetry in the first place. If only Solon had not left unfinished his poetic composition about Atlantis and Athens, says the grandfather, this statesman would have {66|67} surpassed even Homer and Hesiod in poetic fame (Timaeus 21c–d). If only Solon had finished, his Atlantis would have become the “continuous discourse” of rhapsodes.

The discontinuity of the Atlantis narrative highlights the openendedness of the narrative sequence from the Timaeus to the Critias to the nonexistent Hermocrates. The break in continuity happens at a point in the narrative when the narration has some time ago shifted from gods to humans: that shift is signaled already at the beginning of the speech of Critias (Critias 107a–b). That this speech is seemingly meant to address purely human affairs, not divine, is underlined by Plato’s evocative references to the world of history. When Critias describes his whole speech as parakhrēma legomena ‘things spoken with reference to the present contingencies’ (107d–e)—his wording evokes the passage in Thucydides 1.22.4 where the historian rejects the ephemeral preoccupations of his predecessors (ἀγώνισμα ἐς τὸ παραχρῆμα ἀκούειν ‘a competitive occasion meant for hearing with reference to the present [historical] contingencies’ [parakhrēma]). Later on, when Critias describes the moira ‘destiny’ of golden-age humanity as exitēlos ‘extinct’ (Critias 121a), his wording evokes the beginning of the History of Herodotus, where the historian expresses his ultimate intent to rescue human affairs from becoming exitēla ‘extinct’ (Herodotus prooemium). [67]

It is precisely at this moment in the narrative of the Critias that the Will of Zeus is about to reassert itself in the course of human affairs. It is also precisely at this moment that Zeus, just as he begins to speak, is precluded from uttering even one word. How ineffable of Zeus even to try to speak at this {67|68} point in the flow of narration, given that the dialogue of Critias had already started off by shifting from divine to human affairs!

The open-endedness of the narrative sequence from the Timaeus to the Critias to the nonexistent Hermocrates leaves no chance for Hermocrates, described as tritos (Critias 108a6), even to start—let alone finish. If he had indeed started, Hermocrates would have needed “a second beginning,” hetera arkhē, in any case (Critias 108b). That way, he would not have had to resort to the same old beginning, arkhē.

Before Critias gets to have his own beginning, arkhē, Socrates jokingly prophesies for him the fate that befalls those who compete in the world of theater, referring to what he calls the “mentality” of that medium (literally, its dianoia ‘train of thought’: τὴν τοῦ θεάτρου διάνοιαν): the “previous poet” (ὁ πρότερος ... ποιητής), he says, will always have a big advantage (Critias 108b). [68] At this point, Hermocrates responds to Socrates that “we” must bravely move ahead, that is, that Critias as the second in the sequence of three speakers must bravely move ahead and start his speech (Critias 108c). Critias responds by expressing his admiration for these brave but doomed words of Hermocrates, who is “last in line” (τῆς ὑστέρας τεταγμένος) and, worse, who still “has someone else in front of him,” someone who has not yet even performed for his audience (ἐπίπροσθεν ἔχων ἄλλον Critias 108c). At this moment, Critias refers to his present audience as “this theater” (τῷδε τῷ θεάτρῳ 108d). [69] {68|69}

As I contemplate Hermocrates in his role of the potential tritos (108a6), I see a failed sequence of three would-be rhapsodes: Timaeus, Critias, Hermocrates. If these three dramatis personae had succeeded in putting it all together, we would have had three rhapsodes performing some kind of poetic totality for one day. “Yesterday” there was another set of performances, adding up to a fictional equivalent of the Republic. [70] “Today,” the sequence of would-be rhapsodes does not quite add up—unless perhaps the reader is able to take the place of Hermocrates in this ongoing rhapsody. {69|70}