The seventh chapter explores the developing aesthetic value now attached to Rome’s ruins, tracing for instance the way in which they move up scale from illustrations in books or in the background staffage of Renaissance painting to become the foregrounded subject matter in the paintings of the Baroque era and especially the eighteenth century. Engraved views, vedute and photographs provided tourists with inexpensive and portable souvenirs. The ruins have by now acquired full aesthetic validation as the principal subject matter of paintings by Claude or in the engravings of Piranesi. Thanks to the aesthetic appreciation of the ruins, images of them become common features of interior decoration.

The emergence of a ruin-aesthetic comes after Petrarch, and is initially owed to architects like Brunelleschi and to painters like Raphael. Architects wanted to build in the Roman manner, all’antica, and painters introduced Roman ruins into the background of their pictures. Such was the commitment to the study and imitation of the Roman style that the need to conserve the ruins was recognised and advocated. Hitherto it had never occurred to anyone anywhere to urge that a ruined structure should be preserved for its historical value. But a further value was now attached to the ruins of Rome, namely the aesthetic: the ruins were looked upon as attractive in themselves. The ruins also became the object of study and analysis by a new breed of scholar, the antiquarian and topographer, such as Flavio Biondo, who also wanted to ensure their preservation for future ages to admire. This is a new feature of ruin-mindedness: whatever is deemed beautiful must be preserved for later generations to study and admire and imitate. Since those later generations will include foreign visitors, tourism comes to be recognised as a sound economic reason for conserving the handsome material remains of ancient Rome.

In an aside to his audience after narrating the revolt of the Theruingi and the slaughter of the Roman army under Lupicinus in AD 376, the ’lonely’ historian Ammianus Marcellinus asks the indulgence of his readers on a particularly difficult matter ... The rather poignant parenthesis is consistent with the view that Ammianus presents elsewhere in his history of a public at Rome concerned only with the trivial biographies of emperors and caring more for the details of the private lives of the imperial household than with the grand sweep of res gestae. The last antique historian is indeed a great one, and he may even have been as isolated as is sometimes suggested.

Conservation is a fundamental feature of true ruin-mindedness, but the early attempts to preserve the ruins of Rome were unsuccessful until the tourism of the eighteenth century made it clear that there was an economic benefit to the preservation and attractive presentation of the city’s ruins. Once this was appreciated, care for the preservation of the ruins from further damage and decay became an issue. Towards the end of that century, soil and rubble were removed from the bases of a number of the more significant ruins, and steps were taken to isolate them so as to protect them from harm, an innovative measure. Rome took the lead in guarding the heritage of its built environment. But since no one had ever tried to protect a building out of doors before, novel means of preservation and even of conservation and rebuilding were devised to ensure that the ruins looked their best for visitors and for posterity. Further projects of excavation were undertaken by the French and the Kingdom of Italy in the nineteenth century, and in the twentieth century the ruins were furbished up for propaganda purposes by the Fascist regime.

What is the aesthetic status of these interactions? I am tempted to answer: that is it, aesthetic. The answer to a further question, ’whose aesthetic?’, is implicit in my opening argument. The aesthetic must be dynamic, representing ’not a having and a resting, but a growing and a becoming’, as Matthew Arnold phrased the human ideal. It must accord with newly recognised possibilities of literature – of any literature – and equally with those long recognised. Above all, if it hopes to illuminate the particular literature in hand, it must be supported by that literature, must not supplant it.

Uwe Walter explains how memoria in Rome was rooted in institutions vital to the res publica. Many of these were embedded in an oral context with highly suggestive settings – public speech, the theatre, festival performances, among others. Hence, they had only a limited capacity to store memories and preserve them over time. In similar fashion, buildings and monuments were subject to decay, and with their splendour their memorial force vanished. Historiography was of a different quality. Fabius Pictor attempted to create a unified memory of the res publica, distilled and synthesized from multiple individual and collective repositories of memory across a variety of media – and charged with the authority of the senatorial voice. Two concluding case studies illustrate how Walter envisions the relation between narrative synthesis and the production of meaning: one, the case of L. Marcius Septimus, lower commander during the Punic Wars; and the other the highly politicized episode of ten high-ranking prisoners released after the battle of Cannae by Hannibal on their word of honour that they would raise a ransom in Rome in exchange for their comrades. Each tradition integrated different elements of memory to generate a qualitatively new knowledge of past events.

This book is not an attempt to apply to classical literature the habits of modem literary criticism, but as it might be supposed to be just that, I may as well forestall the supposition at the outset. Despite intermittent efforts in recent times, it is still comparatively rare for practising classicists to attempt such ’applications’ and, if anything, especially rare for Hellenists. But the present work represents something much less fashionable altogether: an attempt by a practising classicist to extend the ’theory’ of an aspect of literature in general in the practical context of the literature of antiquity. But in case the claim should seem unduly immodest, it can be said at once that the ’aspect of literature’ in question is, in itself, a small aspect, although not a trivial one. And by way of glossing the claim, let it be said also that the ’habits of modem literary criticism’ and the theoretical apparatus (if any) that accompanies them are not simply separable from their ’traditional’ counterparts. There is rather, as anyone familiar with the ancestry of modern criticism will know, a developing tradition, complex and many-sided, but continuous, which, in its development, sometimes modifies, sometimes innovates entirely and sometimes reconstitutes, in effect, earlier modes.

Up to this point our concern has been how the ancient historian justifies himself before his audience and attempts to portray himself as the proper person for the writing of history, that is, with his role as narrator rerum. The present chapter examines how he approaches his task when a participant in the deeds he records, and how he reconciles the dual role of actor and auctor rerum. For many historians of the ancient world had the opportunity to be both participant and rememberer. The historian’s formal method of presenting himself has received comparatively little attention, yet it is of interest not only because it tells us something of the way that men who wrote history in the ancient world approached the writing of their own deeds, but also what their concerns were in doing so. It is usually assumed that in order to give authority to his account, an historian who narrated his own deeds used the third person and maintained a show of formal impartiality. But a study of the surviving (and partially surviving) historians reveals a variety of approaches and methods, changing with time, the specific type of history written, and the individual intention of the historian himself.

Intrusion, the second main type of interaction, has comparatively few distinct varieties. The chief reason for this would seem to be that for once considerations of word order or structuring hardly arise. Another contributory factor is that in general the distinctions between the different forms of imagery have little practical relevance here. In particular, the distinction between implicit imagery (i.e. metaphor) and explicit (e.g. simile) is not of much consequence in most cases – with one exception. The exceptional case has already been treated, albeit briefly. In its most rudimentary form, intrusion is confined to comparison and short simile, where a predictable ’N as V’ (or ’more N than V’) is replaced by ’T as V’ (’more T than V’).

The second chapter accounts for the steady ruination of Rome despite attempts at maintenance of the built environment in late antiquity. Fire, earthquake and flood were the chief agents of destruction. Repairs were always needed but became increasingly rare thanks to depopulation and diminishing public revenue. The shift of secular power to Constantinople and the gradual decay of paganism in the face of buoyant Christianity did the public buildings of Rome, especially the temples and places of entertainment, no favours. Stone from such structures began to be recycled for repairs or for the adornment of new buildings, such as churches. Depopulation emptied large sectors of the city within the Aurelian walls, and the abandoned sites were turned into farms and vineyards.