Books about Ancient Greeks and Romans for general readership abound, so it was with a certain weariness that I started reading Jennifer Roberts’ ‘accessible and lively introduction to the Greeks and their ways of living and thinking’ (jacket blurb). I like to read the acknowledgments section first to get a sense of the person behind the book. Among the formulaic, the catalogic, and the dutiful, slight personal details or minor idiosyncrasies can be revealing and even endearing, sparking my curiosity about the author's persona and their world view. Roberts pulled me in immediately with an anecdote about her dictation programme's hilarious interpretations of the name Thucydides (‘Facilities’, ‘The city flees’, ‘Abilities’, ‘He silly is’, and … ‘Frank’). I provide this detail not just because it is amusing, but also because it is telling. Although this book covers the territory I am very familiar with, I really enjoyed reading it and just could not put it down. Roberts is a wonderful writer and storyteller. Her sprawling narrative, dotted with quotations and anecdotes, is reminiscent of Herodotus. Even though the book is meandering at times and full of digressions, Roberts manages to both outline the historical macro-narrative about the Greeks from the Bronze Age to the end of the Hellenistic Age and, more importantly, to convey a good sense of who they were as a culture and what mattered to them, ranging from the myths about the heroic past, the city states and their various political organizations, attitudes towards women, slaves, and foreigners, competitiveness, religion, philosophy, afterlife, and (I see what she did there – but at the expense of internal logic because afterlife should have been paired with religion) reception. The tone is just right, instructing without condescension, lively without cuteness or overfamiliarity, and – what is probably the most difficult task when a professional Classicist is pitching to a wide audience – straightforward and confident, truly written with a wide audience in mind, rather than plagued by prevarication anticipating the snarky reviews by colleagues. This is a terrific and engaging book, and I hope that it will reach a wide audience well beyond the US (despite its title).

Two splendid Oxford Handbooks deserve the opening slot of my review. The Handbook of Greek and Roman Mythography contains forty chapters, each of which closes with a helpful section on recommended further reading. The editors have organized the material in five very well-conceived parts. The first section, ‘Mythography from Archaic Greece to the Empire’, naturally wrestles with the question: When does mythography start? Two initial chapters provide their answers, and the rest of the contributions in this section offer an overview of mythography in Greek (Hellenistic and Imperial period) and Latin. The second section aims to provide an overview of individual mythographers: the stars of this section are Apollodorus, Antoninus Liberalis, Parthenius, Conon, and Hyginus. The eighteen chapters provide informative and concise introductions to authors who specialized in mythography, but also to the mythographic tendencies in authors such as Pausanias or Ovid, as well as in the scholia and even mythographical papyri. The third section is on the typical genres or interpretative models with which mythography tends to intersect: rationalizing historical approaches, philosophical allegoresis, etymologizing, catasterism, local historiography, paradoxography, creative approaches to mythography in ancient education, the role of mythography in political discourse, geography, and, finally, an investigation of the ancient terms used to designate the activity and the writings of a mythographer. The fourth section, ‘Mythography and the visual arts’, is a provocative and highly interesting experiment in viewing visual representations of myth as a mythography of sorts: can vases, frescoes, and sarcophagi be seen as visual pendants to literary mythography? These three contributions are all highly rewarding and thought-provoking. The closing, fifth, section offers richly rewarding discussions of the role of mythography in the age of Christianity, starting with the way early Christian writers draw on Greek and Latin mythographers, followed by chapters on mythography in the Byzantine Empire, the Latin West, and in the Renaissance.

Alfalfa (Medicago sativa L.) hosts several species of aphid, Acyrthosiphon pisum (Harris), Aphis craccivora Koch and Therioaphis trifolii (Monell). The preference of the aphids of alfalfa plants for dense assemblies or individual plants, as well as for healthy or infested plants, was investigated in the field as in the laboratory. Years of field research have revealed the specific preferences of all three species of aphid. A. pisum and T. trifolii are most commonly found in alfalfa crops, while A. craccivora is mostly found on alfalfa weeds. Also, a single species of aphid alone is usually present on a plant. In order to determine the reason for this clear preference and to establish whether at the very beginning, i.e. at the stage of choosing a host, aphid species distance themselves from each other, we tested the effect of the volatiles of healthy and infested plants on their attractiveness to aphids. A. craccivora is repelled by the volatiles of dense crops and plants previously infested with one of the other two species. A. pisum and T. trifolii choose a dense assembly of plants, repelled by the volatiles of plants previously infested with A. craccivora. A. pisum displays the weakest competitive traits, and A. craccivora the strongest. This research showed that competition between aphid species does not occur only when they find themselves on the same plant at the same time, fighting for resources, but also in the choice of plant, in order to avoid later competition.

Delphi, one of the most spectacular sites in Europe and an immensely important oracular site of Ancient Greece is the theme of an edited volume originating in a conference organized in 2017. Unlike most conference proceedings, this volume is truly thorough in terms of breadth of coverage, and it is also beautifully produced and equipped with very useful indices which greatly facilitate orientation. There are twenty-three chapters in German and English, divided into six sections: archaeology, the functioning of the oracle, the role of Delphi in Greek history, the representation of the oracle in archaic and classical literature, its role in the theological and philosophical debates of the Roman period, and a brief section on its modern reception. Anyone interested in Delphi will find something useful in this volume.

One of my favourite undergraduate classes to teach is Greek mythology. At American universities, Greek myth is a popular choice for satisfying humanities credit requirements, and professors are faced with a double dilemma. On the one hand, students have very different levels of knowledge, ranging from, say, a science major with virtually no idea about the ancient world to a know-it-all myth-whiz Classics major at the other end of the scale. The second problem is the choice and organization of material. Tough decisions have to be made, especially if a professor insists on students reading ancient Greek and Latin texts in translation, instead of relying on a modern retelling of myth. Which tragedies to choose? Which sections of Ovid's Metamorphoses? The whole of Homer or just select books? The challenges are real, but the rewards are great. After the initial struggle with Hesiod's Theogony (despite collective grumbling, Hesiod is non-negotiable for me), witnessing the magic of Greek myth at work never ceases to amaze me. In a blink of an eye, the class is passionately defending or attacking Phaedra, or debating fate and the gods; and, of course, everyone is united in hating Jason. It was my early fascination with Greek myth that attracted me to study Classics (the main culprit was the generously illustrated Serbian translation of Gustav Schwab's Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece) and the crushing sense of responsibility for sparking that first interest in my students is only matched by joy upon seeing it work. I take mythology books very seriously because they are often the gateway to the Classics. Several books on myth landed on my desk this year and I'll start with three general introductions. None of these could serve as introductions to myth for children or young adults, but each could be an excellent first step for those wishing to know more about various scholarly approaches to Greek myths and cults.

Structures of Epic Poetry is a monumental, four-volume compendium which aims to classify, analyse, and compare epic structures across Greek and Latin epic poems (and beyond) in a systematic and overarching way. While the individual Bauformen (‘structural elements’) have been the focus of the study of epic for decades, a comprehensive analysis providing a systematic overview of all structural elements in the totality of ancient epic is obviously not a one-person job. The editors, Christiane Reitz and Simone Finkmann, gathered an international group of experts for this herculean task. The compendium provides a set of broad cross-sectional papers on the individual epic structural elements, using a consistent terminology. It has to be said that the editors’ understanding of what constitutes an epic structural element is very broad: it includes the ‘type-scenes’, but also the narrative patterns such as catalogue and ecphrasis, and stylistic hallmarks such as similes; in fact, structural elements as understood by the editors come closest to genre markers.

When I set out to read the new complete English translation of Cassiodorus’ letters (the quotation is from the preface to Book 1, paragraphs 4–5), I certainly did not expect to be transported to the picket lines of the currently ongoing industrial action of the British University and College Union, and yet the overwhelming administrative workload and the avalanche of tasks that Cassiodorus describes have much in common with the academic pressures many are facing today. Nevertheless, Cassiodorus persevered and published many works, including a collection of no fewer than twelve books of letters, the latter in the middle of the eighteen-year Gothic War (536–54). He did not have to worry about his pension, though, as he was a scion of long line of wealthy and prominent property owners and aristocrats from Calabria and was himself a highly placed magistrate at the court of the Ostrogothic Kingdom of Italy. Cassiodorus was responsible for official state correspondence, and his letters are either written in the name of the Amal kings Theoderic, Amalasuntha, and Athalaric, or are appointments to public office, honorary titles, and legal and administrative decisions. They span thirty years of his career in administration and are a prime source for the political and social history of Italy in the sixth century ad.

Most of us tend to encounter Greek myths in childhood as exciting stories brimming with heroes, monsters, and moody divinities. The story of Odysseus’ homecoming and the story about the Little Mermaid feature different characters, but their relationship to reality is understood to be the same: they are fantasy, and not real. If, like me, you were lucky enough to escape the Disneyfication of fairy tales in your childhood, perhaps you will remember the brutality and harshness of folktales, which puts them on a par with many Greek myths. My first encounters with ancient Greek stories about the gods and heroes were very similar to Sarah Iles Johnston's: we were both captivated by Greek myth as children, and the passion, once kindled, only grew stronger when we became mature enough to read the ‘real thing’. In my case, learning about ancient Greek culture and becoming a scholar of Greek religion required a thorough rethink, as I needed to readjust my stance towards Greek myths in order to understand the role that they played in ancient Greek society as formative narratives about the communities’ identities, early history, and human relationships with the gods. My process essentially required an emotional detachment from the beloved heroes of my childhood and a significant amount of distancing.

‘Why Classics matters’ is an important question and Neville Morley offers his answer in a slim volume published in Polity's Why It Matters series which is advertised as follows: ‘word-leading thinkers make the case for the importance of their subjects and aim to inspire a new generation of students’. Morley opens the book with a chapter entitled ‘What's Wrong with Classics’ and presents himself in the afterword as ‘a historian who does ancient stuff’, whose ‘ability to appreciate Latin poetry…or spot subtle intertextual references is, to say the least, negligible’ (126). His first chapter provides basic information about the standing and importance of classical languages in the Western curriculum from the Middle Ages to the present day and then focuses on the (much discussed) issue of gender and class: yes, Classics used to be the epitome of the aristocratic male education, not only in Britain (the main focus of Morley's book) but throughout Europe. This fact, and the trite topos of the sadistic at worst, mind-numbingly boring at best, Classics teacher is illustrated with many quotations from literature, from Eliot's Middlemarch to Tartt's The Secret History. From classical knowledge as cultural capital Morley pivots to Classics as ‘a weapon in the culture wars and the clash of civilizations’ (35) and to far-right internet memes, which leads him to the conclusion that Classics matters today precisely because it is dangerous and deeply problematic. At some point in this chapter he swerves into narrowing down Classics to mean ‘ancient history’ – approximately at the point where he remarks that classicists themselves have actually been ‘at the forefront of questioning traditional understanding of the classical word and how it should be studied’ (36), so his answer as to why Classics does matter mostly pertains to the study of ancient history (and, to a degree, reception):

I was very excited to get my hands on what was promising to be a magnificent and extremely helpful Handbook of Rhetorical Studies, and my expectations were matched – and exceeded! This handbook contains no less than sixty contributions written by eminent experts and is divided into six parts. Each section opens with a brief orientation essay, tracing the development of rhetoric in a specific period, and is followed by individual chapters which are organized thematically. Part I contains eleven chapters on ‘Greek Rhetoric’, and the areas covered are law, politics, historiography, pedagogy, poetics, tragedy, Old Comedy, Plato, Aristotle, and closing with the Sophists. Part II contains thirteen chapters on ‘Ancient Roman Rhetoric’, which similarly covers law, politics, historiography, pedagogy, and the Second Sophistic, and adds Stoic philosophy, epic, lyric address, declamation, fiction, music and the arts, and Augustine to the list of topics. Part III, on ‘Medieval Rhetoric’, covers politics, literary criticism, poetics, and comedy; Part IV, on the Renaissance contains chapters on politics, law, pedagogy, science, poetics, theatre, and the visual arts. Part V consists of seven essays on the early modern and Enlightenment periods and is decidedly Britano-centric: politics, gender in British literature, architecture, origins of British Enlightenment rhetoric, philosophy (mostly British, too), science, and the elocutionary movement in Britain. With Chapter 45 we arrive at the modern age section (Part VI), with two chapters on feminism, one on race, and three on the standard topics (law, political theory, science), grouped together with those on presidential politics, New Testament studies, argumentation, semiotics, psychoanalysis, deconstruction, social epistemology, and environment, and closing with digital media. The volume also contains a glossary of Greek and Latin rhetorical terms. As the editor states in his Introduction, the aim of the volume is not only to provide a comprehensive history of rhetoric, but also to enable those interested in the role of rhetoric in specific disciplines or genres, such as law or theatre and performance, to easily find those sections in respective parts of the book and thus explore the intersection of rhetoric with one specific field in a chronological sequence.

A majority of patients with Guillain-Barré syndrome (GBS) have tendency of a good recovery. Our aim was to evaluate the outcome of the disease 1 and 3 years after GBS symptom onset. Methods: During 2014, GBS was diagnosed in 82 patients in seven tertiary healthcare centers. Neurological follow-up was conducted in 57 (70%) patients after 1 year, and in 54 (66%) after 3 years. Functional disability was estimated according to the GBS disability scale (GDS), with a score of 0-3 indicating mild disability and a score of 4-6 indicating severe disability during acute phase, whereas a score >1 indicated poor recovery on follow-ups. Visual analog scale was used to assess sensory symptoms and musculoskelatal pain, and Krupp’s Fatigue Severity Scale was used to asses fatigue. Results: Poor functional outcome was found in 39% of GBS patients at year 1 and 30% at year 3. Paresthesias/dysesthesias were detected in 60% of patients after 1 year and 43% after 3 years. Musculoskeletal pain was present in 40% of patients at year 1 and 33% at year 3. Significant fatigue after 1 year was found in 21% of subjects and after 3 years in 7%. Parameters associated with poor functional outcome after 1 year were age >55 years (p=0.05), severe disability at admission (p<0.05), and on discharge (p<0.01). Poor functional outcome after 3 years was associated with male gender (p<0.05) and severe disability on discharge (p=0.06). Conclusion: One and even three years after GBS onset, a substantial number of patients had neurological sequelae, including functional disability, sensory symptoms, pain, and fatigue.

I start with two Routledge publications. My general remark has nothing to do with the authors but is directed at the publisher: these books are very expensive as hardbacks, so a paperback, at a third of the cost, might appear to be an attractive alternative. However, my own paperback copy of Understanding Greek Religion fell apart on the second opening and continues to disintegrate with every use because the paper is very thick and the pages are glued instead of bound. In the light of the fact that Larson's book aims to be ‘essential resource for both undergraduate and postgraduate students of Greek culture and ancient Mediterranean religions’ (i), the publisher's ‘caveat emptor’ approach is especially jarring. In addition, the format of both books (each chapter is followed by the endnotes and a separate bibliography) is not only impractical as it forces the reader to jump forwards and backwards constantly, but also contributes significantly to the further disintegration of the book. I hope that Routledge will be able to correct this problem with its paperbacks.

If you still haven't chosen a book to take with to the desert island, I have a suggestion: L'encyclopédie du ciel. At 1,202 pages, it will keep you occupied day and night: what you read as text by day will help you read by night in the sky. This wonderful and extremely useful book is as difficult to classify as it is to put down. Essentially, it is a compendium of Greco-Roman discourse on the stars and planets, divided into three parts. The first (‘Les images: histoire et mythologie: voir et raconter’) is about the constellations and the planets. It opens with a catalogue in which each constellation is illustrated, explained, and accompanied with appropriate quotations from Eratosthenes’ Catasterismoi and Hyginus’ Astronomica. There follow essays about the names of the constellations, on the Sun, Moon, and the planets, and one on Greek and Roman creation myths. All are accompanied by long passages of appropriate Greek and Latin texts in translation. The second part of the book (‘Les lois: l'astronomie: observer et calculer’) is about the ancient attempts to make sense of and explain the stars and planets as a system, about calendars, and about ancient astronomical instruments and objects. This part of the book also contains a complete translation of Hipparchus’ Commentary on the Phaenomena of Eudoxus and Aratus. It closes with an account of Greek star catalogues. The third part of the book is concerned with various attempts to interpret the celestial phenomena (‘Les messages: signes et influence: interpréter et prédire’). It includes, but is not restricted to, astrology; philosophical ideas are also discussed, such as astral apotheosis, the ascent of the soul through the sky, and the music of the spheres. There is a dictionary of astronomical and astrological terms and a dictionary of ancient astronomers and authors dealing with astronomy. The book closes with parallel star catalogues of Eratosthenes, Hipparchus, and Ptolemy.

If you have ever had a premonition, or if ever some inner voice has dissuaded you from a certain action, you might have noticed that this experience involves a different kind of knowledge than that preceded by an inference. We call it a ‘hunch’, an ‘intuition’, or a ‘gut feeling’; in the nineteenth century this particular subvolitional form of thinking was called ‘unconscious cerebration’, and modern cognitive science recognizes it as a specific type of cognition characterized by quick, pre-attentive, and preconscious processing – Daniel Kahneman's famous ‘thinking fast’. The most fascinating aspect of Peter Struck's book on divination is an attempt to distinguish the type of cognition it entailed. The book offers an insightful analysis of Plato's, Aristotle's, the Stoics’, and the Neoplatonists’ views on divination, concluding that they saw divination as ‘surplus insight’, a specific kind of cognition. Since ‘our ability to know exceeds our capacity to understand that ability’, ‘our cognitive selves are to some…degree mysterious to us…The messages that we receive from the world around us add up, sometimes in uncanny ways, to more than the sum of their parts’ (15). Struck argues that, in the ancient world, the process by which we arrive at such surplus knowledge was acculturated as divination. He focuses on the philosophers’ views and does not attempt to provide an analysis of the technical and practical side of divination, which was based on knowledge and skill (though it must have involved intuition to some degree as well), or of the popular views on divination. Nevertheless, his book will be very useful to those interested in the philosophical views on divination and in the cognitive history of intuition. Cognitive science has spurred several important recent studies in Greek religion and is continuing to provide a useful framework for conceptualizing ancient (and modern) religious thinking and behaviour.