This chapter offers an interpretation of early Greek conceptions of divine and human as a coherent constellation of ideas organised around the core notions of human vulnerability, short-sightedness and mutability. Beginning with Achilles’ speech to Priam in Iliad 24, I discuss these key principles and their expressions in genres including epic, elegy, choral lyric, philosophy and historiography. I analyse some of their specific formulations and inflections, with a particular focus on perceptions of the unpredictable and unstable nature of human affairs, the conception of human beings as ephēmeroi (‘creatures of the day’), ideas of divine retribution and the ‘archaic chain’ linking prosperity, greed, arrogance, delusion and disaster. In a second step, I examine the relationship between these ideas and the narratives in which they are embedded, mainly using the examples of the Iliad and Solon’s Elegy to the Muses (fr. 13W).

The epilogue explores how later Greeks understood the notable Mycenaean remains from the regions under study and probes why, during the post-Bronze Age, Tiryns was much celebrated while Mycenae’s reputation was deliberately suppressed.

This broad survey of select Aegean islands and the Greek-speaking coast of western Anatolia reviews the revival of settlements in these areas, after the collapse of Bronze Age civilization. Opening and closing with the imagined vision of this world in Homeric epic, the survey traces the evolution of regional styles in art and architecture, linked to independent polities that developed patterns in self-government that became the Greek polis. Early Iron Age sites, tombs, and artifacts from Euboea, the Cyclades, East Greek islands, the Dodecanese and the mainland areas of Aeolis, Ionia, and Caria are examined against the mythological paradigms of migration and Greek colonization; these regions demonstrate widespread continuity behind the later legends of a wave of Hellenism, and enjoyed close and fertile contacts with neighboring Anatolian cultures such as Phrygia and Lydia. Such relationships fostered innovations in the Archaic period such as the first monumental temples and sculptures in marble, and the evolution of poetic genres, among island and coastal entrepreneurs in collaboration (as well as conflict) with a succession of inland empires, until the Ionian revolt against Achaemenid Persia.

This chapter introduces the book’s two major claims: that learning to read and write fiction was integral to literate education in the Roman world, and that Imperial prose fiction emerged in response to this pedagogy. Drawing on a wide range of literary, philosophical, and educational sources, it argues that the acquisition of “fiction competence” – the trained ability to identify, interpret, and evaluate fictional narratives – was central to the curriculum from early childhood through rhetorical education. It then proposes an “institutional theory of fiction” for classical antiquity, arguing that ancient fictionality be defined not by genre or authorial intent but by culturally embedded conventions taught through schooling. Tracing the roots of these conventions to Greek philosophical and sophistic traditions, the chapter reconstructs four pedagogical principles that structured how students learned to engage with fiction. These principles centered on deception (apate), enigmatic speech (ainigma), and evaluative criticism. The chapter demonstrates that educational texts and practices shaped ancient readers’ expectations of fiction and that literary fiction, in turn, reflected and contested its institutional training. Fiction in antiquity, the chapter contends, must be understood as a socially regulated practice, embedded in and shaped by systems of education.

The chapter is concerned with non-archaeological evidence pertaining to the Early Iron Age in Greece and the eastern Mediterranean. Since this was the only period in Greek history that completely lacked literacy, we are left with oral tradition as the only means of transmitting information between ca. 1200 and ca. 750 BCE. However, numerous anachronisms found in the Homeric poems show that not everything Homer says about the past should be taken at face value. Much more reliable is the evidence of the dialects, another kind of nonarchaeological evidence that throws light on this period. The regional distribution of the historical Greek dialects fits in well with the destruction levels and depopulation attested at many Mycenaean sites, in that both suggest a sharp break in cultural continuity at the end of the Bronze Age. Nothing of this can be found in Homer. Instead, the epics convey an impressive demonstration of cultural continuity and of religious, social, and military uniformity in polities sharing a common identity. It was this picture of an imagined past that became canonical, and the memory of the collapse of Mycenaean Greece and of the period that immediately followed it was effectively wiped out.

Why did the invention of literary theatre take place in Greece and India long before anywhere else? After placing the emergence of Greek tragedy and Sanskrit theatre in their historical contexts (fifth-century bce Athens and likely second-century ce India) and considering the existing kinds of performance in each locale, this chapter looks to three specific societal conditions that made possible their independent inventions of literary theatre. First is the presence of a literate class. Second is the opening or expansion of a niche (brought on by generative societal disruptions) capable of supporting the new theatre form (for Athens, the institution of democracy and imperial wealth; for India, likely the Saka kingdom’s embrace of Sanskrit and its wealthy court). Third is an authoritative corpus of popular narratives (for Athens, the Homeric epics; for India, The Mahabharata and The Ramayana) along with authorial freedom to reimagine those narratives onstage.

Homer lived in Ionia, which he probably never left, around 700 BC. His birthplace and patronymic are unknown; he is associated with many legends. There were probably more than one poet and poems. Homer would have been the one who gave to the epics their final form. The Greeks of the historical period knew next to nothing about the Mycenaean era. Homer is the one who gave a ‘memory’ to their past. He described a country that did not exist, an idealized, heroic and aristocratic society with kings and walled palaces. When the poems were written down in the 6th century BC, all Greek cities wanted to be connected with a hero and acquire noble roots. The historicity of the poems is much debated. Homer is a precious source for Mycenaean studies, but he is a poet and oscillates between the poetic and the historical world and two eras, the prehistoric and the historical. The fact is that epic poems existed in Mycenaean times; they were transmitted orally; the core of Homeric epic could have been created around them.

Scholarship on ancient Greek prayer has almost always focused on its public instantiations: in sacrifice, oratory, sanctuary contexts, etc. This chapter explores the evidence for ancient Greek prayer in the liminal space where public and private clash, coalesce, and collapse. I argue that the prayers of ancient polytheists, though rarely – if ever – strictly private, routinely operated across and between different spheres such as the public and the private, the polis and the oikos, the intimate and the communal. I approach the study of ancient prayer afresh, not as a site of opposition between the individual and the polis, nor as a space in which the distinctions between these realms of praxis are erased or effaced. Rather, prayer here features as an occasion to reflect on the spectrum of possible intersections between personal piety (individual feelings towards and actions in service of the divine) and the wider superstructures of religion, politics, society, and culture within which its practitioners were imbricated and to which they sought to respond.

Reading was one of Debussy’s favourite occupations, without doubt one of the activities that nourished and sustained him the most. Still, any attempt to uncover greater detail about the kind of reader Debussy actually was, remains a complicated, almost archaeological task. Although the sale of scores, manuscripts and several books sent to Debussy offers some leads, it does not make it possible to reconstruct their precise importance or to show their full diversity. In order to understand Debussy’s literary inclinations as fully as possible, it is thus necessary to examine other sources, such as letters, books sent to him, testimonies of friends, as well as the diaries and notebooks that have been miraculously preserved – notably those in which he noted references to works likely to interest him and even specific sentences that he particularly liked. By cross-checking these various elements, I sketch a portrait of a composer through one of his most essential passions.

In his prologue Herodotus establishes a complex relationship with his poetic predecessors and contemporaries. He presents his narrative of the Greco-Persian Wars as simultaneously indebted and opposed to a network of poets, whose Panhellenic cultural prestige he challenges in the innovative medium of prose. Homeric epic is tacitly acknowledged as a model of primary importance: Herodotus adopts the martial subject matter of the Iliad and projects the persona of the peripatetic hero Odysseus. In perpetuating the kleos of fully human warriors rather than their heroic forebears, Herodotus implies that his own medium of prose historiē, committed to writing, will surpass poetry’s ability to perform its traditional function of public commemoration. Herodotus constructs the entire prologue as an ingenious prose priamel, a poetic rhetorical structure that enables him to emphasize important points of contact with and departure from Homeric epic, Sappho’s fragment 16, and the portrayal of Croesus in epinician poetry.

Herodotus’ numerous citations of poets and their work in the Histories demonstrate his deep, broad knowledge of the Greek song-culture, including epic, lyric, and tragic poetry. Herodotus displays extraordinary knowledge of the epic tradition in his critique of the Homeric version of the fall of Troy, which he rejects in favor of the (allegedly) ancient Egyptian tradition that Helen was detained by King Proteus and never reached Troy. The assertion that Homer rejected this version of the story as inappropriate for epic signals Herodotus’ awareness of the different generic constraints under which epic poets operate. The use that Herodotus makes of Aristeas’ hexameter poem the Arimaspeia is especially difficult to assess because of our limited knowledge of the poem. The strongest evidence for Aristean influence on Herodotus may lie in the latter’s exploration of cultural relativism, which includes critical assessments of Greek customs articulated by non-Greek characters in the Histories.

What sort of thing are the narratives of the life of Jesus, literarily speaking? (History? Biography? Fiction? Myth?) And what bearing does their genre have on the manner of interpretation proper to them? This chapter attends to Origen’s account of the Gospels’ genre, literary precedents, and relationship to other forms of ancient literature in order to establish why he believes the Gospels cannot be read as transparently historical narratives. Here, I propose that the kind of narratives Origen believes the Evangelists compose is directly comparable to the stories one finds throughout the scriptures of Israel. Furthermore, Origen also relates the Gospels’ literary similarity to Jewish biblical narrative to the way they both share a similarly complex relationship to facticity. The Gospels, in sum, all narrate the deeds, sufferings, and words of Jesus “under the form of history”; these historical narratives are of a mixed character, interweaving things that happened with things that didn’t and even couldn’t, with an eye toward presenting the events recorded to have happened to Jesus figuratively.