When we focus on what is insignificant, we are likely to neglect what is most crucial. He who fixates on the irrelevant escrescence overlooks the significance of the larger structure. It is with good reason that this admonition is of old date:
The student of classical antiquity’s literary monuments may find himself perplexed by the relative paucity of its surviving examples. How could it be, we may wonder, that such a large corpus of celebrated works slipped, nearly unnoticed in the passage of centuries, into oblivion? Why is it that so many writings held in universally high regard exist today only in fragmentary or mutilated form? How could these tragedies of indifference and neglect have been permitted? By what processes are classics “lost”? These are worthy and difficult questions. They can be answered; but the answers are unsettling, and carry implications very modern in their relevance.
Quintus Fulvius Flaccus was a commander and politician of the Roman Republic who ascended to the consulship in 179 B.C. There is an interesting story about him found in the ancient historians, which we will relate here.
A beautiful feature of proverbs and aphorisms is their flexibility of interpretation. Different readers can find in them varying interpretations based on their own experiences and perceptions. Some proverbs admit only a narrow degree of interpretive variance; others draw their power from ambiguity, and allow for a broad range of possible meanings.
The fifth century Gallo-Roman writer Sidonius Apollinaris, in a letter to his friend Heronius, mentions hearing during his travels the congratulatory shout of “Thalassio” in the streets, theaters, and marketplaces. An editor’s footnote to the text explains that the exclamation was a standard Roman expression of good wishes to a newlywed couple.
There is an anecdote found in Valerius Maximus (VI.2.10) that calls our attention to the difference between the respective powers of raw force and steady patience. A brutal consul named Cnaeus Carbo was threatening to put the city of Placentia under siege. He ordered a city magistrate named Marcus Castricius to give him hostages as part of his campaign of destruction.
There is an unintentionally amusing passage in a letter Petrarch sent to his brother Gherardo in 1349. In it, the harried scholar pours out his frustration at the antagonistic and insulting behavior of his servants:
Some of our most painful experiences can be the unexpected dissolution of friendships once thought to be robust and dependable. The memories of shared joys persist, troubling our consciences with conflicting and perplexing emotions. How did the collapse happen? What degree of culpability do I share in this outcome? What, if anything, might have been done differently? These thoughts, and many more like them, haunt and oppress our retrospective inquiries.
According to the biographer Ibn Khallikan, the poet Ibrahim Al-Suli (?—857 A.D.) was once employed by a caliph to compose a threatening letter to some rebellious subjects. The letter contained the following words:
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