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The First Literary Dandy: Plato

The first literary dandy of whom we still have record was Plato—who was unquestionably the greatest “exquisite” of his day. This will strike most modern readers as astonishing or inconceivable but it is neither for those who know their Greek. As a young man in love, he wrote epigrams to his courtesan Archaeanassa (which are still preserved in the Palatine Anthology) and was sufficiently conceited in his manners and dress that he drew the ire, more than once, of Diogenes the Cynic. We know from the Lives of Diogenes Laertius that the young Plato “applied himself to the study of painting, and that he wrote poems, dithyrambics at first, and afterwards lyric poems and tragedies.” Most of these works have not survived. We also know that Plato was “much assisted by Epicharmus the comic poet, a great part of whose works he transcribed” and that he was “the first person who examined the subject of grammatical knowledge scientifically.”

The philosopher had always wished rather publicly “to leave a memorial of himself behind, either in the hearts of his friends, or in his books.” Was ever a man’s wish granted so fully as his? The dialogues are everlasting models of exquisite style, of course, and he must have labored mightily to craft them—the first clause of the “Republic” was apparently found written in nine variants in one of his notebooks—having no precursors in the language of his day, or at least that have come down to us. There is a studied perfection to everything the man wrote that has appealed to the most fastidious minds in every age—apparent even in his early poems, which Shelley thought the most perfect in the Greek language. Even his contemporaries were impressed: we know that Aristotle considered Plato’s treatises as a new art, as “something between poems and prose.” It is for such style, as much as for his sublime thought, that he remains so revered.

Those who have imagined the sumptuous feasts and all-night drinking parties of the Symposium have wondered at the delights and extravagances of Athens at its height. We do well to remember that Plato records a poet’s party, hosted by Agathon to celebrate his first victory in the theater festival dedicated to Dionysus. (It is a very drunk Alcibiades, half-naked, whose late entrance so upsets the other guests and effectively ends the dialogue.) Those who have seen the oldest and best preserved of ancient Greek paintings, the frescos on the Tomb of the Diver at Paestum, as I have, may be shocked to imagine our revered masters amid such debauched scenes. That the wisest men of the ancient world thought nothing of spending their nights reclining together on pillowed couches, and drinking mixed wine until dawn, while discussing the great matters of the day as slave boys and hetairai performed on the aulos and barbiton for them—it is a vision for those who consider our modern-day symposia as the drab and crassly professional lectures of salesmen and teachers in hotel conference rooms the world over. (Even our modern bacchanals—our raves in Ibiza and Mykonos—are arid nullities compared to what we witness in the elegies of Theognis of Megara.)

This golden age—of the greatest minds playing kottabos and singing skolia throughout the night—is brought to an end, finally, by the relentless advance of the boy who Aristotle tutored. The tales of the court of the Great King are full of intrigue, and luxurious excess, to be sure—but not of literature mighty enough to matter to his descendants, it would seem. And we must pass over the library of Alexandria, and its scholars, as well—many of whom must have been literary exquisites beyond anything the world had ever known. One thinks of Callimachus, in particular, perusing the entire collection of Aristotle’s books after he bought them. The mind reels at the treasures of those catalogues! What a circle of learned men! They had before them all the masterpieces of ancient Greek literature, and all the accumulated knowledge of the world!  If we find the Pleais a little too learned and a great deal too dull for our tastes, it is no great matter. There may come another time, with readers who find more pleasure than we do in the love poems of Hermesianax, or the astronomies of Aratus, or the 1,474  iambic trimeters of Lycophron’s Alexandra—the willful obscurities of which, so famous even in antiquity, did not preclude it from being popular among the citizens of Byzantium, hundreds of years later.

 

Coming Next: Petronius Arbiter

This post was written by:

- who has written 38 posts on Contemporary Poetry Review.

Garrick Davis is the founding editor of the Contemporary Poetry Review, the largest online archive of poetry criticism in the world. The magazine was founded in 1998, and was one of the earliest literary reviews in the United States to be published exclusively on the Internet. His poetry and criticism have appeared in the New Criterion, Verse, the Weekly Standard, McSweeney’s, and the New York Sun. He is the editor of Praising It New: The Best of the New Criticism (Swallow Press, 2008) and Child of the Ocmulgee: the Selected Poems of Freda Quenneville (Michigan State University Press, 2002). His book of poems, Terminal Diagrams, is also available (Swallow Press, 2010). He served as the literary specialist of the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington, D.C. from 2005-2008. He currently serves as a multidiscipline specialist responsible for the NEA’s Arts Journalism Institutes.

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2 Responses to “The First Literary Dandy: Plato”

  1. David X. Novak says:

    I never thought about Plato as a dandy, but it is interesting that Jonathan Barnes has this to say of Aristotle: “Of Aristotle’s character and personality little is known. He came from a rich family. He was a bit of a dandy, wearing rings on his fingers and cutting his hair fashionably short.” I suppose that dandyism as a trait was not lacking among the ancient Greeks.

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