Thanks to Christopher Nolan’s latest blockbuster, The Odyssey, there has been a resurgence of interest in things ancient, Greek, and classical. In part, this represents a longing for historical knowledge and a desire to contextualize our rapid fire - and rather uncertain - times into a greater narrative of events: such an imagined past might give us meaning, or perspective.
At the same time, it is in itself suggestive of a
pre-Socratic shift in contemporary culture and thinking. We are less interested in the reflections of
Socrates, or his student, Plato, or his student, Aristotle. Plato, for instance, is less central today, because
his idea of politics (as found in The Republic) resembles a form of basic
communism, deflowered by the Russian, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in The Gulag
Archipelago (tr. 1974). For some, Plato
may still offer a valuable critique of democracy, as learned from the death of
Socrates at the hands of the demos, or people of Athens. Aristotle, too, is less fashionable today, owing
to his preoccupation with the idea of moderation, the kind of thing in which Canadians
alone seem to indulge.
Instead, we have turned from the classic Greek philosophers to the
philosophy of “the flux” as represented by Heraclitus, who stated famously, “The
river where you set your foot just now is gone – those waters giving way to
this, now this”.[1] Heraclitus is also remembered for “All things
change” and “War is the father of all things”.[2] Certainly, these thoughts may resonate with the public today, even though they are associated with - if not also espoused
by - far Right figures and followers of the German philosopher Heidegger, for
example, a known Nazi.
Thus, Homer’s Iliad and The Odyssey – both - fit within today’s prevailing cultural,
pre-Socratic paradigm: The Trojan War
and Odysseus’s 10-year journey back to Ithaca from that war are evocative of a
mentality that is less ‘reasonable’ and more ‘epic’, ‘tragic’, and even, in the
magical sense, ‘unbelievable’ (if we are to consider, as well, the gods of
Olympus ruling over mere mortals).
The role of ‘irrational’ thought to the pre-Socratic mind, however, is not unique to today. A similar wave of pre-Socratic thought swept Europe in the decades before the First World War (1914-1918), notably represented by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and his French counterpart, Henri Bergson. Nietzsche, who liked to ‘philosophize with a hammer’, wanted to celebrate Homer and despised Socrates for succumbing to a ‘herd’ mentality. Bergson spoke of ‘intuition’ and ‘creative becoming’, notions which animated French soldiers as they marched off to their deaths in bright red trousers in the early days of war.
It is also important to realize that, prior to the First
World War, Europe had a shared culture in its Greek and Roman heritage,
particularly among the educated elite and aristocracy. This aristocracy came to lose its political
hold after the levelling effects of the Great War: following ‘mass’ mobilization
and death, the Soviet end to Tsarism in Russia, the fall of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire and Ottoman Empire, and the abdication of the German Emperor
Kaiser Willhelm II.
Today, we have, in effect, almost forgotten how important knowledge and an understanding of the classics was to higher society before the First World War. In a learned study, The Greek Heritage in Victorian Britain (1981), Frank M. Turner remarks: “Indeed, in 1865 the major commentator on Homer as well as a major translator of the poet, the chief critic and historian of Greek literature, the most significant political historians of Greece, and the authors of the then most extensive commentaries on Greek philosophy either were or had been members of the House of Lords or the House of Commons.”[3]
Just about everybody knows that the First World War Armistice
was announced on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th
month: November 11, 1918. But why the 11th? Was this just a matter of convenient
symmetry? In my view, there is far more
than what meets the eye here. What I am
suggesting is that the 11th is impossible to understand without a
knowledge of The Iliad and without an appreciation for the significance
of the number 12 in Western culture.
The Iliad is filled with references to the number
12. And, indeed, there are 12 Greek
gods, as well as 12 Norse gods. There
are 12 hours of the day, and 12 hours of the night; 12 months in a year; Jesus
had 12 disciples; and, of course, a “ruler” (in my day) had 12 inches. In other words, the number 12 was at the
numerical “base” of Western culture after which the cycle of 12 is thought to
be repeated.
Looking closely at the last chapter in The Iliad
(chapter 24!) we see that Achilles, in the battle for Troy, has taken revenge
for the death of his friend Patroclus and killed Hector. Hector’s father, Priam, ruler of Troy, grieves
for his son and wants the return of his body.
Following the intervention of Zeus, Priam offers a huge ransom for his
son. Priam then makes his way to
Achilles’s camp in secret - and together they both weep, as
Achilles, too, thinks of his own father.
Priam then asks that he and his fellow Trojans be allowed to mourn Hector
for 11 days: “On the 12th we will fight, if we really have to”.[4] Achilles agrees to this.
Thus, as the First World War ground itself to a halt and as
Empires began to crumble, the number 11 – as inspired by The Iliad – was
inevitably considered by leading politicians and other important figures as an
appropriate occasion for mourning: hence the Armistice on November 11. There are other parallels between the First
World War and The Iliad: notably a long trench (built by the Greeks to
defend themselves from the Trojans) and the poppy, symbolic of a man’s head
weighed down by death. Most of this has
been forgotten today, as we are no longer schooled in the ancient Greek
language as was the aristocracy in 19th century Europe.
[1] Heraclitus, Fragments, tr. Brooks
Haxton (Toronto : Penguin, 2003), p. 27
[2] Ibid.,
p. 25.
[3]
Frank M. Turner, The Greek Heritage in Victorian Britain (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1981), p. 5.
[4]
Homer, The Iliad, tr. E.V. Rieu, revised by Peter Jones and D.C.H. Rieu
(London : Penguin: 2003), p. 438.
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