Passing Thoughts

I just finished reading a translation of Aulus Gellius' Attic Nights, a sort of journal compiled by a member of the upper-class Greco-Roman literati. His reflections span a wide field of philosophical inquiries, grammatical inquisitions, legal observations, and social and cultural critiques. Reading it gives a disjointed, snapshot view of life in the Mediterranean in the second century AD--sometimes affording tantalizing one-offs regarding the values undergirding that society.

Since my level of historical knowledge about that provenance is limited, the thin slices of detail about Gellius' world serve mostly to inspire reflection on our own time. In one brief passage, Gellius records the name of the "first Roman ever to secure a divorce" from his wife, on the grounds that she could not have children. In order to secure said divorce, apparently he had to cite the fact that upon his marriage to her he had sworn an oath that the purpose of the marriage was to have children. What a strange thing--to me, of course--to bind and delimit a marriage by oath to having children.

At that time, as in too many others, women were legal property of their husbands, so I suppose it would be the equivalent of winning a civil suit for the price paid for a "lemon" vehicle. I bought the car not because I wanted the vehicle itself per se, but because I needed it for transportation. Therefore if it does not run (or breaks down to often) it is not fulfilling its function and therefore the transaction can be nullified.

I wonder if this is why a commonplace set of vows has husband and wife declare "for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health"? Perhaps husbands had taken to divorcing wives because they were not successful entrepreneurs for the household or because they took ill and did not fully recover? Thus the vow at the altar had to ensure (for the wife and her family) that the husband would not see those "failures" as breach of contract.

Gellius also records that a Roman of high political office ("censor") was disciplined by the senate for owning an excessive amount of silver tableware. This excess signified too much luxury for said political position. The event seems even stranger to me given that Roman culture was not renowned for its austerity or elective poverty and simplicity.

How would politics change if "excessive luxury" were considered a punishable offence for public servants and elected officials? The cynical part of me thinks that the luxury would simply go underground. And it begs the question: Who determines what is too luxurious? I suppose that determination would have the usual legal channels, like any other law. An interesting idea nonetheless, that at some level a republic would officially declare a limit on the wealth owned or displayed by its ruling members.

Don't pick up Attic Nights unless you're ready to skim over large bits about Latin and Greek grammar. Gellius was very concerned with esoteric questions of language, translation, and poetic usage. (This is why I enjoyed the book so much, I think!) Even passing over some of those, I appreciated the little oddities of ancient life. In the midst of the oddities, however, one will be rewarded with edifying meditations such as whether virtuous life necessarily brings happiness. Does it?

A dear friend once remarked that the famous ancient and Medieval authors "never had to wash their own socks." An overarching theme that surfaced for me was how much time Gellius had to walk around Rome and Athens, going to dinner parties, chatting with people in high office and station. He tries to put a great deal of weight on these matters of speech, writing, and society; but his are--to use a contemporary turn of phrase--first-world problems (wealthy problems). Gellius makes no reference to work or managing patron-client relationships in order to stay afloat. He is upper-class, it seems, and the life that allows literacy and time for ruminating on philosophical squabbles belongs perhaps entirely to the rich. It might be the same in every generation, though I hope that in the present-day United States we have come somewhat closer to allowing anyone in any stratum of society access to learning and discourse like Gellius'.

Maybe I can be an agent to extend the reach of that learning to another generation, whether of humble or luxurious means. I hope that perhaps the good work I do and the conversations I have are not limited to the ivory halls and wealthy dinner parties, but include anyone who wants to consider the deeper questions of life.

~ emrys