A Little Wine From Corinth: A Short Dialogue by Yours Truly
April 9, 2017 at 12:17 am
(This post was last modified: April 9, 2017 at 12:20 am by Mudhammam.)
Hi all,
I recently wrote a short dialogue. It deals with religious themes, particularly the Christian faith from the fictional perspective of some pagans (Epicureans?), living roughly around the year 60-70 CE. Religion is the pretext for the conversation, but the primary aim is to bring forth the distinction between two approaches to the dilemma of human existence: the religious vs. the philosophical. I hope you find it an enjoyable read. I call it..
A Little Wine From Corinth
Athega: “This wine is from Corinth, is it not Lucilius?”
Lucilius: “Aye, given to me by Xenogora’s daughter, Porcina, when I visited there last summer. This came directly from his vineyards. His villa too - by Zeus, splendid! A wonderful place to stay if you ever return to the city.”
“How is your old colleague? Didn't you tell me that he was going to Rome on business related to that sect he had joined?”
“Yes, Athega, you remember correctly.”
“Now that I think of it, he brought this wine to Marcella’s wedding.”
“That is also correct. The--”
“The ‘blood of Christ’! My memory is beginning to return now. Porcina was there too.”
“That was shortly after Xenogora’s experience.”
“He grew quite agitated when you called it that, I mean the ‘blood of Christ.’ I never quite understood that rambling speech he gave about the ‘son of David’ and the future reign of his people’s chosen one. He had a glow about him that reminded me of the time (oh! so many years ago!) that I accompanied my cousin to a gathering of some raving fanatics, mutual acquaintances of ours, who were caught up in the mysteries of Demeter and Persephone.”
“Damned fools.”
“Xenogora sounded much like them, speaking obscurely, the sort of eloquence and bluster that can set a harebrained audience ablaze.”
“And capture the attention of one or two fledgling ‘thinkers.’”
“Yes, the kind who prefer words on the tongue rather than thoughts in the head. One oftentimes finds themselves quite taken in by lustre of this sort until they dig deeper. Upon closer examination all of the high flying phrases amount to little more than the esoteric speculations taught in the schools.”
“But in the schools one learns how to demonstrate truths and falsehoods without the vulgar imagery that common folk require.”
“Yes, and for twice the cost too. But did Xenogora say anything that you have not heard before? And did not the honorable Cicero once proclaim that there is nothing so strange that some philosopher has not said it?”
“He wrote that in his work on divination. If you mean to suggest that Xeno’s system was a chimera of many different opinions, borrowing a piece here, another there, I wholeheartedly agree. Some ideas he lifted from his teacher in Alexandria, others he took from the Stoics; ‘reality-connections’ as he liked to call them. Porcina reported to me that he has even begun to emulate the Cynics. For the most part he relies upon the texts supposedly derived from an ancient Jewish lawgiver, mingling his doctrines with those of Plato--he’s very taken in by the Forms--and projecting it all onto the sophist who was crucified in Palestine under Pilate all those years ago.”
“That was the Galilean rabble-rouser whom some old widows and orphans believed had earned a place among the gods, yes? I take it he was, in Xeno’s view--or ‘reality-connection’-- Plato’s ‘Ideal Man.’”
“Oh, it wasn’t the gods, my friend, and it wasn't only confined to old widows and orphans. The frenzy he has gotten himself caught up in far surpasses the silliness of Plato’s Forms or the Stoics’ impotent ‘wise sage.’ I was living in Jerusalem with Xeno at the time the whole racket began to take root. Even a few learned men got caught up in it at first, insisting that this ‘Christ,’ as his acolytes referred to him, was something more than the pious madman that I declared him to be. Back then it was mostly restricted to a small, pathetic band of social misfits, one or two fringe scholars of law and the barbaric mythologies upon which their dictates are founded--rabbis as they are known to the Jews--and, as you say, some poor women and children. And though I still suspect that beneath the misguided enthusiasm this ‘Christ’ had noble intentions, the great arrogance of his most devoted followers ensured the destruction of whatever nobility might have accompanied his manner of death--an arrogance which seems to grow in proportion to the extravagance of their doctrines. Now the original superstition has exceeded all previous bounds, the absurdity reaching heights (or should I say depths?) that, I hesitate to admit, among the most feverish imaginations you might be forgiven to think only a brutish sense remained; the proof is that despicable offense which runs afoul all decency. They have been thoroughly convinced, along with many Greeks now (and Xeno, poor wretch) that the Galilean was raised from the dead after three days, broke bread with his companions, and then quickly vanished into the sky; what’s more, he is slated to return shortly hereafter to establish himself as the ruler of the world. But if that is not yet incredible enough, they worship him as the very embodiment of their God, or as they are wont to say, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! According to them this is the true God of mankind!”
“Dear Zeus! Athenagoras, more wine please!”
Athenagoras: “Here you go, sir.”
Lucilius: “A new servant, Athega? I do not believe that you have introduced me to this lustrous young man.”
Athega: “You have not met the ‘beautiful Athenagoras’? That’s what my wife calls him. Lad, take a seat and pour yourself a glass. Corinthian wine is among the best that you’ll taste around these parts. My friend Lucilius has turned me into a connoisseur of sorts over the last--what now? forty years?”
Lucilius: “Forty-three. As I oft have occasion to remind you, philosophy would be little admired if it did not cultivate refinement of good taste.”
Athega: “Athenagoras wishes to go to Athens and teach at the Garden. Do you still have friends over there?”
Lucullus: “Yes, in fact I do. And if I may inquire, what is it that compels you to teach philosophy, boy?”
Athenagoras: “Well, sir…”
Athega: “Don’t be shy, lad. Tell him the ‘dreadful paradox’ that ‘struck’ you on your voyage to Achaia.”
Lucilius: “A paradox?”
Athenagoras: “Indeed, sir. For the short duration--or rather, the hair’s breadth--of my life, it has always felt as if the longer my being persists, the more the future resembles something to be dreaded. That was my belief when our vessel departed from Syracuse. That was before the wrath of Poseidon (as the poets would say) had put asunder our ship, before I watched the crewmen drown, first in tears, each beseeching his household deity. Everyone flailed for an object upon which to attach himself as the waters from on high as well as from below beat us down. Finally, the storm calmed. I alone managed to seize some wreckage, where I held out for days, and as I drifted I had a vision… Of course, I was always aware that we are sojourners in this world, and had a firm conviction in the truth of Epicurus’ great maxims on the soul… but that’s when it struck me.”
Lucilius: “You still have not told me what struck you. You said it involved a paradox.”
“As I anticipated my end to be nigh, I reflected upon the past, from my earliest recollections as a child to the exploits of my great-grandfather under general Gylippus, who many times traversed the waters where I now saw my life slowly depart. It struck me how truly strange is this series of accidents that we call the world, where our place is but an atom in the vast universe and our time an infinitely small point that sinks into oblivion, like my pale body stranded at sea, as we struggle to repulse hunger, exhaustion, and hopelessness. From whence did I come? I wondered who I was and for what purpose I had earned the privilege to taste the cool airs that blew me to and fro, to hear the sound of waves and to view the sights of the beautiful dome above, alighted day and night by the majesties that yesterday had felt like guardians of the most serene dream but now mockers of an unsettling nightmare. I saw Odysseus on his wretched return from Troy, and all of the unnamed crewmen who perished by their various horrid fates. The paradox, sir, was my will to live! But not simply my own, but the will of all to proceed into the darkness, akin to that from which all came! in a haughty and affected spirit, each believing himself to be of most important consequence, nay, of even the slightest!”
Athega: “...Now that’s a ‘reality-connection’.”
Lucilius: “A future philosopher, indeed--I can drink to that!”
I recently wrote a short dialogue. It deals with religious themes, particularly the Christian faith from the fictional perspective of some pagans (Epicureans?), living roughly around the year 60-70 CE. Religion is the pretext for the conversation, but the primary aim is to bring forth the distinction between two approaches to the dilemma of human existence: the religious vs. the philosophical. I hope you find it an enjoyable read. I call it..
A Little Wine From Corinth
Athega: “This wine is from Corinth, is it not Lucilius?”
Lucilius: “Aye, given to me by Xenogora’s daughter, Porcina, when I visited there last summer. This came directly from his vineyards. His villa too - by Zeus, splendid! A wonderful place to stay if you ever return to the city.”
“How is your old colleague? Didn't you tell me that he was going to Rome on business related to that sect he had joined?”
“Yes, Athega, you remember correctly.”
“Now that I think of it, he brought this wine to Marcella’s wedding.”
“That is also correct. The--”
“The ‘blood of Christ’! My memory is beginning to return now. Porcina was there too.”
“That was shortly after Xenogora’s experience.”
“He grew quite agitated when you called it that, I mean the ‘blood of Christ.’ I never quite understood that rambling speech he gave about the ‘son of David’ and the future reign of his people’s chosen one. He had a glow about him that reminded me of the time (oh! so many years ago!) that I accompanied my cousin to a gathering of some raving fanatics, mutual acquaintances of ours, who were caught up in the mysteries of Demeter and Persephone.”
“Damned fools.”
“Xenogora sounded much like them, speaking obscurely, the sort of eloquence and bluster that can set a harebrained audience ablaze.”
“And capture the attention of one or two fledgling ‘thinkers.’”
“Yes, the kind who prefer words on the tongue rather than thoughts in the head. One oftentimes finds themselves quite taken in by lustre of this sort until they dig deeper. Upon closer examination all of the high flying phrases amount to little more than the esoteric speculations taught in the schools.”
“But in the schools one learns how to demonstrate truths and falsehoods without the vulgar imagery that common folk require.”
“Yes, and for twice the cost too. But did Xenogora say anything that you have not heard before? And did not the honorable Cicero once proclaim that there is nothing so strange that some philosopher has not said it?”
“He wrote that in his work on divination. If you mean to suggest that Xeno’s system was a chimera of many different opinions, borrowing a piece here, another there, I wholeheartedly agree. Some ideas he lifted from his teacher in Alexandria, others he took from the Stoics; ‘reality-connections’ as he liked to call them. Porcina reported to me that he has even begun to emulate the Cynics. For the most part he relies upon the texts supposedly derived from an ancient Jewish lawgiver, mingling his doctrines with those of Plato--he’s very taken in by the Forms--and projecting it all onto the sophist who was crucified in Palestine under Pilate all those years ago.”
“That was the Galilean rabble-rouser whom some old widows and orphans believed had earned a place among the gods, yes? I take it he was, in Xeno’s view--or ‘reality-connection’-- Plato’s ‘Ideal Man.’”
“Oh, it wasn’t the gods, my friend, and it wasn't only confined to old widows and orphans. The frenzy he has gotten himself caught up in far surpasses the silliness of Plato’s Forms or the Stoics’ impotent ‘wise sage.’ I was living in Jerusalem with Xeno at the time the whole racket began to take root. Even a few learned men got caught up in it at first, insisting that this ‘Christ,’ as his acolytes referred to him, was something more than the pious madman that I declared him to be. Back then it was mostly restricted to a small, pathetic band of social misfits, one or two fringe scholars of law and the barbaric mythologies upon which their dictates are founded--rabbis as they are known to the Jews--and, as you say, some poor women and children. And though I still suspect that beneath the misguided enthusiasm this ‘Christ’ had noble intentions, the great arrogance of his most devoted followers ensured the destruction of whatever nobility might have accompanied his manner of death--an arrogance which seems to grow in proportion to the extravagance of their doctrines. Now the original superstition has exceeded all previous bounds, the absurdity reaching heights (or should I say depths?) that, I hesitate to admit, among the most feverish imaginations you might be forgiven to think only a brutish sense remained; the proof is that despicable offense which runs afoul all decency. They have been thoroughly convinced, along with many Greeks now (and Xeno, poor wretch) that the Galilean was raised from the dead after three days, broke bread with his companions, and then quickly vanished into the sky; what’s more, he is slated to return shortly hereafter to establish himself as the ruler of the world. But if that is not yet incredible enough, they worship him as the very embodiment of their God, or as they are wont to say, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! According to them this is the true God of mankind!”
“Dear Zeus! Athenagoras, more wine please!”
Athenagoras: “Here you go, sir.”
Lucilius: “A new servant, Athega? I do not believe that you have introduced me to this lustrous young man.”
Athega: “You have not met the ‘beautiful Athenagoras’? That’s what my wife calls him. Lad, take a seat and pour yourself a glass. Corinthian wine is among the best that you’ll taste around these parts. My friend Lucilius has turned me into a connoisseur of sorts over the last--what now? forty years?”
Lucilius: “Forty-three. As I oft have occasion to remind you, philosophy would be little admired if it did not cultivate refinement of good taste.”
Athega: “Athenagoras wishes to go to Athens and teach at the Garden. Do you still have friends over there?”
Lucullus: “Yes, in fact I do. And if I may inquire, what is it that compels you to teach philosophy, boy?”
Athenagoras: “Well, sir…”
Athega: “Don’t be shy, lad. Tell him the ‘dreadful paradox’ that ‘struck’ you on your voyage to Achaia.”
Lucilius: “A paradox?”
Athenagoras: “Indeed, sir. For the short duration--or rather, the hair’s breadth--of my life, it has always felt as if the longer my being persists, the more the future resembles something to be dreaded. That was my belief when our vessel departed from Syracuse. That was before the wrath of Poseidon (as the poets would say) had put asunder our ship, before I watched the crewmen drown, first in tears, each beseeching his household deity. Everyone flailed for an object upon which to attach himself as the waters from on high as well as from below beat us down. Finally, the storm calmed. I alone managed to seize some wreckage, where I held out for days, and as I drifted I had a vision… Of course, I was always aware that we are sojourners in this world, and had a firm conviction in the truth of Epicurus’ great maxims on the soul… but that’s when it struck me.”
Lucilius: “You still have not told me what struck you. You said it involved a paradox.”
“As I anticipated my end to be nigh, I reflected upon the past, from my earliest recollections as a child to the exploits of my great-grandfather under general Gylippus, who many times traversed the waters where I now saw my life slowly depart. It struck me how truly strange is this series of accidents that we call the world, where our place is but an atom in the vast universe and our time an infinitely small point that sinks into oblivion, like my pale body stranded at sea, as we struggle to repulse hunger, exhaustion, and hopelessness. From whence did I come? I wondered who I was and for what purpose I had earned the privilege to taste the cool airs that blew me to and fro, to hear the sound of waves and to view the sights of the beautiful dome above, alighted day and night by the majesties that yesterday had felt like guardians of the most serene dream but now mockers of an unsettling nightmare. I saw Odysseus on his wretched return from Troy, and all of the unnamed crewmen who perished by their various horrid fates. The paradox, sir, was my will to live! But not simply my own, but the will of all to proceed into the darkness, akin to that from which all came! in a haughty and affected spirit, each believing himself to be of most important consequence, nay, of even the slightest!”
Athega: “...Now that’s a ‘reality-connection’.”
Lucilius: “A future philosopher, indeed--I can drink to that!”
He who loves God cannot endeavour that God should love him in return - Baruch Spinoza
