Wisdom and Other Feelings: Affect, Knowledge, and the Senecan Subject

by

Chiara Graf

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of Classics University of Toronto

© Copyright by Chiara Graf 2020 Wisdom and Other Feelings: Affect, Knowledge, and the Senecan Subject

Chiara Graf

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of Classics University of Toronto

2020 Abstract Much of the scholarship on the Senecan emotions has treated affect primarily as an obstacle to be overcome by Stoic reason and self-control. Placing Seneca’s philosophical, scientific, and literary works in dialogue with modern affect theory, I argue that emotions can provide routes to knowledge and define the subject’s relationship to the cosmos. The first three chapters of this dissertation treat the role of affect in Seneca’s meteorological treatise Natural Questions. In

Chapter 1, I argue that the Senecan sage defines himself through an enchanted and joyful identification with the cosmos. In the subsequent two chapters, I explore the didactic potential of affect for epistemically compromised subjects who have not yet attained sagehood. Chapter 2 demonstrates the paradoxical solace to be found in stupefaction and anxiety, and Chapter 3 argues that even forms of wonder rooted in ignorance can guide imperfect subjects towards apprehending a logic underlying the cosmos. Chapter 4 turns to Book 20 of Seneca’s Epistles, treating the role of wonder in our understanding of the good (bonum) and honorable (honestum).

I argue that, as the book unfolds, technical Stoic definitions of the good and honorable prove to be circular and inadequate, and that Seneca presents wonder as the only viable way of grasping these concepts. Finally, in Chapter 5, I turn to Seneca’s Troades, arguing that the heroine

Andromache finds solace in extreme grief and hopeless. In doing so, she exposes rationalistic methods of consolation as idealized abstractions, whereby violence and suffering are mined for

ii lessons and meaning. Ultimately, I argue that affect is able to paint a fuller picture of the universe than the one afforded by reason alone.

iii Acknowledgments

First and foremost, thank you to my supervisor, Erik Gunderson, for always asking the best questions. Erik has an uncanny ability to draw out the most interesting part of any argument, and it has been an incredible privilege to receive his incisive feedback. Though I am nowhere close to wisdom, I credit whatever progress I have made to his truly mirabile exemplum.

My sincere thanks go to Alison Keith, whose comments have greatly improved my writing, and who has always gone out of her way to support me in myriad ways. Thank you also to Jarrett Welsh. Among many other canny pieces of advice, he first encouraged me think critically about Senecan miratio, a topic which would eventually be central to this dissertation. I am grateful for the extensive feedback I received from George Boys-Stones and Alessandro

Schiesaro. Victoria Wohl has been an invaluable mentor and teacher. Her graduate seminars have been a lesson to me not only in lateral and creative thought, but also in rigorous and compassionate pedagogy. I would like to thank Lorenza Bennardo, Katherine Blouin, Boris

Chrubasik, and Regina Höschele for their unflagging encouragement and kindness.

My research has benefitted greatly from doctoral fellowships at the Northrop Frye

Centre and the Jackman Humanities Institute. I am grateful for the space and time to write, as well as for the stimulating interdisciplinary discussions, provided by these fellowships.

I could not have progressed through my graduate degree without the hard work of Ann-

Marie Matti and Coral Gavrilovic—thank you for running our department smoothly and efficiently.

iv Thank you to the members of the Classics Graduate Theory Reading Group, for the chocolate and conversation.

A warm and supportive community made this project not only possible, but enjoyable. I am deeply grateful for the friendship of Adam Barker, Eliza Brown, Kat Clarke, Nicole Daniel,

Marion Durand, John Fabiano, Kat Furtado, Joseph Gerbasi, Brad Hald, Matt Henson, Jesse

Hill, Caitlin Hines, Tajja Isen, Alexander Kirby, Rachel Mazzara, Emily Mohr, Madeleine

Northcote, J. Oliver, Philip Sayers, and Matt Watton. Over the last six years, they have been my comrades, my interlocutors, my fiercest advocates, and my steadiest sources of affirmation and support. I truly could not have completed this project without them. I would also like to thank my youngest friends in the Classics department, Daniel Bing and Alexander Chrubasik, who have lifted my spirits and made me laugh when I needed it most.

To Ted Parker, my favorite person to talk and think with: thank you for providing me with enough joy and humor to carry me through all the ugly feelings.

Most of all, thank you to Daniela Bartalesi-Graf, Michael Graf, and Livia Graf, la mia squadra vincente. For my whole life, you have encouraged my curiosity, taught me to think critically, and believed, unfalteringly, that I could do anything.

v Table of Contents ABSTRACT ...... II ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... IV EDITIONS OF WORKS CITED ...... VII INTRODUCTION ...... 1 AFFECT AND EMOTION: WHERE AND HOW ARE WE “MOVED”? ...... 1 PHILIA, SOPHIA, AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN ...... 11 SUMMARY OF CHAPTERS ...... 14 CHAPTER 1: THE JOY AND ENCHANTMENT OF THE SAGE ...... 18 INTRODUCTION: SUBLIMITY IN SENECA AND KANT ...... 18 WONDER AND DELIGHT AS APPROPRIATIVE AFFECTS ...... 29 THE ENCHANTED TURN TOWARDS THE SELF ...... 32 RATIO AS A MARVELOUS MEASURING-STICK ...... 43 HOSTIUS QUADRA AND THE ONTOLOGY OF DELIGHTFUL IMAGES ...... 46 CONCLUSION ...... 56 CHAPTER 2: NATURAL DISASTER, STUPEFACTION, AND ANXIETY ...... 57 INTRODUCTION: ALTERNATIVES TO SAGEHOOD ...... 57 “STUPLIMITY” AND THE PARALYZED SUBJECT ...... 61 NATURAL QUESTIONS 3: THE FLOOD ...... 64 NATURAL QUESTIONS 6: EARTHQUAKES ...... 77 CONCLUSION ...... 88 CHAPTER 3: COMETS AND SENECA’S DOUBLE MIRATIO ...... 90 INTRODUCTION: MODELS OF WONDER ...... 90 SENECA’S DOUBLE MIRATIO ...... 99 THE RELATIONSHIP OF COMETS TO SENECAN DOUBLE MIRATIO ...... 106 CONCLUSION ...... 126 CHAPTER 4: WONDER AND EXEMPLARITY IN THE EPISTULAE MORALES ...... 127 INTRODUCTION: CONCEPTUALIZING THE GOOD ...... 127 THE PROBLEM WITH OBJECTIVITY ...... 129 UNDERSTANDING THROUGH AFFECT ...... 136 CONCLUSION ...... 161 CHAPTER 5: HOPE, FEAR, AND THE FUTURE IN SENECA’S TROADES ...... 163 INTRODUCTION: TROUBLING FUTURES IN TRAGEDY AND PHILOSOPHY ...... 163 ANDROMACHE’S RESENTFUL OPTIMISM ...... 173 NO FUTURE: ASTYANAX’S DEATH SCENE ...... 191 EROTIC VIRTUE: POLYXENA’S DEATH SCENE ...... 201 CONCLUSION ...... 206 CONCLUSION ...... 208 BIBLOGRAPHY ...... 214

vi Editions of Works Cited

Aristotle Metaphysics Ross, W. (ed.) (1924). Aristotle’s Metaphysics: A Revised Text with Introduction and Commentary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Cicero De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum Moreschini, C. (ed.) (2005). M. Tullius Cicero. De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum. Leipzig: Teubner.

De Natura Deorum Plasberg, O. and Ax, W. (eds.) (1933). Cicero, De Natura Deorum. Leipzig: Teubner.

De Re Publica Ziegler, K. (ed.). (1964). M. Tulli Ciceronis. De Re Publica. Leipzig: Teubner. Diogenes Laertius Vitae Philosophorum Dorandi, T. (ed.) (2013). Diogenes Laertius: Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Euripides Troades Diggle, J. (ed.) (1981). Euripides, Fabulae. Tomus II. Oxford: Clarendon. Lucretius De Rerum Natura Müller, C. (ed.) (1975). T. Lucreti Cari De Rerum Natura Libri Sex. Zurich: Hans Rohr. Ovid Fasti Frazer, J. (ed. and trans.) (1931). Ovid’s Fasti. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Plato Theaetetus Burnet, J. (ed.) (1903). Plato. Platonis Opera. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Seneca De Ira Reynolds, L. D. (ed.) (1977). L. Annaei Senecae. Dialogorum Libri Duodecim. (pp.39-129). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

De Vita Beata Reynolds, L. D. (ed.) (1977). L. Annaei Senecae. Dialogorum Libri Duodecim. (pp.167-197). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

vii Epistulae Morales Ad Lucilium Reynolds, L.D. (ed.) (1965). L. Annaei Senecae. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Naturales Quaestiones Hine, H. (ed.) (1996). L. Annaei Seneca Naturalium Quaestionum Libri. Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner.

Troades Zwierlein, O. (ed.) (1986). Senecae Tragoediae. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reference Texts Oxford Latin Dictionary (OLD) Glare, P.G.W. (ed.) (1982). Oxford Latin Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Stoicorum Vetera Fragmenta (SVF) von Arnim, H.F.A. (1903-1924) Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta. (4 vols.) Leipzig: Teubner.

viii Introduction

Affect and Emotion: Where and How Are We “Moved”?

Seneca begins the eleventh letter of the Epistulae Morales by describing a conversation he has had with a friend of Lucilius. Characterizing this man with language typical of the

Senecan student, our narrator notes in quo quantum esset animi, quantum ingenii, quantum iam etiam profectus (“how much spirit he has, how much natural capacity he has, and how far he has already progressed,” Ep. 11.1): this friend has been moving incrementally and successfully along a linear trajectory towards wisdom.1 Indeed, throughout Seneca’s philosophical works, the character of the proficiens, or imperfect Senecan progressor, pursues teleological ethical improvement envisioned in spatial terms as a straightening and a movement forward.2

The proficiens’ progress can be measured against his end goal: sagehood. In fact, at the close of letter 11, Seneca exhorts Lucilius, Opus est, inquam, aliquo ad quem mores nostri se ipsi exigant: nisi ad regulam prava non corriges (“there is a need for someone against whom our habits may weigh themselves: you will not correct crooked things except by adjusting them against a ruler,” Ep. 11.10). The lofty and idealized subject-position of the sage, or sapiens, serves a corrective function for imperfect but well-intentioned subjects, who adjust their behavior in order to draw themselves closer to wisdom. This orthopedic relationship between the perfect sapiens and the imperfect proficiens has been the focal point of a vast amount of literature on the Senecan subject.3

1 Perhaps Seneca’s praise is not completely sincere, but rather is meant to console Lucilius’ friend after an embarrassing attempt to speak publicly while experiencing a fit of nervous blushing (discussed below). Even if this is the case, in consoling this friend, Seneca invokes an idealistic model of linear teleological progress. 2 See Veyne (2003), 94 and Rimell (2017) for straightness and linearity as recurring image in the characterization of the Senecan path to wisdom. In addition to this philosophical “rectitude,” Rimell argues that Seneca finds value in vulnerability, care, and other “curved” configurations of interpersonal relationships. 3 Scholars have made a variety of different claims about how the proficiens should go about self-improvement, and what the implications of this self-improvement are. For instance, Foucault (1984/1986), 42 famously argues that Hellenistic philosophy, and in particular Seneca, cultivates an “intensity of relations to the self, that is, of the forms in which one is called upon to take oneself as an object of knowledge and a field of action, so as to transform, 1 Despite this emphasis on self-modification in the pursuit of sagehood, Seneca notes in letter 11 that one of this friend’s quirks etiam cum se confirmaverit et omnibus vitiis exuerit, sapientem quoque sequetur (“will follow him as a wise man, even when he has strengthened himself and stripped himself of all his vices,” Ep. 11.1): his blush. Seneca classifies blushing alongside such nervous reactions as excessive sweat, trembling knees, and chattering teeth:

haec nec disciplina nec usus umquam excutit, sed natura vim suam exercet et illo vitio sui etiam robustissimos admonet. Inter haec esse et ruborem scio, qui gravissimis quoque viris subitus affunditur.

“Neither training nor practice ever shakes off these things, but nature exercises her own power and by that fault alerts even the most valiant men to her presence. I know that also the blush, which suddenly pours itself over the most serious men, is among these sorts of things.” (Ep. 11.2-3)

Such reactions are envisioned as emissaries of nature, reminders of her ultimate control over the subject. Practices of self-improvement (disciplina), including, we might presume, all the techniques set forth by Seneca in his letters, prove ineffectual in the face of this power. Life according to nature is usually touted as the ultimate marker of sagehood, a testament to the success of his reason and self-control.4 In the case of the blush, however, humans’ relationship to nature is reinvisioned as a form of vulnerable submission, a marker of what even the sage cannot accomplish. On multiple occasions throughout this brief letter, Seneca proffers the blush as a sign of nature’s dominance over wisdom: Haec, ut dixi, nulla sapientia abigit: alioquin haberet rerum naturam sub imperio, si omnia eraderet vitia… Nihil adversus haec sapientia promittit, nihil proficit (“as I said, no wisdom drives out these habits: otherwise it would have

correct, and purify oneself, and find salvation.” Nussbaum (1994), 5-6 foregrounds ratio as the central element in Seneca’s account of self-formation. Long (2009), 34 reads Seneca’s philosophical works as a continuous negotiation between a person’s “occurrent subjectivity” (his current, imperfect self), and his “normative identity” (his ideal future self, namely, sagehood); Long thus emphasizes Seneca’s "complex sense of the self's relation to its own temporality." Bartsch (2009), 188 contrasts Seneca’s “proficient self” with his “ideal self,” and Edwards (1997), 26-27 distinguishes between the “Stoic sage” and the “aspirant Stoic.” For a variety of other treatments of the forward movement of the proficiens towards sagehood, see Hadot (1969), 99-141; Motto (1984); Griffin (2007); Gill (2009). 4 E.g. see Ep. 5.4, 16.7, 41.9, 66.38, 94.8, 109.15. For orthodox Stoic articulations of the same idea, see D. L. 7.86- 87. 2 the nature of things under her control, if it could scrape away all faults… wisdom does not promise any measures against these things; it does no good at all,” Ep. 11.6-7). As a persistent locus of non-progression, the blush renounces the teleology of the proficiens’ path: no matter what he does, Lucilius’ friend will retain an obstinately still and ineradicable flaw, fixed in his body and resisting forward motion.

However, we should not characterize these affective responses as diametrically opposed and counter to Senecan wisdom. Rather, they are fluid and neutral, indifferent to the rules of ethical judgement and moral progression. As previously mentioned, they inhere in proficientes as well as sapientes, disrupting this binary that pervades much of the Epistulae Morales.

Furthermore, Seneca attributes to the blush the Roman moralizing rhetoric of both virtue and vice. For instance, he refers to the blush as a vitium (Ep. 11.1, 11.2, and 11.6); while this term can refer to minor flaws, in the context of moral philosophy we would expect the stronger meaning, “vice.” 5 When describing Pompey’s blush, Seneca uses the word mollius (Ep. 11.4), implying effeminacy and weakness.6 Yet, in the context of the blush, these moralizing terms do not hold actual derogatory weight—as we have seen, the blush is a form of mollitia that befalls etiam robustissimos (“even the strongest men,” Ep. 11.2). Furthermore, Seneca recalls that, when Fabianus blushed while serving as a witness in the senate, hic illum mire pudor decuit

(“this modesty suited him wonderfully well,” Ep. 11.4). Both pudor7 and decere heavily connote

Roman virtue and decency, and they would ordinarily be placed in opposition to vitia.8 Here,

Seneca attributes pudor, decere, and vitium to the same affective habit. The blush thus

5On the use of the vitium in this passage, see Wray (2015), 207: “The defect (uitium) of body and mind that makes the young man redden and feel a kind of shame (uerecundia) in a situation where this response is suboptimal because misplaced counts as a ‘vice,’ but one whose possession would not bar him from attaining sagehood…The play on uitium, no equivocation, makes careful use of two philosophical senses of the word… Its point is to measure the wide range of psychophysical human imperfections Stoicism imputes to sages despite the perfection of their ethical virtue.” 6 On Seneca’s usual use of mollitia as a derogatory term indicating a lack of self-control, see Graver (1998), 611. 7 For the relationship of the blush to pudor, see Barton (1999); Wray (2015). 8 See e.g. Ep. 27.2, 94.44, 97.10, 114.16. 3 neutralizes morally-charged terms, hollowing out their meaning so as to render them purely aesthetic: pudor and decere serve as markers of comely bashfulness, and vitium constitutes an endearing and innocuous blemish. The blush transcends a traditional ethical system, blurring the sharp distinction between wise and imperfect subjects, and muting the bite of moralizing language. In this sense, it exists beyond the binaries that define the linear trajectory of the proficiens, and so it encourages us to imagine alternative ways of understanding the subject.

Might there be ways of “measuring” ourselves, other than with the straight ruler of idealized sagehood? In what directions might we be “moved,” besides along the obvious path away from vice and towards virtue?

In order to fully understand the blush and its implications for Senecan subjectivity, we must contextualize it within the broader landscape of Stoic and Senecan emotions. Scholarship on Stoicism has largely dismissed stereotypes of a tight-lipped and joyless school of thought, capable only of ruthless repression of all emotion.9 After all, beginning with Zeno, the Stoics identified not only four negative passions, or pathē (distress, fear, lust, and delight),10 which we must aim to eradicate via our faculty of reason, but also three positive feelings, or eupatheiai, available to the sage (joy, wish, and caution).11 Accordingly, Seneca himself frequently paints sagehood as a state of buzzing affective plenitude rather than flat apathy, and promises us true happiness when we finally attain wisdom.12 For Seneca and his Stoic predecessors, then, virtue and vice correspond to a set of good and bad feelings, respectively.

9 Annas (1992), 114; Graver (2007), 1-4; Gill (2016). 10 The Greek and Latin words, respectively, for “distress” are lupē and aegritudo; for “pleasure,” hēdonē and laetitia; for “fear,” phobos and metus; for “lust,” epithumia and libido. See n.11 below for the ancient sources for these terms. 11 The Greek and Latin words, respectively, for “joy” are khara and gaudium; for wish, boulesis and voluntas; for “caution,” eulabeia and cautio. Each of the pathē and eupatheiai also had various subspecies. For this classification of pathē and eupatheiai into genera and species, see Cic. Tusc. 3.84, 4.11-22 (=SVF 1.205, 3.438, 3.380, 3.415, 3.410, 3.403, 3.398, 3.379); D. L. 7.110-114 (=SVF 3.412, 3.407, 3.396, 3.400); Andronic. Rhod. 1-5 (=SVF 3.319, 3.397, 3.401, 3.409, 3.414). On the eupatheiai, see Brennan (1998), 34-36; Sorabji (2000), 47-51; Cooper (2004). 12 Veyne (2003), 106: “Far from being impassive, then, the sage lives in a state of joy.” See also Reydams-Schils (2005a), 49; Konstan (2015), 182-3; Graver (2016) on the positive emotions of the Senecan sage. 4 However, a discussion of the four pathē and three eupatheiai will not account for all human affective experiences. Rather, following Chrysippus, Seneca defines the pathē and the eupatheiai in a very circumscribed way: they are composed of rational judgments, the former false judgments and the latter true ones.13 As an illustration of the process whereby rational beliefs generate the emotions, we might turn to Seneca’s treatise De Ira, whose subject-matter, anger, is generally classified as an iteration of the pathos “lust”:14

Nobis placet nihil illam per se audere sed animo adprobante; nam speciem capere acceptae iniuriae et ultionem eius concupiscere et utrumque coniungere, nec laedi se debuisse et uindicari debere, non est eius impetus, qui sine uoluntate nostra concitatur… intellexit aliquid, indignatus est, damnauit, ulciscitur: haec non possunt fieri, nisi animus eis quibus tangebatur adsensus est.15

“It is our opinion that [anger] ventures nothing on its own, but only when the mind assents to it. For to form the impression of a received injury and to desire that it be avenged and to join the two [ideas], that one should not have been harmed and that one should be avenged, this is not an impulse that is incited without our willingness… Someone has understood something, he grows angry at it, he condemns it, and he avenges it: these things cannot happen unless the mind assents to the things by which it has been touched.” (De Ira 2.1.4)

According to this definition, anger is a conscious intellectual process requiring the mind’s assent to the belief that a wrong has been committed and must be avenged. Indeed, all of the pathē consist in rational assent to false propositions. Two relevant attributes of the emotions follow from this understanding of the pathē. First of all, because the propositions assented to are false, the pathē are considered unequivocally negative. Accordingly, since the eupatheiai arise from a state of true rational knowledge, the latter are unequivocally good—the Stoic emotions have a fixed moral valence. Secondly, because the emotions consist in propositions, they can also be extirpated by a rational refusal to assent. For both of these reasons, pathē and eupatheiai have

13 Konstan (2015); Veyne (2003), 102-5; Sorabji (1998), 153-5, 160-2; Brennan (1998), 30-32; Inwood (1985), Ch. 5. For Seneca’s adoption of Chrysippus’ position: see Sorabji (2000), 61-3; Strange (2004); Donini (2007); Nussbaum (1987). Annas (1992), 109 argues that Chrysippus himself derived this belief from Zeno. Posidonius, on the other hand, argued that some passions were irrational—see Gal. Phil. Hist. 4. 3. 3; Sorabji (2000), Ch. 6. 14 Cic. Tusc. 4.7. 15 De Ira 2.1.4. 5 clear, identifiable places in the teleological path towards wisdom outlined at the opening of this introduction: the proficiens must employ his faculty of reason in order to overcome toxic pathē and experience the virtuous eupatheiai of wisdom.

In this sense, Stoic pathē and eupatheiai fall under the definition of “emotion” put forth by affect theorist Brian Massumi:

“Emotion is qualified intensity, the conventional, consensual point of insertion of intensity into semantically and semiotically formed progressions, into narrativizable action-reaction circuits, into function and meaning.”16

In other words, for Massumi, emotions are subjective feelings that function within a linguistic, logical, and socially recognized framework: they can be explained by cause and effect, labeled, and slapped onto the title of a treatise. Indeed, the passage cited above from De Ira narrates anger in terms of an “action-reaction circuit,” painting it as a progression of judgements stemming from an impression; as such, anger does have meaning (i.e., the vindication of a wrong), however ill-conceived this meaning may be.

However, these rational emotions do not account for the full range of human affective experiences. In fact, the Stoics acknowledged a wide range of morally neutral feelings that cannot be classified either as pathē or as eupatheiai.17 In the De Ira, Seneca draws a distinction between emotions, such as anger, and involuntary affective movements (principia proludentia adfectibus).18 Such movements might include a sudden feeling of trepidation before battle or a flash of sexual desire at the sight of an attractive person. Such inadvertent impulses do not consist in rational propositions, cannot be controlled by reason, and are therefore morally

16 Massumi (1995), 88. 17 As Brennan (1998), 34 puts it, “Accordingly, the fact that the Stoics were opposed to emotions (that is, pathē) tells us nothing, in itself, about whether the Stoics were opposed to emotions in the more familiar sense.” 18 He divides these movements into three stages: an initial shock (ictus), a first disturbance (agitatio), and a first movement (ictus); see De Ira 2.2.1-2.4.2. Cicero called these para-rational feelings morsus et contractiunculae animi (“bites and little spasms of the mind”); see Tusc. 3.82-3. In Greek the term is propatheia. On first movements in Seneca, see Sorabji (2000), 66-75; Konstan (2017), 231-3. On Stoic propatheiai, see Graver (1999); Graver (2007), Ch. 4; Stevens (2000). 6 neutral. Numerous scholars have pointed out that the blush described in letter 11 of the

Epistulae Morales is an example of such a principium.19 Although these principia can lead to negative passions if given rational credence, the term does not exclusively refer to feelings that temporally precede full-blown emotions.20 In fact, as Inwood notes, Seneca’s account of principia proludentia encompasses any feeling that is not subject to rational control.21

As we will see below, affect theorists would classify such para-rational feelings as

“affects,” as opposed to “emotions.” Because Seneca does not pass moral judgement on such affects, much of the scholarship on the Senecan emotions does not linger over the broader implications and potentials of these feelings, bringing them up only to note their innocuousness when compared to the passions.22 This dissertation, on the other hand, will take as its focus feelings that seem to operate independently of reason. Seneca does not give us an exhaustive list of all the principia proludentia, and I do not intend to claim that Seneca “would have” classified the affects discussed in the following chapters as a part of this technical category. Such a claim would require a commitment to authorial intent that I am neither prepared to make nor interested in making.23 However, Seneca’s recognition of feelings that elude rational control invites us to revisit his work through the lens of affect theory, which prioritizes the para-rational. With the help of these modern works, we will look for affects throughout Seneca’s works, exploring their latent operations throughout the Senecan corpus.

The emphasis in Senecan scholarship on the rational passions, as opposed to para- rational affects, corresponds to a broader trend in the study of ancient emotions. In general, scholars of the ancient emotions tend to align themselves with “cognitivist” approaches to the

19 Inwood (2005), 60; Graver (2007), 100; Konstan (2017), 237. 20 Konstan (2017), 238-239. 21 Inwood (2005), 57-60. This is an expansion of the orthodox Stoic definition of propatheiai strictly as emotions that cannot be expressed in verbal lekta. 22 E.g. Brennan (1998), 32-33; Sorabji (2000), 1-5. 23 See pp. 13-14 below. 7 subject, which view emotion as inextricably tied to judgement.24 The cognitivist perspective is often contrasted with biological approaches to affect, which understand feelings to be somatic, instinctual, and universal.25 For the most part, cognitivist Classicists acknowledge the existence of non-rational affective movements, but rather choose to focus largely on the cognitive elements of emotions.26 This choice is often motivated by the idea that the rational and narrativized elements of emotions are influenced by ideologies and social norms—we must therefore identify these underlying cognitive claims in order to understand the culturally- specific aspects of our feelings.27 I, like these cognitivists (as well as modern affect theorists, and Seneca himself), acknowledge that many emotions do contain judgements and involve some level of rational assent. I also see great value in lingering over these rational aspects of the emotions, an endeavor that counteracts reductionist claims of biological determinism and universality. However, an exclusive focus on cognition runs the risk of prioritizing socially or philosophically sanctioned views of the emotions, as they are explicitly articulated in literature

(such as the idea that pathē are bad and eupatheiai are good),28 and glossing over the ways in which individual somatic responses push against these ideologies in an unorthodox manner.29 I will therefore take as the focus of my project the types of emotions that defy narratives, reason,

24 Foundational works of cognitivism outside the field of Classics include Solomon (1988); Lazarus (1991); Lazarus and Lazarus (1994). Works within the field of Classics influenced by cognitivism include Fortenbaugh (1975); Nussbaum (2001); Sorabji (2000); Kaster (2005); Konstan (2006); Graver (2007). For a summary of the influence cognitivism has had in the field of Classics, see Cairns and Nelis (2017), 8-10. 25 Darwin (1872) was influential to this approach. See also Ekman and Friesen (1971). For a summary of the debate between cognitivists and biologists, see Kaster (2005), 8-9; Konstan (2006), Introduction. 26 See e.g. Graver (2007), 87; Cairns and Fulkerson (2016), 10; Kaster (2005), 9: “Subtract any element of the script, and the experience is fundamentally altered: without a response (even one instantly rejected or suppressed), there is only dispassionate evaluation of phenomena; without an evaluation (even one that does not register consciously), there is a mere seizure of mind and body that is about nothing at all.” An exception to this approach would be the vigorous defense of pure cognitivism in Nussbaum (2001). 27 Braund and Gill (1997), 4; Cairns and Fulkerson (2016), 13-15. 28 Cognitivist classicists usually acknowledge this fact; see e.g. Kaster (2005), 11 on the “deep conservativism of [emotions’] structures,” a byproduct of the fact that said emotions “are represented in the speech of the literate elite.” 29 For this reason, a number of modern affect theorists have explored the way in which the affects of marginalized groups are in tension with the “correct” emotions demanded by ideological norms. See, e.g., Ahmed (2010), Ch.2 on women’s affects; Ngai (2004), Ch.2 on racialized affects; and Love (2009) on queer affects. 8 and logic. This emphasis on inadvertent and para-logical feelings does not deny cultural specificity or make claims to universality, as the biological approach to emotions does—rather, affects’ illogical movements are especially important because of the ways in which they interact with rationalized and regulated social contexts. For example, Seneca’s blush was notable precisely because it scrambled culturally-specific binaries, such as that around vitium and pudor.

I am interested in the friction that arises between philosophically sanctioned, cognitive emotions, and imperfect and irrational affects.

This approach is drawn largely from modern affect theory. Affect theory sees a unique alchemical potential in the illogical fluidity of affect, which renders it worthy of discussion.

Massumi describes the way affect, as opposed to emotion, often functions in paradoxical and unexpected ways. It is “the collapse of structured distinction into intensity, of rules into paradox.

It is the suspension of the invariance that makes happy happy, sad sad, function function, and meaning mean.”30 Lacking an identifiable cause and object, affects are untethered from the logical coherence inherent to narrative; they can thus function in paradoxical ways and render meaning malleable. To take Epistulae Morales 11 as an example, Massumi would say that, in defying Stoic self-control, the blush constitutes a “suspension of the invariance” that makes a vitium a vitium, pudor pudor.

Similarly, in the introduction to The Affect Theory Reader, Gregory Siegworth and

Melissa Gregg characterize affect thus:

“Affect, at its most anthropomorphic, is the name we give to those forces—visceral forces beneath, alongside, or generally other than conscious knowing, vital forces insisting beyond emotion—that can serve to drive us toward movement, toward thought and extension, that can likewise suspend us (as if in neutral) across a barely registering accretion of force-relations, or that can even leave us overwhelmed by the world’s apparent intractability.”31

30 Massumi (1995), 87. On this distinction between affect and emotion, see also Figlerowicz (2012), 5-6. 31 Gregg and Siegworth (2009), 1. 9 Like Massumi, Gregg and Siegworth characterize affect as something fundamentally “other than conscious knowing”—unlike the rational propositions which comprise the “emotions” of affect theory and the “passions” of Stoicism, affect operates “beneath” and “alongside” the explicable and narrativizable. Affect’s “otherness” grants it a special ability, an almost sublime access to what is “beyond emotion.” Gregg and Siegworth point towards a variety of potentials that this affective sublimity might hold—it might serve a quasi-didactic purpose, moving the subject

“toward thought and extension,” or it might equally “leave us overwhelmed,” reminding us of our inability to break through “the world’s apparent intractability.” Regardless of whether we find ourselves “exten[ded]” or “suspended,” affect allows us to experience the world in a way that rational emotions do not.32 Thus, my dissertation as a whole is motivated by affect theory’s invitation to explore these non-cognitive ways of being.

Additionally, in some individual chapters, I read primary ancient texts with reference to individual works of philosophy and theory. “Affect theory” is a vague and flexible category, rather than a unified school of thought encompassing a clearly identifiable set of texts.33 All of the theoretical works I draw upon are concerned with feelings, but not all would be immediately classified as “affect theory.” Sianne Ngai’s Ugly Feelings is consistently deemed a work of affect theory;34 Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Judgement obviously predates the category of affect theory, but a number of modern affect theorists formulate their ideas as a response to this work;35 Lee Edelman’s No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive, primarily classified as a

32 See also Kenaan and Ferber (2011), 5: “The totality in which moods allow us to experience the world is therefore more comprehensive and immediate than any form of cognitive comprehension, or even sensual perception, can ever be. Moreover, the wholeness of this totality stands in stark opposition to the traditional conception of rationality as a constant attempt to “seize” and, in some ways, confiscate what is opposite it. Mood offers an alternative approach in which absorption in, and captivation with, the world ground the possibility of thinking and the constitution of meaning;” Figlerowicz (2012), 4: “Another way to describe the preoccupations that affect theorists seem to share is to say that affect theory is grounded in movements or flashes of mental or somatic activity rather than causal narratives of their origins and end points… It is in these movements or flash-like outbursts that affect theory founds its most robust notions of knowledge and subjecthood.” 33 Gregg and Siegworth (2009), 3-4; Figlerowicz (2012), 3. 34 E.g. in Figlerowicz (2012), 3, 7; Hsu (2019). 35 E.g. Bennett (2001), 33-55; Ngai (2005), 265ff. 10 work of Lacanian queer theory, is also sometimes labeled as affect theory because of its focus on various feelings, such as hope.36 Regardless of how these works are categorized, I believe them all to be compatible with the fundamental idea that affect holds a special, para-logical potential.37

Philia, Sophia, and Everything In-Between

Why does the Senecan subject need these sorts of malleable and para-logical affects?

What are they for, and what can they achieve? I will argue that they serve a didactic purpose.

The term “philosophy” itself frames our pursuit of wisdom as a feeling, namely, as a form of love. Far from being a sterile and mechanical enterprise, philosophy places the subject in an affective relationship to wisdom. For the Stoic sage, who has reached the end of his journey, this affective relationship consists in a noble feeling of joy towards the knowledge he has already attained. What about the affects of the proficiens? His feelings must be directed towards forms of knowledge and wisdom that he has not yet attained; for this reason, his feelings are necessarily far less lofty than the rational eupatheiai of the sage.

Seneca is aware of this problem, often playfully suggesting that imperfect proficientes might have imperfect affective attachments to the idea of wisdom. For instance, Seneca frequently refers to our desire for wisdom as a sort of erotic passion,38 and attempts to bribe us towards ethical progress by appealing to our love of glory, promising us everlasting fame if we attain wisdom (Ep. 21). Though these sorts of statements may strike us as tongue-in-cheek, they

36 E.g. in Figlerowicz (2012), 7-8. The relationship of affect theory to psychoanalysis in general and Lacan in particular is contentious and ambivalent—some strands of affect theory view themselves as explicitly opposed to psychoanalysis on the grounds that the latter treats feelings as narratable and explicable [e.g. Terada (2009)], whereas others view the two approaches as ultimately compatible [e.g. Ruti (2018)]. See also Figlerowicz (2012), 3: “[Affect theory] can be a psychoanalysis without end, both in leaving no stone unturned and in not caring to achieve a stable outcome. Affect theory can also refuse psychoanalysis and try to make feelings speak for themselves.” 37 For instance, Edelman’s critique of the “symbolic order” is broadly compatible with Massumi’s opposition of affect to “semiotically formed progressions” and “narrativizable action-reaction circuits.” 38 See Taoka (2007), Ch.5 for a discussion of this topic. 11 raise serious questions. What does it mean to feel un-wise feelings about wisdom? How could these sorts of feelings possibly guide us towards ethical progress?

If we were to only examine rational emotions, such as pathē and eupatheiai, this question would be unanswerable: the proficiens cannot feel eupatheiai, and the passions, composed of false judgements, could never provide moral guidance. The affects of the proficiens, on the other hand, are far more fruitful in this respect. Seneca often describes imperfect humans as experiencing problematic or ambiguous feelings in the face of the object of their intellectual pursuits. These affects are accessible to imperfect subjects, and they often reveal fundamental gaps in knowledge, misconceptions, and misunderstandings. Nevertheless, because they do not abide by the rules of reason and logic, they can teach us in lateral and paradoxical ways.

By turning my attention to affect, then, I hope to contribute to scholarly discourse on both Senecan emotions and the Senecan subject. Scholars have tended to address both of these issues in terms of morally-charged binaries. An emphasis on the dichotomy between good eupatheiai and bad pathē makes it difficult to imagine the proficiens moving along any path except a teleological one away from vice and towards virtue.39 By exploring affects, which defy moral categorization, we witness non-linear, paradoxical, and unexpected forms of movement.

For instance, throughout this dissertation, we will witness affects such as stupefaction, anxiety, or desperate grief turning into numb serenity. These sorts of transformations are paradoxical— they involve progress towards calm detachment through affective extremes. Indeed, the central thesis of this dissertation is that, for Seneca, such morally ambiguous affects provide the subject

39 E.g. Manning (1974); Nussbaum (1994); Motto (2003), 39-42; Konstan (2015). Some exceptions to this general trend towards fixed moral binaries surrounding affect would be Wray (2015), who argues that the feeling of pudor, while not compatible with Stoic sagehood, can serve a didactic purpose by encouraging non-sages to act slightly more virtuously; and Kaufman (2014), who draws upon evidence from the De Ira and the Epistulae Morales, claiming that Seneca advocates the treatment of unpleasant emotions via the stimulation of less violent rival emotions. 12 with a twisting path towards the right way, through the wrong way. When he cannot fully extirpate his vices, the Senecan subject might harness dumbstruck wonder as a window into the cosmos, or draw upon grief as a perverse source of solace. Affect has the potential to guide us along alternative routes to consolation and understanding.

Like affect itself, this dissertation is a somewhat para-logical endeavor. In certain chapters, my argument draws upon passages in which Seneca explicitly embraces affect as a force whose value lies in its independence from rationality and cognition.40 These chapters aim to shed light on previously underappreciated aspects of Seneca’s philosophy, as articulated in his texts. Elsewhere, however, I argue that problematic feelings implicitly fulfil a variety of didactic and ethical functions in Seneca’s texts, even as the narrator vigorously and explicitly denies the value of these feelings.41 In such passages, the potential of affect lies under the surface and outside the literal meaning of Seneca’s text. Given the fact that affect itself operates independently of rationality, it is not surprising that the value of Senecan affect eludes the rational apparatus of Seneca’s overt logical arguments. Affect resists narration by the emotive subject and the moralizing philosopher alike.

Nevertheless, this dissertation will attempt to put into words the particular power of affect, which lies latent in Seneca’s works.42 This project requires a literary engagement with

Seneca, focused on the affects generated by his vivid descriptive passages and the narrative structures of his texts. I argue that these literary features are crucial to Seneca’s texts;43 they

40 See e.g. pp. 80-81, 138-139 below. 41 See e.g. pp. 118-122, 144-146 below. 42 On the difficulty of writing about affect, a topic that eludes narration, see Gregg and Siegworth (2009), 4: “It is no wonder too that when theories have dared to provide even a tentative account of affect, they have sometimes been viewed as naïvely or romantically wandering too far out into the groundlessness of a world’s or a body’s myriad inter-implications, letting themselves get lost in an overabundance of swarming, sliding differences… dramatizing (indeed, for the unconvinced, over -dramatizing) what so often passes beneath mention. But, as our contributors will show, affect’s impinging/extruded belonging to worlds, bodies, and their in-betweens—affect in its immanence— signals the very promise of affect theory too: casting illumination upon the ‘not yet’ of a body’s doing…” 43 Many arguments have been made along these lines. On style as an instrument of philosophical persuasion in the Natural Questions, see Parroni (2002), XXVI-XXXV; Vottero (1985). For similar arguments regarding the 13 perform indispensable philosophical work, moving the reader in directions that would be impossible through a straightforward explication of doctrine.44 Because the work performed by these literary features sometimes contradicts or complicates the Stoic philosophical content of the texts, I have found it useful to set aside the question of authorial intent: my arguments are about the relationship between affect and reason as it exists within the text, rather than within the mind of Seneca the historical figure. Within this dissertation, then, the name “Seneca” refers to the narrator of the Senecan texts I discuss.

Summary of Chapters

Seneca’s interest in the therapeutic and didactic functions of affect is not limited to a single genre. Accordingly, in this dissertation I will draw on Seneca’s philosophical, scientific, and dramatic texts, 45 tracing the varying roles which morally ambiguous feelings play in a diverse array of texts. However, I have chosen to devote the largest portion of my dissertation to

Seneca’s Natural Questions, a particularly helpful and appropriate test case for the position of the Senecan subject vis-à-vis knowledge and affect. As Inwood has argued, the gap between human knowledge and divine wisdom, between proficiens and sapiens, is a central theme of this text.46 The narrator of the Natural Questions aims towards the penetrating knowledge of the

Stoic sage, but nevertheless remains trapped in an imperfect and epistemically-compromised perspective. As a result, he is frequently forced to grapple with natural phenomena that stretch the bounds of his prior knowledge, and these encounters with the unknown often dredge up a number of ethically ambiguous affects, such as anxiety, wonder, and stupefaction. Additionally,

Epistulae Morales, see Armisen-Marchetti (2015) and Bartsch (2009), on the importance of metaphors in conveying Seneca’s messages; Wright (1974) on Seneca’s use of rhetorical devices; in general, see Von Albrecht (2008); Setaioli (1985); Williams (2015). Literary approaches to Seneca contrast more strictly philosophical approaches, such as Inwood (2005), 31-2, which argues that Seneca’s metaphors are fundamentally distinct from his philosophical content. 44 See Gunderson (2015), 3-7. 45 My work is thus in line with recent efforts to “see Seneca whole,” to borrow a phrase from the title of Volk and Williams (2006). 46 Inwood (2002). 14 the narrator, himself a proficiens, devotes a number of passages to extolling the lofty position of the wise man. As we will see, this subject-position, too, involves affects such as joy and enchantment. In the first three chapters of this dissertation, I will argue that affect, in its moral fluidity and neutrality, serves ethical and didactic functions for both the sapiens and the proficiens.

Chapter 1 concerns the affects of the Stoic sage, as he is described in the prefaces to

Books 3 and 1 of the Natural Questions. Ideally, the sage’s feelings should consist in a delighted apprehension of truths about the cosmos—this core of rationality and truth defines

Stoic eupatheiai, as discussed above. However, drawing on Immanuel Kant’s Critique of

Judgement, I argue that these enchanted feelings are directed not towards the external and objective rational order of the cosmos, but towards the subject’s own sense of self. This solipsistic enchantment is no longer unequivocally virtuous; in fact, it shares certain qualities with the affects of one of Seneca’s reviled figures, the freedman Hostius Quadra. Nevertheless, the very specularity of the sage’s enchantment, which obscures his straightforward apprehension of objective truths, also allows for proprioception and defines the wise man’s subjectivity. Thus, the moral fluidity of affect serves a crucial role in the development of the subject.

Chapters 2 and 3 concern the affects not of the wise man but of the epistemically- compromised human. Chapter 2 focuses on Seneca’s descriptions of natural disasters, which elicit feelings of stupefaction and anxiety. These feelings are ethically problematic, since they stem from a myopic understanding of the world rather than an all-encompassing grasp of the order of the cosmos. I read these “ugly feelings” through the lens of the work of affect theorist

Sianne Ngai, arguing that, by dulling the subject to fear, a truly vicious passion, stupefaction and anxiety paradoxically replicate certain aspects of Stoic sagehood. The vast majority of us, who have not attained sagehood, can therefore harness the paradoxical and unexpected movements of affect to inch towards a perverse form of wisdom. 15 In Chapter 3, I discuss Seneca’s classification of two forms of miratio, or wonder, in the face of comets. I call the first “elevated miratio,” a gentle wonder in the face of a divine order, and I call the second “common miratio,” a cheap thrill in response to unusual or flashy phenomena. From a moral perspective, Seneca clearly privileges the former over the latter.

However, for individuals whose ignorance impedes them from experiencing elevated miratio, even common miratio can provide valuable Stoic lessons, alerting us to the intentional design of the cosmos. Overall, then, Seneca harnesses morally ambiguous affects for quasi-moral ends.

Having established this core premise through an analysis of the Natural Questions, the last two chapters trace its appearance in texts from two other Senecan genres: his philosophical epistles and his tragedies. In my discussion of the Natural Questions, the idea of a pure rationality stripped entirely of affect is presented as a chimera, with the figures of both the sage and the proficiens steeped in a variety of morally ambiguous affects. My last two chapters, however, take seriously the question of what reason without affect would actually look like, exposing not only the value but also the necessity of affect in philosophical thought. In chapter four, which is centered on letter 120 of Seneca’s Epistulae Morales, I argue that wonder plays a crucial role in our understanding of the good, even when it distorts objective truths about the phenomenal world. Whereas much of Senecan discourse necessitates the denial of affect as central to our intellectual understanding, letter 120 exposes this sterile discourse as a repression of the ultimately affect-ridden origins of our knowledge. Furthermore, Seneca presents this wonderstruck understanding of the concept of the good as a necessary alternative to purely formal, objective definitions, which are overly abstract and almost incomprehensible.

Finally, in Chapter 5, I turn to Seneca’s Troades, a play which, I argue, presents hopeless grief as an affectively charged way of eliminating the toxic passions of hope and fear. The women in this play turn to a variety of methods of consolation in the face of their uncertain future—some take comfort in Stoic rationalization and affective flattening, whereas others find 16 paradoxical solace in extreme forms of grief. I argue that, in this play, the latter, “tragic” form of consolation proves more effective than “proper” philosophical methods. In fact, consolatory methods rooted in extreme grief expose the ways in which strictly rational approaches to a troubling future gloss over, aestheticize, and sometimes even take enjoyment in, human suffering. Thus, the Trojan Women engages with, yet ultimately parodies and undercuts, the ideals of affective flattening set forth in his philosophical works. In the end, affect beats rationality at its own game, providing the subject with a more ethical and comprehensive picture of the world.

17 Chapter 1: The Joy and Enchantment of the Sage

Introduction: Sublimity in Seneca and Kant

Seneca’s Natural Questions,47 a work in eight books likely composed between 62 and 64

CE,48 combines the author’s typical moralizing articulation of Stoic tenets with the perhaps less expected topic of meteorology. Much of the recent scholarship on the Natural Questions has focused on reconciling Seneca’s moral and scientific aims,49 often concluding that Seneca explores natural science in order to develop what Gareth Williams calls “cosmic consciousness, or the attainment of ‘seeing the all.’”50 By understanding the laws that govern nature, the cosmic viewer transcends his typically myopic field of vision, focused on earthly concerns, and attains an all-encompassing perspective on the universe and his place within it.51 In this chapter, I will explore the subject-position of a figure who has attained perfect cosmic vision, namely, the

Senecan sage. I will begin by outlining a few major features of the sage’s perspective.

First of all, Seneca’s descriptions of the cosmic viewer foreground the broad scope of vision of the knowledgeable subject: the student of natural science totum circuit mundum

(“encircles the entire world,” Nat. 1. Praef. 8). This expansive vision not only grasps all visible natural phenomena, but extends beyond the readily apparent: [haec pars philosophiae] non fuit

47 All quotations of the Natural Questions are drawn from Hine’s 1996 Teubner edition. Therefore, I will work on the assumption set forth independently by Codoñer and Hine that the books were originally arranged in the order 3, 4a, 4b, 5, 6, 7, 1, 2 [Codoñer (1979); Hine (1981), 6-19; Hine (1996), XXII-XXV]. This order has been accepted by a number of scholars, e.g. Parroni (1997), 116-7; Parroni (2002), XLIX; Gauly (2004), 66-7; Mazzoli (2005), 167- 9; Limburg (2007), 11-12; Williams (2012), 12-4; Bravo Díaz (2013), 22-30. 48 Hine (2006), 71; Williams (2012), 12-3. 49 For a summary of the debate on the relationship between science and ethics in the Natural Questions from 1900- 1970, see Cubeddu (1978). For the argument that scientific passages serve a primarily ethical end, see (among many others) Berno (2003); Fedeli (2000); Grilli (2000); Capponi (1996); Chaumartin (1996); Grilli (1993). Parroni (2000), 437 reminds us that, though they do serve ethical ends, the scientific passages are also substantive in and of themselves. For the old criticism that Seneca is unsuccessful in uniting scientific and moral ends, see e.g. Holl (1935). Gauly (2004) sees the moralizing and scientific passages as awkwardly connected, but he reads this disjuncture as a sign of the “Dialogizität” at work in the Natural Questions, which unites the scientific discussions of Seneca’s Greek predecessors and the moral concerns of his Roman surroundings. 50 Williams (2012), 8. 51 See Scott (1999); Parroni (2000), 437-8; Parroni (2002), XIV-XV; Hine (2006); Williams (2008); Williams (2012); Inwood (2009), 215. 18 oculis contenta: maius esse quiddam suspicata est ac pulchrius quod extra conspectum natura posuisset (“[this part of philosophy] was not satisfied with the eyes; it supposed that there was something greater and more beautiful which nature put beyond our gaze,” Nat. 1. Praef. 1). In his scientific investigations, Seneca aims to view nature non ab hac parte… qua publica est

(“not from that perspective whereby it is commonly visible”), but with an eye to nature’s secretiora (“more hidden aspects,” Nat. 1. Praef. 3). The contrast between publica and secretiora points to a distinction not only between the visible and the invisible, but also between the respective subjectivities of the individuals who take on these perspectives: what is publicum is available to anyone, implying an exceptional and exalted subject position for whoever can comprehend what is secretum.52

In grasping everything, visible and invisible, cosmic vision provides a window into god, who constitutes the underlying and unseen logic of the universe. Our narrator asks, quid est deus? quod uides totum et quod non uides totum. sic demum magnitudo illi sua redditur, qua nihil maius cogitari potest, si solus est omnia, si opus suum et intra et extra tenet (“What is god? Everything you see and everything you do not see. Only in this way is he given credit for his magnitude, than which nothing greater can be imagined: if he alone is everything, if he oversees his creation both from within and from without,” Nat. 1. Praef. 13). Only the penetrating gaze of the cosmic viewer, which pushes beyond the visible surface, perceives the divine. Furthermore, god emerges as a comprehensive totality: solus est omnia.53 Thus, the all-

52 The metaphysical depreciation of what is publicus reflects a corresponding use of the word in Seneca’s ethical works, where the adjective publicus is often applied to common habits in contrast to the individuality of the wise man; e.g. see Ep. 5.5, 14.14, 18.2, 95.71, 103.5. At De Vita Beata 2.2, Seneca similarly adapts the language of Roman public life in order to elevate the position of the wise man: he distinguishes proper action from the ways of the vulgus, and then clarifies, Vulgum autem tam chlamydatos quam coronatos uoco; non enim colorem uestium quibus praetexta sunt corpora aspicio… animi bonum animus inueniat (“I call both those wearing wool capes and those wearing crowns ‘common;’ I do not look to the color of the clothes that enrobe their bodies… let the mind locate the good of the mind”). In such passages, Seneca retains the distinction between common and elite, but redefines the qualifications for high status in ethical and intellectual terms, rather than in social ones. On this tendency of Seneca’s, see Bartsch (2006), 236; Edwards (2009). 53 For discussions of god as source of cosmic unity in Seneca’s work, see Gunderson (2015), 59-69; Setaioli (2007b), 336-339. For the roots of this idea in previous Stoic thought, see the citation of Zeno and Chrysippus at 19 encompassing scope of cosmic vision, which includes both visible and invisible phenomena, allows the sage to grasp a unity underlying the entire physical world.54

Seneca leverages this cosmic perspective for a specific ethical goal: the diminishing of overweening, haughty human subjectivity. Whereas most humans are excessively invested in their own power, wealth, and good fortune, which allow them to construct a vain sense of self- importance, the cosmic viewer understands the insignificance of these earthly concerns when compared to the vastness of the cosmos. Seneca claims that,

[animus] non potest ante contemnere porticus et lacunaria ebore fulgentia et tonsiles siluas et deriuata in domos flumina quam totum circuit mundum, et terrarum orbem superne despiciens angustum… sibi ipse dixit: ‘hoc est illud punctum quod inter tot gentes ferro et igne diuiditur!’

“[The mind] cannot spurn colonnades, and paneled ceilings resplendent with ivory, and shorn groves, and rivers redirected into homes, before it has encircled the entire universe, and, looking down upon the small sphere of the world from above… it has said to itself, ‘this is that point that is cut up among so many peoples by iron and fire!’” (Nat. 1. Praef. 8)

Seneca encourages us to adopt an attitude of detached contempt (contemnere) towards often- fetishized earthly goods, a loftiness mirrored by the physical elevation of superne despiciens.

After all, magna ista quia parui sumus credimus (“we believe these things are great because we are small,” Nat. 3. Praef. 10).

In this sense, the cosmic viewpoint entails a depreciation of human subjectivity. For example, Seneca encourages Lucilius to distance himself from himself, warning him that, although he may have avoided luxury, greed, and ambition, multa effugisti, te nondum (“you have fled many [vices], but you have not yet fled yourself,” Nat. 1. Praef. 6). Similarly, in the

D.L. 7. 143 (=SVF 2.531): εἶς ἐστι [ὁ κόσµος] (“the cosmos is one”); Cleanth. Stoic., Hymn to Zeus 20-21 (=SVF 1.537): ὧδε γὰρ εἰς ἓν πάντα συνήρµοκας ἐσθλὰ κακοῖσιν,/ ὥσθ' ἕνα γίγνεσθαι πάντων πάντων λόγον αἰὲν ἐόντα (“for you [Zeus] join together all good things with bad things into a unified whole/ so that one everlasting reason emerges from all of them”); Cic. N.D. 1.39 (=SVF 2.1077): [Chrysippus dicit deum esse] communemque rerum naturam universam atque omnia continentem (“Chrysippus says that god is the shared nature of things, which is universal and contains everything”). For the ethical implications of Stoic cosmic unity, see Boeri (2009), 176-193. 54 For natural phenomena as manifestations of a divine ratio, see Toulze-Morriset (2004a); Fedeli (2000), 25-6. 20 preface to Book 4a, which concerns Lucilius’ recent promotion to the position of procurator of

Sicily, Seneca gives his friend the following advice concerning the avoidance of flatterers: fugiendum ergo et in se recedendum est, immo etiam a se recedendum (“one must flee and withdraw into oneself; or rather even withdraw from oneself,” Nat. 4a. Praef. 20). Placed in parallel to fugiendum, the phrase in se recedendum est apparently refers to the self purely in contrast to a potentially toxic social environment—the person who has withdrawn in se has simply stopped valuing the judgement and influence of others. Introspection recurs frequently in

Seneca’s works as an antidote to the vices of public life, and it usually involves some form of self-assessment and corresponding self-improvement.55 Though the “self” thus defined provides a shelter for the proficiens from society’s evils, Seneca encourages Lucilius to dismiss the earthly sphere entirely, including his earthly subjectivity: immo etiam a se recedendum. As an even more effective alternative to his usual withdrawal into the self, Seneca proposes a complete alienation from the self, particularly when this self is at risk of being artificially inflated by vapid flattery and political power. A cosmic viewer disinvested from these earthly matters will recognize his own smallness, his subjectivity diminished.

At the same time, this diminution is heavily qualified: o quam contempta res est homo nisi supra humana surrexerit! (“what a contemptible thing man is, unless he has risen above human affairs!” Nat. 1. Praef. 5). In achieving the cosmic viewpoint, the subject transcends the insignificant concerns that have previously defined him and is reaffirmed. Seneca contrasts the narrowness of human affairs with the loftiness of the subject who has developed a healthy contempt for his earthly self:

Quid [formicis] et uobis interest nisi exigui mensura corpusculi? punctum est istud in quo nauigatis, in quo bellatis, in quo regna disponitis, minima etiam cum illis utrimque oceanus occurrit. Sursum ingentia spatia sunt, in quorum possessionem animus

55 E.g. see Ep. 7.8, 14.9-11, 28.10, 35.1, 83.2, 118.1-3; De Ira 3.36.1-3. For scholarly discussions of Senecan interiority, see Foucault (1984/1986); Long (1991); Nussbaum (1994), 5; Edwards (1997), 25-9; Bartsch (2006), 252; Bartsch (2009), 189. 21 admittitur, ed ita, si secum minimum ex corpore tulit, si sordidum omne detersit et expeditus leuisque ac se contentus emicuit. cum illa tetigit, alitur, crescit, uelut uinculis liberatus in originem redit, et hoc habet argumentum diuinitatis suae quod illum diuina delectant, nec ut alienis sed ut suis interest.

“What difference is there between you and ants except for the size of your tiny bodies? That is a pinpoint on which you sail, on which you fight, on which you lay out your kingdoms, tiny even when the ocean surrounds them on both sides. On high there are immense spaces, which the mind is able to possess if it takes with it as little as possible of the body, if it has removed everything sordid, and it darts forth, swift and light and happy with itself. When it has touched upon these regions, it is nourished, it grows, and, as if liberated from its chains, it returns to its origin, and it has this proof of its own divinity, that divine things please it, and it takes part in them not as something separate, but as a part of itself.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 10-12)

The life of an unenlightened subject is characterized by smallness—its scope is a mere punctum—and the kingdoms it regards as massive are in fact minima. By contrast, the subject who has attained cosmic consciousness is inflated, growing and developing. He does so by claiming the divinity of the cosmos as a part of himself, with the repetition of suae… suis emphasizing his expansion and self-assertion over the natural world. Scholars explain this appropriation of the divine in terms of Stoic apospasma,56 or the notion that human reason is a

“broken off piece” of the divine reason that pervades the universe. Apospasma follows directly from the related notion of sympatheia, the idea that all things, humans included, are unified by an all-pervasive rational soul.57 Accordingly, in apprehending the reason inherent to nature, the student of natural science sees his own reason reflected therein. His subjectivity extends over the entire cosmos.

In defining the cosmos as a part of himself, the sublime Senecan subject has come full circle: as he studies the cosmos, he revels in se rather than fleeing ex se. Two different iterations

56 Scott (1999), 57-8; Reydams-Schils (2005b), 581-2. 57 Seneca hints at apospasma and sympatheia more than once: see Ep. 31.11, 41.1, 73.16, 92.27, 102.21, 113.17, 120.14, 124.23; Helv. 11.7. For the orthodox Stoic origins of these interrelated ideas, see Eus. P.E. 15.20.1 (=SVF 1.128); D.L. 7.142-143 (=SVF 2.633); SVF 2.738-750; SVF 2.839. See also Reinhardt (1926), Long (1982b), Bobzien (2005), Powers (2012), Brouwer (2015), Holmes (2019). 22 of subjectivity hold starkly divergent ethical implications: the self as defined by his social world should be escaped, but the self fully invested in reason should be cultivated and appreciated as an aspect of the divine.58 Diminishing and relinquishing the self may be an admirable aim for the imperfect subject, but the cosmic viewer finds an ample and permanent dwelling-space in his own subjectivity, which is pervaded by reason and engulfs the entire universe. The cosmic viewer’s transcendence of his earthly self allows him to become fully absorbed in his newly defined subjectivity. Furthermore, unlike the introspection of the proficiens merely attempting to escape his social environment, this turn towards the self does not require rigorous self- shaping or self-improvement; as we will see, it entails the adoption of an enchanted affect towards the self.

This elevation of the Senecan subject shares a basic structure with the Kantian sublime.59

I will outline some major parallels between these two forms of sublimity; such parallels will help me to establish the major questions driving this chapter. Kantian sublimity is triggered when a staggering natural vista, such as the sight of a towering mountain or the ocean during a storm, eludes a person’s “faculty of imagination” (Einbildungskraft)—that is, his ability to synthesize sense perceptions and grasp them as a unified whole.60 This lack of comprehension can either be “mathematical” or “dynamic;” in the former case, the sheer size of an object exceeds our reckoning, and in the latter, its power or force overwhelms us. This loss of an

58 For more on these various forms of self-relation, see Reydams-Schils (2005a), 40-42. Such differing definitions of selfhood, with their accordingly different ethical injunctions, bear some similarity to the fluid sense of sauton in the Delphic maxim gnothi sauton. Wilkins (1917) catalogues seven major senses that this phrase carried in Greek literature. Six of these meanings diminish the subject and call for a corresponding self-abasement: for instance, “know what you can and cannot do,” “know the limits of your wisdom,” “know your own faults,” and “know you are human and mortal.” However, one sense of the phrase, appearing frequently in Plato, magnifies the self: “know your own soul,” with a specific emphasis on knowing the divine nature of the human soul. 59 Indeed, Gunderson (2015); Williams (2012), 213-257; and Küppers (1996) discuss the Senecan sage with reference to Kantian sublimity. 60 Kant (1790/2007), 245. “Imagination” is a subset of “sensibility [Sinnlichkeit],” and is comprised of the synopsis and unification of sense perceptions, as well as the ability to recall or preempt them—see Caygill (1995), 246-249 for a concise definition of this term. For a more detailed explanation of the function of the imagination in the construction of knowledge, see Kneller (2007), Ayas (2015). 23 imaginative grasp of the world is supplemented by reason (Vernunft), which, unlike the imagination, can conceive of a phenomenon as a unifying totality. Though the failures of his imaginative capacities have initially stunted him, the subject’s identification with reason is an act of “extension”61 and “transcending,”62 constituting a dominant and expansive subjectivity. In the same way, the sublime Senecan subject is initially dwarfed by the magnitude of the universe, but he ultimately reasserts himself when he has fully identified with his own reason.

Furthermore, both Kantian and Senecan sublime rationality are defined by their ability to grasp an underlying coherence in phenomena.

Perhaps less obvious in its relation to the Senecan sublime is the centrality of affect to

Kant’s account. Indeed, the Kantian subject’s shift from diminution to self-assertion depends upon his cultivation of respect, admiration, and joy towards his own faculty of reason.63 Kant describes the interplay of imagination, affect, and reason thus:

“The feeling of our incapacity to attain to an idea that is a law for us, is respect (Achtung). Now the idea of the comprehension of any phenomenon whatever, that may be given us, in a whole of intuition, is an idea imposed upon us by a law of reason, which recognizes no definite, universally valid and unchangeable measure except the absolute whole.”64

When we apprehend nature, reason demands the comprehension of a totality, “the absolute whole.” In failing to fulfil this “law” set out by reason, either because of a phenomenon’s magnitude or its power, the subject experiences a feeling of “respect,” an affect that initially arises out of a recognition of our inabilities.

This self-abasement, however, ultimately yields to self-love: the subject’s faculty of reason has raised the possibility of grasping this underlying unity, and so the failures of the

61 Kant (1790/2007), 249. 62 Kant (1790/2007), 254. 63 For sublimity as an affect, see Brady (2012), 95; Matthews (1996), 175-8. For the importance of affect in Kant for the construction of a virtuous subject, see Sokoloff (2001), 770-773; Sensen (2012). 64 Kant (1790/2007), 252. 24 imagination only highlight the elevated standards of reason. Accordingly, Kant emphasizes that affects of respect are directed towards the subject’s own faculty of reason, which looms loftily above his imaginative capacities:

“But our imagination, even when taxing itself to the uttermost on the score of this required comprehension of a given object in a whole of intuition (and so with a view to the presentation of the idea of reason), betrays its limits and its inadequacy, but still, at the same time, its proper vocation of making itself adequate to the same as a law. Therefore the feeling of the sublime in nature is respect for our own vocation, which we attribute to an object of nature by a certain subreption (Erschleichung) (substitution of a respect for the object in place of one for the idea of humanity in our own self—the subject); and this feeling renders, as it were, intuitable the supremacy of our cognitive faculties on the rational side over the greatest faculty of sensibility.”65

The inability of the faculty of the imagination to meet the demands of reason only heightens the subject’s respect for reason, and for the imagination’s attempt at “making itself adequate” to these demands. Though the subject cannot grasp the phenomenon at hand as a coherent unity, reason points us to the possibility of understanding such a totality, and is thus admirable in itself—the “limits and inadequacy” of the imagination only highlight our rationally-induced efforts to push past this inadequacy and grasp something greater. We might experience this respect as if it is directed at an object of nature, but only through a process of “subreption,” which reinterprets our admiration for ourselves as an admiration for an external object.66 Kant further specifies that this respect for the self is accompanied by a feeling of joy:

“The feeling of the sublime is, therefore, at once a feeling of displeasure, arising from the inadequacy of imagination in the aesthetic estimation of magnitude to attain to its estimation by reason, and a simultaneously awakened pleasure, arising from this very judgement of the inadequacy of the greatest faculty of sense being in accord with ideas of reason.”67

Displeasure towards the failures of the subject’s imagination is accompanied by a “pleasure” in his powers of reason, which can comprehend staggering phenomena as a unified totality.

65 Kant (1790/2007), 252. 66 For the orientation of Kantian sublime feelings towards the self, see Wellmon (2009); Brady (2012), 92-5; Crawford (1985), 170; Budd (2003), 121. 67 Kant (1790/2007), 252. 25 This rootedness of sublimity in affect is all the more striking in light of Kant’s negative view of most feelings. In garnering respect and joy, reason cultivates a unique type of affect, analogous to our more mundane feelings in its strong emotional charge but different in its move away from the sensory world. Kant draws the following distinction: “Hence charms are also incompatible with [sublimity]… the delight in the sublime does not so much involve positive pleasure as admiration or respect.”68 “Charms” and “positive pleasure” are the affects that constitute the subject rooted in his imagination; sublime feelings involve a shift away from these sorts of superficial pleasures. Indeed, “the sublime is what pleases immediately through its resistance to the interest of the senses.”69 Sublime admiration pushes away from the sensory world and towards a rational subjectivity.70 The ability of certain uniquely sublime affects to activate our faculty of reason emerges clearly from Kant’s characterization of sublimity as a

“movement [Bewegung] of the mind,” as opposed to beauty, which leaves the mind “in restful contemplation, and preserves it in this state.”71 Motion of the mind entails both an emotional turbulence (as opposed to “restful contemplation”) and an ensuing shift (as opposed to

“preserv[ation]”) from the subject’s imaginative faculty to his rational one, the object of his admiration. In the case of sublimity, “e-motion” becomes an opportunity to “move out of” our sensory imagination and towards the ideals set forth by reason.

Opposed to the feelings of the imaginative sphere on the one hand, reason is ultimately triggered and nurtured by a particular set of affects. These sublime affects are specular and self- perpetuating. The subject’s admiration for his own faculty of reason causes him to identify more

68 Kant (1790/2007), 244-5. 69 Kant (1790/2007), 267. 70 For the contrast between sensory pleasure and the “disinterested pleasure” of sublimity, see Matthews (1996), 166-7. Jane Bennett (2001), 136 expresses skepticism that sublime pleasures could be as distinct from sensory affects as Kant wants them to be: “Once again, we find Kant asserting that nonsomatic feelings (perplexity, sublimity, exaltation) have the power to awaken nonsomatic (moral) sentiments. But, do these nether-creatures also participate in the somatic natures they are supposed to govern? Is Kant here darkly acknowledging the affective dimension of ethics?” 71 Kant (1790/2007), 247. 26 strongly with this faculty, disregarding his faculty of imagination, rooted in sensory perception.

The rational self thus emerges as both the subject and object of sublime admiration: a rational subject gazes in wonder at his own faculty of reason. Though natural phenomena may have triggered this sublime state, they are ultimately elided and made irrelevant in the face of specular self-love.

Does Senecan sublime viewership, like its Kantian counterpart, take as its object the subject himself, rather than an objective and external universe? This broad guiding question could be asked in various ways, of which I explore two, the first affective and the second ontological. First of all, do the feelings of delight, wonder, and enchantment that follow from the sublime subject-position derive from the cosmic viewer’s own faculty of reason, or from an external cosmos?

I will argue that the sublime affects of the Senecan sage follow a Kantian reflexive trajectory: in debasing his earthly subjectivity and identifying with his rational mind, the wise man expresses enchantment and delight in the face of his newfound, rational subjectivity. I focus my analysis on the prefaces to Books 3 and 1, which overtly treat the sublime position of the idealized Senecan sage.72 First of all, I argue that sublime feelings of wonder and joy towards the cosmos are essentially appropriative: by feeling positive affective investments towards the universe, the sublime subject subsumes the universe into his own sense of self.

Next, I argue that, because these positive affects facilitate the subsumption of the cosmos into the individual, much of the wonder of the cosmic viewer, which we might expect to be directed outwards to the cosmos, is actually directed towards the subject himself. The sublime subject’s

72 Limburg (2007), 18; Codoñer (1989), 1812-4. Though these passages are essential to understanding the nature of the Senecan sage, many other passages in the Natural Questions fall short of this idealized position. When approaching Seneca’s characterization of the cosmic viewer, I will not treat the prefaces to Books 3 and 1 as lenses through which to read the rest of the work, imposing their moral tenets widely. Rather, I will treat them as constituting one of a number of narrative voices, which, though it is more prominently placed than the others, should not necessarily drown the others out. 27 delight finds its way back to its source, making of the cosmos a mirror in which the sage learns to recognize himself as a beautiful object.73

The reflexivity of Senecan sublime affects, which latch onto an individual’s faculty of reason rather than an external rational order, raises the question of whether pervasive cosmic logos exists independently of the Senecan sage at all. For Kant, the inward trajectory of sublime affect is a symptom of the fact that there simply is no rational order outside of our minds. The sense of purpose which, from the sublime perspective, suffuses the universe,

“gives on the whole no indication of anything purposive in nature itself, but only in the possible employment of our intuitions of it in inducing a feeling in our own selves of a purposiveness quite independent of nature.”74

For Kant, while we may perceive an external “purposiveness” in the world around us, this purpose is a construct of our own “intuitions.” This brings us to the ontological version of our guiding question: does the affective reflexivity of Senecan sublimity trouble the ontological status of reason outside the individual? Is the order of the universe merely a projection of the order within the sage’s mind? I do not intend to claim that the reflexivity of Senecan wonder fully upends the existence of cosmic logos, as Kantian wonder does. However, the specular wonder that pervades the cosmic prefaces does color our engagement with this external reality.75

In order to probe the relationship between affect and ontology, I will draw upon Seneca’s treatment of Hostius Quadra, a character whose delight in his own mirror image raises explicit

73 The aesthetic beauty of the virtuous soul of the sage was an established idea in Stoic philosophy, with origins in Plato: see Bett (2010), 130-4. This chapter explores not only the objective beauty of the virtuous soul, but the affective and subjective process by which the virtuous subject comes to recognize his own beauty. 74 Kant (2007), 246. 75 Though she addresses Senecan interiority without specifically discussing affect, Bartsch (2006), 248 similarly claims that Seneca’s characterization of the self calls into question the ontology of an exterior world: “We have to acknowledge that the slipperiness of the terminology of I and you, as well as the self-contained nature of the dialoguing self in the meditatio, at least attenuates the sense that any objective world order exists outside the self. Theory aside, Stoic logos is an ephemeral form of the outside world. It is not insignificant that in Senecan drama, nature or logos tends to reflect the turmoil of the protagonists’ souls rather than vice versa.” 28 ontological questions. What can this monstrous character teach us about the ontological implications of specular wonder?

Wonder and Delight as Appropriative Affects

In the preface to Book 1, Seneca articulates the mechanism whereby the sublime subject comes to identify with the cosmos: the joy he takes in the rational order of the universe helps him to understand that this cosmic rationality is equivalent to his own faculty of reason. We will recall the following image of the sublime viewer from a passage cited earlier in this chapter: cum illa tetigit, alitur, crescit, uelut uinculis liberatus in originem redit, et hoc habet argumentum diuinitatis suae quod illum diuina delectant, nec ut alienis sed ut suis interest

(“When it has touched upon these regions, it is nourished, it grows, and, as if liberated from its chains, it returns to its origin, and it has this proof of its own divinity, that divine things please it, and it takes part in them not as something separate, but as a part of itself,” Nat. 1. Praef. 12).

The sublime viewer’s delight in the divine serves as proof that this divinity belongs to him and defines his subject-position—his positive affect allows him to appropriate this cosmic logos, so that he may engage it as a part of himself rather than as something external.

This passage exemplifies the central role of affect in the creation of the subject. When I first cited this passage in the introduction to this chapter, I appealed to the related notions of apospasma and sympatheia, which posit that human and divine reason are one and the same; physics, rather than affect, accounts for the ontological equivalence of human and divine rationality. Regardless of objective ontology, however, Seneca does not take it for granted that our subjective sense of self should coexist with this external rational order: an individual could relate to divine things “as something separate” or “as a part of itself.”76 Though humans are a

76 I am interpreting ut here according to definition 11 in the OLD (“in conformity or accordance with that which or the way in which, as”), or perhaps definition 10 (“on the grounds of being, as being”). The argument could be made that ut means “because” rather than “as,” in line with definition 21 in the OLD [(causal) “as may (might) be expected from the fact that”]. The latter translation of ut would be appropriate for ut suis (“because they are its 29 part of the rational order of the cosmos, they may perceive the boundaries of their selves in a variety of ways. It is affect that aligns subjective understanding with objective, physical truth.

Accordingly, we might read the verb habet in the first half of the sentence in two ways, as “has” and as “considers:” the phrase hoc habet argumentum diuinitatis suae means both, “he has this

(objective) proof of his own divinity” and “he (subjectively) considers this to be proof of his own divinity.” Delighted affect ensures that these two meanings coexist, since it makes the subject intimately aware of an external fact. By facilitating the sublime sage’s subjective identification with this objective truth, delight paves the way for proprioception.77

The sage’s identification with the cosmos further serves to reinforce his interest in it. In the passage that immediately follows, Seneca describes:

[Animus] secure spectat occasus siderum atque ortus et tam diuersas concordantium uias; obseruat ubi quaeque stella primum terris lumen ostendat, ubi columen eius [summum cursus] sit, quousque descendat. curiosus spectator excutit singula et quaerit. quidni quaerat? scit illa ad se pertinere.

“Peacefully [the mind] watches the settings and risings of stars, and their orbits, which vary so much, yet ultimately return to the same position; it observes where each star first shows its light to the earth, where the highest peak of its course lies, and to what point it descends. A curious spectator, it examines each and every thing, and investigates these things. Why would it not investigate them? It knows that these things pertain to it.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 12)

own”), but it seems to me that the opposition with ut alienis rules out this translation of ut— I cannot think of a reason why someone would relate to these things “because they are someone else’s.” See also Corcoran’s translation: “it dwells among them not as being alien things but things of its own nature” [Corcoran (1971-1972), vol. 1, 11]. 77 As Beniston (2017), 70 points out, this passage heavily echoes the language of Stoic oikeiosis, or the idea that we are born with a natural sense of self-preservation, and that ethical action comes from learning to view and relate to others as part of ourselves. Seneca discusses this idea at Ep. 121, and other accounts of the Stoic position can be found at D.L. 7.85-6 (=SVF 3.178, apparently drawing upon Chrysippus); Cic. Fin. 3.16-23; Plutarch, Stoic. Rep. 1038c (=SVF 1.197). For a survey of the primary evidence concerning oikeiosis, see Pembroke (1971); for a comprehensive discussion of scholarship on the topic, see Klein (2016). Indeed, the end goal of oikeiosis seems to have been the subsumption of the entire cosmos into the realm of self-interest [see Beniston (2017), 62; Vogt (2008), 313], a process which might seem to be at work here. Interestingly for this chapter, oikeiosis garnered criticism from Platonist opponents of Stoicism because it represented a fundamentally “partial, ‘first-person,’ and therefore partisan perspective on the world” [Beniston (2017), 64]. See also Inwood (1984), 182-3, and the Platonist critique both Beniston and Inwood draw upon: Anon. in Tht. col. V.18-VI.16. I agree with Beniston that Seneca’s description at Nat. 1. Praef. 12 rewrites the process of oikeiosis to eliminate the “partial” nature of its “perspective on the world,” attributing to the sage a wide-ranging gaze; however, the “first-person” aspect of this perspective remains salient and central— the sage has attained a broader perspective not by escaping his subjectivity, but by expanding and nourishing his sense of self. 30 Though the adverb secure indicates that the soul does not feel any sharp or troubling emotions as it looks upon the universe, the spectatorship of the cosmic subject nevertheless does involve a mellow state of interested affective attachment. For example, the dissonance between the varied

(diuersus) courses of the stars, which nevertheless eventually return to their initial locations

(concordans),78 generates a sense of wonder, punctuated by the emphatic adverb tam. The period of time required for the stars to return to their initial locations is dizzyingly vast and wonder-inducing, as is the impossible notion that an individual person could “watch” this process.79 Furthermore, the mind is a curiosus spectator, invested and engaged in the sights before him—the lack of upsetting curae indicated by secure creates an opportunity for the pleasantly attached cura inherent to curiosus.80 This engagement characterizes the pursuit of scientific knowledge: the curious viewer excutit and quaerit. Kant has argued that sublime reason is generated from an affective “movement of the mind;” accordingly, we might read the verb excutit, which describes rational inquiry in vividly motile terms, in light of the affective context in which it appears: rational examination is undertaken by an affectively moved subject.

Seneca directly ties this invested inquiry into the cosmos to the personal identification of a subject who scit illa ad se pertinere. Thus, a subject’s affective attachment towards the universe and his personal identification with it amplify each other: the cosmic viewer may take his delighted affects as proof that he has a share in divine ratio, and this sense of kinship with the divine order further induces a sense of wonder at the cosmos.

78 For this meaning of the word concordans, see Paul. Fest. 131.28–29: Magnum annum dicunt mathematici, quo septem sidera errantia expletis propriis cursibus sibimet concordant (“Mathematicians call magnus annus the amount of time in which the seven planets, having completed their courses, return to their positions”). The notion of a magnus annus originates in Plato’s Timaeus (τέλεος ἐνιαυτός [“the perfect year”], Timaeus 39D) and recurs in the works of Cicero (N. D. 2.51; Rep. 6.24). For more on the magnus annus, see van der Sluijs (2006). Thanks to Jarrett Welsh for suggesting this interpretation of concordans, which is far more specific than most existing translations convey (e.g. “harmonious” [Hine (2010), 138]; “armoniosamente composte” [Parroni (2002), 15]). 79 According to Cic. Hort.fr. 35M, the magnus annus lasts about 13,000 years. See also Cic. Rep. 6.24: in quo vix dicere audeo quam multa saecla hominum teneantur (“I can hardly dare to say how many generations of men are contained in that amount of time”). 80 See Gunderson (2015), 69: “Carefree on the one hand, the soul does nevertheless have a curiosity born of a care- for-the-self: though divergent, securus and curiosus are yoked terms.” 31 The Enchanted Turn Towards the Self

Having identified himself with the cosmic order, the sublime subject feels an amazement towards the cosmos that often becomes muddled with an amazement towards his own self.81

Many of his expressions of wonder, which we might expect to project outwards, ultimately misfire, sliding back inwards. Of course, technically speaking, there is no distinction for the sage between an internal and an external rational order—an interest in the former is necessarily an interest in the latter.82 Nevertheless, despite this ontological fact, we intuitively and subjectively perceive a “sense of self” independently from our physical limits, as discussed above—it is this “sense of self” that receives Seneca’s rhetorical and affective emphasis.

Specifically, throughout these idealizing prefaces, where Seneca might be expected to marvel at the vast beauty of the cosmos, he instead delights in his subjective, intellectual efforts to grasp this cosmic order.

At the opening of Book 3 of the Natural Questions (likely the opening of the whole work), Seneca expresses regret that much of his long life has been squandered on unworthy concerns, but resolves despite his scanty remaining years to devote himself to higher pursuits.

He begins with the following words:

Non praeterit me, Lucili uirorum optime, quam magnarum rerum fundamenta ponam senex, qui mundum circumire constitui et causas secretaque eius eruere atque aliis noscenda prodere. quando tam multa consequar, tam sparsa colligam, tam occulta perspiciam?

“It does not escape me, Lucilius, best of men, what vast works I have undertaken as an old man; I have decided to encircle the world and uncover its causes and its secrets,

81 The idea that the Senecan subject views himself a beautiful aesthetic object has its roots in Foucault (1984/1986). Foucault’s theories have attracted much criticism—see Hadot (1995), 211; Nussbaum (1994), 353—and I view my project as fundamentally different in focus from Foucault’s—see n. 3 above. Nevertheless, I agree with Foucault’s emphasis on the aesthetic beauty of the self, contra arguments that “[the sage’s] goal is to shape [the soul] into a model of divine reason rather than into an object of aesthetic pleasure” [Bartsch (2009), 209]. I believe that divine reason is deeply enmeshed with aesthetic pleasure in Seneca’s works. 82 And so, on an ontological level, I agree with Reydams-Schils (2005a), 41: “Seneca’s injunctions in the preface [to Book 3] do not lead away from the study of nature, because ‘having a mind free for itself’ (2) is an entirely different matter from being narcissistically engrossed in or enslaved to (17) oneself. Rather, his emphasis on the mind’s freedom only serves to increase the value of this field of inquiry.” 32 passing them on to others to be learned. When will I pursue so much material, when will I gather together such scattered topics, when will I understand such obscure things?” (Nat. 3. Praef. 1)

Like many Latin authors,83 Seneca opens his work with a self-deprecating expression of trepidation in the face of an ambitious project: quam magnarum rerum fundamenta ponam senex. Seneca’s inadequacy for the task at hand is defined by his old age, a physical and distinctly worldly constraint. Though Seneca expresses doubt over his ability to achieve this undertaking given his physical limitations, his task—and his ambitious efforts to fulfill it— garner a sense of wonder. Adverbs such as quam and the repeated tam… tam… tam imply amazed fixation. To a certain extent, of course, Seneca’s amazement is directed at the cosmos itself, which is vast, varied, and full of secrets.84 However, these wondrous features appear all the more striking when placed in the context of our narrator’s impending efforts: he intends to gather together the disjointed and shed light upon the obscure. The tension between Seneca’s attempt to unify and clarify, and his subject matter, which is complex and difficult, garners its own enchantment. Seneca uses the phrase sparsa colligere to describe the intellectual process of explaining natural causes; as Trinacty points out, this very phrase also appears in Ep. 65.19, where it describes god’s unification of the world through divine reason: non quaeram quis sit istius artifex mundi… quis sparsa collegerit (“I will not ask who is the creator of this world, who brought together such scattered things”).85 Seneca’s scholarly attempts at understanding the divine order are so ambitious and all-encompassing as to mimic god’s creation of the divine order itself. Thus, the weakness of Seneca’s earthly self emerges as a foil for his wondrous

83 E.g. see Var. R. 1.1.1; Cic. N.D. 1.1, Fin. 1.1; Liv. Praef. 1; Plin. Nat., Praef. 6-7; Quint. Inst. 1. Praef. 3. 84 Trinacty (2018), 315-317 points out a number of verbal echoes in this passage to Ovid’s description of Pythagoras at Met. 15.65-72, arguing that these echoes set off a chain of sustained intertextual engagement with the Metamorphoses throughout Book 3 of the Natural Questions. Ovid explicitly describes the students who listen to Pythagoras’ discussion of natural causes as dictaque mirant[es] (“amazed at his words,” Met. 15.67)—Seneca’s text implicitly generates a similar sort of miratio. 85 See Trinacty (2019), ad loc. 33 efforts towards rational knowledge; Kant would label Seneca’s expression of wonder in this passage a “respect for our own vocation,” i.e., our “proper vocation of making [ourselves] adequate” to the demands of reason.86 In both authors, inadequacies rooted in the physical world garner a sense of amazement towards what we will have become when, unfettered by our earthly bodies, we invest in our faculties of reason.

Because he has undertaken an ambitious task, Seneca resolves to dedicate all his resources to his academic pursuits: tanto magis urgeamus et damna aetatis male exemptae labor sarciat… sibi totus animus uacet, et ad contemplationem sui saltim in ipso fine respiciat (“let me push myself all the more, and let my work redeem the losses of a misspent life… let my entire mind be free for itself, and, finally, at the very end, let it look back in contemplation of itself,” Nat. 3. Praef. 2). Here, the viewership of the cosmic subject is entirely reflexive.87 In fleeing the constraints of his earthly life, the sublime subject turns towards himself, as emphasized by the repetition of the pronoun sibi… sui. Seneca’s earthly subjectivity falls away along with the damna aetatis male exemptae, but his new subjectivity, built upon worthier concerns, becomes the primary object of his attention.

Ultimately, Seneca exhorts himself:

Nunc uero ad rem seriam, grauem, inmensam postmeridianis horis accessimus… festinemus, et opus nescio an superabile, magnum certe, sine aetatis excusatione tractemus. crescit animus quotiens coepti magnitudinem aspexit, et cogitat quantum proposito, non quantum sibi supersit

“Now I have come in the evening of my life to a matter that is serious, ponderous, and immense. Let me hurry and, without the excuse of old age, treat an undertaking which is probably insurmountable,88 but which is certainly grand. My mind grows whenever it gazes at the magnitude of what it has begun, and when it considers how much remains of its purpose, not how much remains of its own life.” (Nat. 3. Praef. 3-4)

86 Kant (1790/2007), 252. 87 For Seneca’s use of reflexive pronouns as a distinctive literary innovation, see Cancik (1998), 343. For his cultivation of an interior space through these pronouns, see Bartsch (2006), 246-7. 88 For this translation of nescio an, see Kroll (1911); Trinacty (2019), ad loc. 34 The newly attained sublimity of the cosmic sage is accompanied by an expression of wonder at an object of unusual scope (inmensa, magnum, and magnitudo). The first object of Seneca’s admiration is the res before him. While res on its own could theoretically refer either directly to the cosmos89 or to the narrator’s own efforts to learn about the cosmos,90 the words seria and grauis confirm the latter possibility: the process of studying nature, rather than nature itself, could most fittingly be described as “serious” and “ponderous.” Seneca often uses the word inmensus to describe the heavens themselves;91 its application here to Seneca’s effort to understand nature serves to carry the enchanting vastness of the external world onto the individual’s internal learning process. The next two objects whose magnitude Seneca exalts, his opus92 and his coeptum, clearly refer not to the universe but to the narrator’s own subjective attempt to grasp it. Thus, Seneca does not directly express amazement towards the magnitude of the cosmic logos, which is his object of study here. Presumably, this undertaking is massive because of the vastness of the cosmos, but this heavenly expanse itself is not mentioned in this passage; the magnitude of Seneca’s subjective effort has eclipsed the external object of his efforts.

Furthermore, in the above passage, Seneca contrasts the feelings garnered by his earthly and his sublime subjectivities. The narrator devalues the contemplation of quantum sibi supersit, in comparison to quantum proposito [supersit]. Williams interprets this disregard of se in favor of propositum as a part of the narrator’s transcendent endeavor to “see the world for itself, and

89 This meaning of res would refer to an object external to the individual, reflecting the third definition of res listed in the OLD: “that which can be conceived as a separate entity (in a concrete or abstract sense), any object of imagination or experience, a thing.” 90 In this case, Seneca would employ the twelfth sense of res listed in the OLD, “a purpose, object.” 91 E.g. see Nat. 7.1.2; 7.14.3; 7.15.2. See also Trinacty (2019), ad loc. 92 The word opus is used repeatedly throughout the Natural Questions to refer to the universe (as the work of god): see Nat. 1. Praef. 13; 2.45.5. See Gunderson (2015), 66 for a discussion of this use of opus. Here, however, opus refers to Seneca’s own project (as indicated by the qualification nescio an superabile) — again, the language of the universal and the subjective bleed together. 35 no longer for ourselves;”93 that is, he reads it as a turn away from the self. However, in the context of Seneca’s doubts about his ability to achieve his scholarly ambitions in his old age, the phrase sibi supersit must refer specifically to the amount of time left in the narrator’s lifetime. I therefore take the disinterest in quantum sibi supersit as a renouncement of Seneca’s earthly subjectivity, bound by such bodily concerns as age. However, the subject’s propositum, his new object of attention, remains lodged within himself—it refers indirectly to the external cosmos, but is still formulated as a “task,” couched in the perspective of the subject who means to complete it; it is simply a nobler part of the self, favored by Seneca over and above such trivial concerns as age. The distinction here is between a sublime subject focused upon his own work and a compromised subject worried about his own age; both are fixated upon themselves, but in different ways. Indeed, the narrator’s mind “grows” when faced with his task—his subjectivity ultimately expands rather than fading into insignificance. Again, Kant’s account of sublime wonder arising out of the attempt to meet the lofty demands of reason might help us account for this “growth”—the effort of grasping a totality is itself worthy of enchanted affect and reinforces the exalted and noble subjectivity of the person who has undertaken this task.

In foregrounding the wondrous mental labors of the student of science, Seneca stands in tension to a number of his fellow Stoics. In her discussion of sympatheia, Holmes argues that many authors treat the all-encompassing order of the cosmos as obvious and self-evident; in this way, “the conceptual labor required to sense sympathy is strategically obscured by the Stoics’ invocation of a world coordinated in its becomings as uncontroversially manifest.”94 For

Holmes, this obfuscation of the subject’s “conceptual labor” serves to smooth over a “tension” in Stoicism between “an expansive community of mostly non-humans and the exceptionalism of

93 Hadot in Williams (2012), 33. 94 Holmes (2019), 246. See S.E. M. 9.79; Cic. N.D. 2.19. 36 the human.”95 In other words, it is difficult to square the Stoic exaltation of the human mind with the idea that humans are, as Seneca puts it, merely miniscule ants in a vast, interconnected cosmos. By claiming that the order of the cosmos is evident in material objects, Stoic authors downplay the role of the human mind and root themselves in the material world, thus sidestepping these tensions. Seneca, on the other hand, shines a rhetorical spotlight on our subjective efforts to “collect” the disparate elements of the cosmos and construe them as one

(tam sparsa colligere). He directs most of his feelings of wonder and enchantment towards the very process of intellectual inquiry. In doing so, he reverses the process Holmes describes: rather than stripping the universe of subjectivity and grounding himself in pure materiality,

Seneca focuses his attention onto human subjectivity at the expense of empirical details.

Like Book 3, Book 1 of the Natural Questions establishes the cosmic subject as an aesthetic object, attracting much of the enchantment we might expect to be directed at the external universe. While describing the perspective of the sage, the narrator often reads an aesthetic into the cosmos, expressing wonder and delight towards a certain beauty inherent to its order.96 The preface to Book 1 begins by asserting the philosophical primacy of metaphysics— quid agatur in caelo (“what occurs in heaven,” Nat. 1. Praef. 2)—over ethics—quid in terris agendum sit (“what ought to be done on earth,” Nat. 1. Praef. 2). This primacy is couched in aesthetic terms: metaphysics is the superior branch of philosophy at least in part because maius esse quiddam suspicata est ac pulchrius quod extra conspectum natura posuisset (“it has supposed that there is something greater and more beautiful which nature has placed beyond our gaze,” Nat. 1. Praef. 1).97 The search to transcend outer appearances and grasp the underlying logic of the cosmos is also a search for aesthetic pleasure.

95 Holmes (2019), 244. 96 On the aesthetics of nature, see Faggin (1967); Solimano (1991); Setaioli (2007a); Gunderson (2015), 62: “Nature is a master stylist, and she knows it.” 97 See also Nat. 6.4.2: Quod, inquis, erit pretium operae? Quo nullum maius est, nosse naturam. Neque enim 37 However, this aesthetic pleasure is not limited to the object of metaphysics, i.e. the external cosmos; the discipline of metaphysics, rooted in human agents, itself generates its own sense of wonder. As Seneca describes it, altior est haec et animosior (“this [branch of philosophy] is loftier and more noble,” Nat. 1. Praef. 1). The towering heights (altus) of metaphysics parallel the heights of heaven itself—similarly to the opus and coeptum discussed above, haec pars philosophiae takes on the wonderful attributes of its object. This time, Seneca underscores the fact that the new object of our wonder is lodged within a human subject: he yokes the word altus to animosus, which denotes markedly human intrepid courage, and which is etymologically related to animus. The loftiness of metaphysics does not occur despite or independently from its origins in a human subject; rather, its height and its humanity are inextricably linked. Furthermore, animosus is a pointedly affective term, emphasizing the

“spiritedness” of the human spirit. While the term altus paints metaphysics as a beautiful object worthy of enchanted affect, animosus underlines metaphysics as the site of active affective zeal in pursuit of this enchantment. The phrase altior… et animosior thus encapsulates the reflexive nature of wonder in a subject who marvels at himself: metaphysics emerges as both beautiful object and passionate subject.

Seneca’s next affectively charged case for metaphysics similarly directs its enchantment towards the subject studying the cosmos, rather than towards the cosmos itself. Seneca suggests that even the effort to overcome one’s passions is a mean and lowly endeavor compared to the investigation of theological questions:

quicquam habet in se huius materiae tractatio pulchrius, cum multa habeat futura usui, quam quod hominem magnificentia sui detinet nec mercede sed miraculo colitur (“What, you ask, will be the reward for this work? The thing than which nothing is greater: to know nature. For the discussion of this topic has nothing more beautiful in itself, although it has many things that may be of use, than the fact that it involves men in its magnificence, and it is cultivated not for profit but for its inherent wonder”). Inwood (2009), 213 cites this passage as evidence that Stoic thinkers do not justify the study of physics solely because of its instrumental value for ethics, but rather that inquiries into nature have an intrinsic value. I want to underline that this intrinsic value is articulated in highly aesthetic (pulchrius) and affective (miraculo) terms.

38 O quam contempta res est homo nisi supra humana surrexerit! quamdiu cum adfectibus conluctamur, quid magnifici facimus, etiamsi superiores sumus? portenta uincimus: quid est, cur suspiciamus nosmet ipsos quia dissimiles deterrimis sumus? non uideo quare sibi placeat qui robustior est ualetudinario.

“What a contemptible thing man is, unless he has risen above human concerns! As long as we fight with our emotions, what splendid thing do we achieve, even if we emerge victorious? We conquer monsters: what reason is there for us to admire ourselves, simply because we are different from degenerates? I see no reason why someone should be pleased with himself, because he is stronger than the others in a hospital.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 5)

First of all, this passage marks the repression of emotion as beside-the-point. Seneca does not imply that a person must overcome his passions before attaining sublimity—the conditional etiamsi superiores sumus suggests that our ability to achieve apathy is irrelevant to the lofty state that Seneca describes. Indeed, in eschewing the ethical goal of affective flattening, Seneca lays out a decidedly affectively and aesthetically charged purpose for the student of metaphysics. The sublime subject will achieve something “splendid” (magnificum), he admires himself (suspiciamus nosmet ipsos), and he is pleased with himself (sibi placeat).98 Not only does the disregard of ethical concerns open the subject to a sense of enchantment and affective attachment, but these pleasant feelings are directed towards himself. 99

Furthermore, the phrase suspiciamus nosmet ipsos echoes the passage quoted above, in which Seneca claimed that the penetrating gaze of philosophy can witness (suspicata est) invisible phenomena. The similarity between the two words implies some level of equivalence

98 For joyful affect as the aim of a student of metaphysics, see also a passage slightly preceding this one: Nisi ad haec admitterer, non fuerat operae pretium nasci. quid enim erat cur in numero uiuentium me positum esse gauderem? (“if I had not been admitted to the study of these questions, it would not have been worthwhile to be born. What reason would there have been for me to rejoice to have been placed in the ranks of the living?” Nat. 1. Praef. 4). 99 According to Parroni (2002), 480-481, this passage echoes the proem to Book 5 of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, in which the monsters overcome by Hercules appear paltry and trifling compared to the monsters we must overcome within ourselves (i.e. the passions). If this Senecan passage indeed recalls Lucretius,’ it does so only to refuse to engage in a repression of affects, a practice which Lucretius exemplifies, preferring instead an attitude of admiration towards the self. 39 between grasping the cosmos and grasping the self,100 an equivalence reinforced by its etymological origin, sub-specio: the sage gazes upwards at himself in the same way that he might look upwards at the heavens. However, suspicata est derives from suspicor and primarily means “imagine,” whereas suspiciamus derives from suspicio, which can also carry the affective connotations of “admire”101— when directed towards himself, the penetrating gaze of the sage is rewritten with an affective undercurrent. Furthermore, though the context of cur suspiciamus nosmet ipsos implies the sense of “admire” in this case, both suspicor and suspicio can also mean “to look askance” or “mistrust.”102 Given the two forms of subjectivity at play in this passage, we might read two accordingly divergent senses of suspicere: metaphysics serves as a way of both “admiring our (sublime) selves” and “mistrusting our (earthly) selves.” The metaphysical efforts of the sublime subject are meant to push beyond human subjectivity qua contempta res, that is, as defined by earthly concerns; nevertheless, the cosmic perspective is defined with reference towards the self, and, in particular, with reference to a joyous sense of attachment towards the self.

The paragraphs that follow similarly denigrate mundane subjectivity in favor of an aesthetically beautiful and striking sublime self. Continuing to emphasize the superiority of metaphysics over ethics, Seneca acknowledges that Lucilius has managed to avoid such vices as greed, luxury, and ambition, but that nihil adhuc consecutus es: multa effugisti, te nondum (“you have achieved nothing so far; you have escaped many things, but not yourself,” Nat. 1. Praef.

6). While a dedicated Stoic proficiens might transcend his vices, the truly sublime individual

100 See also Ep. 41.3, where the spectacle of nature induces quaedam religionis suspicio (“a certain inkling of religious awe”) in its viewers. 101 See definition 1 of suspicor in the OLD: “to form an idea of, guess, imagine;” and definition 2 of suspicio in the OLD: “to look up to, admire, esteem.” 102 See definition 3 of suspicor in the OLD: “to believe (a person) guilty of an offence, suspect; (app. also) to be suspicious of, mistrust;” and definition 3 of suspicio in the OLD: “to regard with mistrust, be suspicious of.” 40 will transcend his own subject position. At the same time, Seneca’s description of the cosmic subject is tinged with wonder towards his own virtue:

Virtus enim ista quam adfectamus magnifica est non quia per se beatum est malo caruisse, sed quia animum laxat et praeparat ad cognitionem caelestium, dignumque efficit qui in consortium deo ueniat.

“That virtue which we strive towards is majestic not because to be free of evil is a magnificent thing in and of itself, but because it relaxes the soul and prepares it for knowledge of heavenly things, and it makes it worthy to come into contact with god.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 6)

This quotation points towards the importance of grasping vast and transcendent entities, namely, caelestia and deus, which we might presume to exist outside the subject, especially given the previous injunction to flee oneself. However, the valence of the narrator’s affective attachments betrays an interest in the cosmic spectator rather than in God or heavenly things themselves. He refers to virtus as magnifica, expressing enchantment towards the ethical faculties of the individual. Furthermore, Seneca attributes the source of this magnificence to virtue’s ability to positively change the soul (animus), which serves as the direct object for the three actions performed by virtue (laxare, praeparare, efficere). The magnificence described here thus derives from an individual turning toward himself, his ethical faculties cultivating his own soul.

Of course, the knowledge of spiritual entities outside the individual remain the individual’s aim in this passage; however, caelestia and deus, neither of which are described in affective terms here, and both of which serve ancillary and indirect grammatical roles, are to a certain extent overshadowed by an enchanting care of the self.

In the previous section of this chapter, I discussed two cases in the preface to Book 1 in which the sage harnesses delight as a mechanism for identification with the cosmos. The third explicit expression of delight in the preface to Book 1 short-circuits the cosmos, aiming completely at the subject himself. When someone has attained knowledge of the entire world, tunc iuuat inter ipsa sidera uagantem diuitum pauimenta ridere et totam cum auro suo terram 41 (“then, as he wanders among the very stars, he delights in laughing at the paved floors of wealthy men, and at the whole earth, with its gold,” Nat. 1. Praef. 7). Here, the cosmic viewer experiences two affective layers: first, he feels detached contempt towards the material world, evidenced by his scornful laughter (ridere). This laughter is directed at insignificant human concerns, such as gold and lavish homes, and is thus emblematic of the sublime subject’s lofty position in the cosmos as he roams through the stars. Second, the cosmic viewer “delights”

(iuvare) at this very laughter. Unlike the previous two examples of cosmic delight, this joy does not facilitate the sublime subject’s identification with a vast rational order. Rather, it is elicited directly by the subject’s sublime position within the cosmos, which allows him to ridicule earthly concerns. Thus, once the cosmic subject has attained sublimity, the ultimate object of his delight is not the cosmos itself, but his own place within it.

Williams argues that the Natural Questions is unique among ancient meteorological treatises in its interiorizing approach. Seneca foregrounds the primary importance of an epistemological shift within the subject, who must learn to expand his own scope of vision before accumulating knowledge about the outside world: “the Senecan viewer first collects himself before collecting the world, retraining his perspective so as to engage with the cosmic immensity.”103 I agree with Williams on the pervasiveness in the Natural Questions of an interiorizing care of the self, reflecting Seneca’s “highly personal concept of knowledge.”104 In my view, however, the valence of the narrator’s affects, which tend to swerve back towards the subject himself, calls into question whether Seneca’s attention towards the self ever truly progresses towards an external “engage[ment] with the cosmic immensity.” Williams takes this external engagement as the teleology to which all interior changes are geared, but the narrator’s

103 Williams (2012), 29. 104 Williams (2012), 41. 42 delight and wonder towards himself raises the possibility that the self has eclipsed any external objects of study. The enchanted wise man prefers to marvel at his own faculty of reason.

Ratio as a Marvelous Measuring-Stick

What is the significance of this solipsistic wonder? A passage near the end of the preface to Book 1 raises the stakes of reflexive marveling and begins to hint towards its ontological implications. Throughout this preface, Seneca has impressed upon us the importance of accurately measuring god and the cosmos. The cosmic viewpoint depends upon a correct evaluation of the ingentia spatia (“immense spaces,” Nat. 1. Praef. 11) of heaven, as compared to the exigui mensura corpusculi (“size of a tiny little body,” Nat. 1. Praef. 10) of ants and men, a numerical comparison which is sometimes phrased in concretely mathematical terms.105 In his most explicit articulation of this tendency, Seneca defends the value of his scientific inquiry by appealing to the importance of accurate measurement: ‘quid tibi’ inquis ‘ista proderunt?’ si nihil aliud, hoc certe: sciam omnia angusta esse mensus deum (“‘How will these studies benefit you?’ you ask. If nothing else, at least this: I will know that everything is small when I have measured god,” Nat. 1. Praef. 17). In fact, the word ratio in its most literal sense refers to numerical reckoning—in fully developing his faculty of reason, the wise man has refined his ability to account for the world around him accurately.106

But how exactly should the cosmic viewer go about measuring god? According to

Seneca, sic demum magnitudo illi sua redditur, qua nihil maius cogitari potest, si solus est omnia, si opus suum et intra et extra tenet (“Only in this way is he given credit for his magnitude, than which nothing greater can be imagined: if he alone is everything, if he oversees

105 E.g. see Nat. 1 Praef. 13: quantum est enim quod ab ultimis litoribus Hispaniae usque ad Indos iacet? paucissimorum dierum spatium, si nauem suus ferat uentus. at illa regio caelestis per triginta annos uelocissimo sideri uiam praestat nusquam resistenti sed aequaliter cito (“How much space is there from the farthest shores of Spain all the way to India? A few days’ travel, if favorable wind backs the ship. But that heavenly region provides a thirty-year journey, even for the fastest star, which never stops but remains equally swift”). 106 For ratio as philosophical bookkeeping in Seneca’s letters, see Taoka (2007), 90-107. 43 his creation both from within and from without,” Nat. 1. Praef. 13). Seneca describes the vastness of god with reference to the limits of the human mind. The phrase qua nihil maius cogitari potest serves as both a justification and an apology for the subsequent assessment of the god as a totality (solus est omnia). On the one hand, our inability to conceive of any greater measurement accentuates the vastness of an all-encompassing divinity. On the other hand, this assessment is a foregone conclusion: if god were greater than Seneca’s estimation, we would have no way of conceiving of his magnitude, because we cannot picture anything beyond totus.

Our only way of measuring god is with reference to the human mind—ratio becomes not only the ability to measure correctly, but also the unit of measurement. We will recall that Kant’s conception of sublimity ultimately excluded external natural phenomena altogether, precisely because these phenomena were too small to measure the enormity of reason; sublime rationality

“is a greatness comparable to itself alone,”107 and thus must serve as its own point of reference.

A similar mathematical solipsism defines the relationship of the Senecan subject to the universe.

Immediately following the above passage, we see ratio in action, functioning as a unit of measurement for the cosmos. In this quasi-polemical passage, Seneca begins by defending the idea that both the cosmos and our minds are rationally ordered:

Quid ergo interest inter naturam dei et nostram? nostri melior pars animus est, in illo nulla pars extra animum est. totus est ratio, cum interim tantus error mortalia tenet ut hoc quo neque formosius est quicquam nec dispositius nec in proposito constantius existiment homines fortuitum et casu uolubile, ideoque tumultuosum, inter fulmina nubes tempestates et cetera quibus terrae ac terris uicina pulsantur.

“What, then, is the difference between god’s nature and ours? The better part of us is the mind; in him there is no part besides the mind. He is entirely reason, although all the while such an error grips the mortal world that men believe that this thing, than which nothing is more beautiful, or well-arranged, or secure in its plan, is random and subject to chance, and thus turbulent in the midst of lightning bolts, clouds, storms, and all the other things by which the earth and the things close to the earth are lashed.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 14)

107 Kant (1790/2007), 250. 44 The quotation begins with the primacy of cosmic logos. Ratio and animus, which here appear to be used interchangeably, constitute a superior but only partial element of the human mind, whereas god is entirely pervaded with this logic. In the face of obtuse and misguided mortals who fail to recognize this logic, Seneca appeals to beauty. First, he describes the world as formosus, a purely aesthetic term. Then he uses the participle dispositus; in the sense of

“arranged,” this word points towards an intended logic behind the universe and thus carries metaphysical implications. However, dispositus can also mean “well-arranged” or “orderly,”108 hinting towards aesthetic beauty while also making this metaphysical claim. Finally, Seneca describes the world as in proposito constans, establishing the unwavering intentionality of cosmic logic without appealing to strong aesthetic connotations. Thus, Seneca enacts a gradual slip from aesthetic beauty to metaphysics: what begins as a glimmer of enchantment towards the universe’s charm becomes knowledge of its divine and pervasive logic. Of course, this verbal progression reflects Seneca’s larger argument in the passage, where men are ridiculed for believing that a beautiful world could ever be chaotic and random.109

But what about those who deny that the universe is beautiful in the first place?110 In order to convince them, Seneca calls upon the human mind as a measuring-stick to assess the ordered beauty of the cosmos:

sunt qui putent ipsis animum esse et quidem prouidum, dispensantem singula et sua et aliena, hoc autem uniuersum, in quo nos quoque sumus, expers consilii auferri temeritate quadam, aut natura nesciente quid faciat.

“There are some men who think that they themselves have a mind, and indeed a provident one, arranging each and every thing, both within itself and externally, but that this universe, in which we exist, has no plan, and is carried out with a certain randomness or without nature knowing what she is doing.” (Nat. 1. Praef. 15)

108 See definition 2 of dispositus in the OLD: “that is properly or regularly arranged or laid out.” 109 There is traditional Stoic precedent for the idea that a belief in god is founded in the beauty of the cosmos: see SVF 2.1009; Cic. N.D. 2.15. 110Seneca refers here to the Epicureans [Hine (2010), 209], whose mechanistic worldview opposes the Stoic idea of a divinely-ordered cosmos. See Lucr. 2.1052-1104; Cic. N.D. 1.18-23; Long and Sedley (1987), 63; Taub (2009), 109; Long (2006), 157-177. Sometimes the Epicurean argument is made on affective grounds: god’s peaceful serenity is incompatible with the troublesome business of arranging the world—see Cic. N.D. 1.52-3. 45

Here, just as before, the human mind takes on the attributes that rendered the cosmos beautiful in the previous passage, with the verb dispensare implying intentional ordering. According to

Seneca, this mental order should render obvious the existence of a cosmic order.

Throughout this chapter, I have argued that the narrator of the Natural Questions expresses wonder and admiration at the beauty of the sage’s soul, often describing the soul using terms which we might expect to be attributed to the universe and confounding the distinction between the two. Here, we see the beautiful arrangement of the mind serving as proof for the beautiful arrangement of the cosmos, which in turn is the basis for our belief in the rationality of the cosmos. The aesthetic of the mind and its permeable relationship with the wonders of the cosmos begin to have ontological implications: in this passage, our belief in the rationality of the universe has its basis in our perception of our subjective selves, rather than in an objective, external world. Of course, this passage alone is not enough to upend the ontology of the cosmic order. However, it does point towards a relationship between the affective and ontological questions I posed at the beginning of this chapter. Namely, Seneca suggests that our knowledge of an objective order is born from our subjective and affect-laden sense of self. In the following section, I will explore the implications of this relationship more explicitly.

Hostius Quadra and the Ontology of Delightful Images

At the beginning of this chapter, I raised two guiding questions, the second of which was: does the reflexivity of sublime affects, directed towards the self rather than the order of the cosmos, imply that such an external order does not exist? For Kant, the apparent order of the universe is merely a construct of our own rational minds. As we saw in the previous section, at the very least, the order we admire in our minds colors our understanding of the external cosmic order. Does this mean that the order of the universe is a chimerical projection of the sublime subject’s own rationality? I would not go so far as to make this claim. However, as a final note, I

46 will suggest that Seneca marks this very question as besides the point: irrespective of its ability to illuminate the external world, specular wonder is valuable in and of itself. The cosmos functions as a mirror that reveals subjective truths, regardless of whether it reveals objective ones.

In order to make this argument, I will turn to Seneca’s description of Hostius Quadra, a wealthy freedman in the possession of numerous mirrors that allow him to watch himself submit sexually to both male and female partners. Hostius’ sexual habits have earned him the title of monstrum in Seneca’s eyes (Nat. 1.16.6); he might therefore seem to have no relation to the exalted cosmic viewer of the prefaces. However, various scholars have established a number of striking parallels between Hostius Quadra and the cosmic viewer. First of all, the Hostius

Quadra fabella is sprinkled with linguistic echoes of the preface to Book 1: both the cosmic viewer and the sexual deviant in question are characterized as spectator[es] (“spectators,” Nat.

1. Praef. 12), and, while the former is able to access quod extra conspectum natura posuisset

(“what nature has placed outside of our view,” Nat. 1. Praef. 1), the latter uses mirrors to see quae a conspectu corporis nostri positio submouit (“what the position of our body has taken out of view,” Nat. 1.16.7). The cosmic viewer gains an understanding of secretiora (“more hidden things,” Nat. 1. Praef. 3), but Hostius Quadra knows secreta (“hidden things,” Nat. 1.16.3) of his own.

For some scholars, the similarities between these two figures end at the linguistic level.

For instance, Berno argues that these linguistic parallels only serve to accentuate the starkly diverging morality of these two subjects.111 Williams claims that, while both figures do transcend the limits of human vision, Hostius Quadra crucially remains obsessed with literal

111 Berno (2003), 22: Hostius is a “manifestazione di un ‘mondo alla rovescia’ indotto dal vizio.” According to her, this fabella typifies a common tendency in Senecan moralism to draw out the polarity between virtue and vice via antithesis. 47 vision, whereas the cosmic viewer sees with the mind’s eye—Hostius Quadra thus serves mainly as a foil for the idealized Senecan spectator.112 I do not disagree with Berno’s and

Williams’ claims that Hostius and the sage are fundamentally different in many important ways.

However, as we will see, these differences coexist with some significant similarities, which we should not immediately dismiss.

Indeed, while acknowledging the diametrically opposed moral judgements which Seneca makes about the cosmic viewer and Hostius Quadra, a number of other scholars emphasize that the verbal parallels in Seneca’s descriptions of these two characters reflect more substantial similarities. For example, Gunderson characterizes Hostius Quadra as a sort of perverted version of the narrator of a text, who both creates a narrative and is reflected within it; in this way, the narrator’s relationship to the text parallels god’s relationship to the universe.113 Leitao argues that Hostius Quadra not only pushes beyond the perceptual limits of the human body, but also, in his indiscriminate desire for sexual submission, transcends the boundary between male and female. In attaining quasi-divine, transcendent attributes through degrading and monstrous acts,

Hostius Quadra thus embodies a Stoic cyclical vision of the universe, according to which dissolution and destruction is often a necessary step towards regenerated wholeness.114

Bartsch and Le Blay both argue that, through Hostius Quadra’s resonances with the sage,

Seneca calls into question the practice of philosophical self-knowledge. Emphasizing that the mirror is a standard philosophical tool, both for Seneca and for other philosophers, Le Blay claims that the fabella of Hostius Quadra casts serious doubt upon specular philosophy by presenting “une sorte d’allégorie sadienne de la caverne.”115 Bartsch notes numerous other ways

112 Williams (2012), 74-75. 113 Gunderson (2015), 70-73. 114 Leitao (1998). 115 Le Blay (2013), 311. See also Ormand (2016), 75: “Hostius Quadra, dans la description qu’en fait Sénèque, semble en effet délibérément faire de sa vie une sorte de parodie de la vie du philosophe moral.” For Ormand, Hostius’ deployment of sexual acts to parody philosophy is proof that Hostius Quadra’s perversions do not constitute a “sexuality” in our modern sense, namely, a deep-seated and interior sexual identity [Ormand (2016), 48 in which Hostius Quadra exposes perverse elements of philosophical practice: for example, he presents a grotesque incarnation of philosophical eros as a tool for self-knowledge. Furthermore, for Bartsch, this perverted figure, obsessed with his own image, raises the question of how ethical progress can actually occur when our gaze is fixated upon a mirror, which portrays only our current flawed selves rather than a virtuous alternative.116

In my view, these startling similarities are revealing on their own terms, regardless of whether or not Seneca ultimately wishes to contrast these two subjects, as Berno and Williams argue he does. I am less interested in Seneca’s overall evaluation of these characters, and more interested in the parallels he draws between them along the way. As I will show, the emotions of

Hostius and the sage share significant similarities; we can therefore treat their affects as mutually enlightening, even if their moralities ultimately differ. Both figures express positive affective attachment towards themselves and the scenes in which they participate: for the cosmic viewer, this scene is universal logos, of which he has a share, and for Hostius Quadra, the spectacle is the orgy in which he partakes. However, whereas the descriptions of the affects of the cosmic sage never directly treat the question of ontology, the fabella does address the ontological status of Hostius’ wondrous images.

Two main features define Hostius’ mirrors and render the ontological status of his images markedly ambiguous. First of all, the images in the mirror magnify the objects they represent: fecitque specula huius notae cuius modo rettuli, imagines longe maiores reddentia, in quibus digitus brachii mensuram et crassitudinem excederet (“and he made mirrors of the type I described, which present much larger images, and in which a finger would exceed the length and thickness of an arm,” Nat. 1.16.2). In this sense, the images misrepresent the objects they reflect. Secondly, the mirrors are positioned in such a way as to reveal the sexual acts being

75-80]. 116 Bartsch (2006), 106-114. 49 performed upon a passive agent who, due to the constraints of the human body, would not otherwise be physically able to witness them. In this respect, the mirrors present a more privileged form of vision, revealing a truth unavailable to the naked eye: as Hostius Quadra declares, ea quae a conspectu corporis nostri positio submouit arte visantur, ne quis me putet nescire quid faciam (“By means of cleverness, let those things which the position of my body has taken out of view be seen, lest anyone think I do not know what I’m doing,” Nat. 1.16.7).

Thus, while the mirrors’ distorted shape perverts ontological truths, the positioning of these implements reveals aspects of reality not otherwise visible.

Accordingly, Seneca vacillates between characterizing the amazement and delight of

Hostius Quadra as fixated upon something true, and as fixated upon something false. At first,

Hostius’ sin seems to lie in his gleeful confusion of reality with representation. For instance, while watching himself be penetrated in his mirrors, ipsius membri falsa magnitudine tamquam uera gaudebat (“he delighted in the false magnitude of [his partner’s] member as if it were real,” Nat. 1.16.2). Hostius’ jubilant affects parallel those of the Stoic sage—gaudium is a technical term for one of the positive Stoic eupatheiai.117 Hostius’ sin, however, lies in the fact that this affect latches indiscriminately onto images with little regard for their ontological status.

Next, Seneca describes, in omnibus quidem balneis agebat ille dilectum, et aperta mensura legebat uiros, sed nihilominus mendaciis quoque insatiabile malum oblectabat (“He would recruit in all the baths, and he would choose men by their visible size, but nonetheless, his

117 For the orthodox Stoic classification of the eupatheiai, see n. 11 above. This classification is likely taken from Chrysippus’ treatise On the Emotions—see Graver (2016), 125. Graver (2016), 129ff. argues that, while Seneca knew the orthodox Stoic account of gaudium, his understanding of the nature of this feeling is different from that of his predecessors—for instance, Seneca treats gaudium as a “static,” or permanent, feeling that arises from the state of being wise, whereas Chrysippus treated it as a “kinetic” feeling that arose in the presence of a good. However, this Senecan divergence from the Stoic account does not change the significance of Seneca’s deployment of gaudere here. First of all, Seneca’s attribution of a recognizable Stoic technical term, rather than a more neutral verb such as iuvare, to a sexually deviant individual is jarring in and of itself. Secondly, as Graver notes, regardless of the precise nature of Senecan gaudium, Seneca attributes this feeling to the sage, both in the Natural Questions and elsewhere. See Nat. 1 Praef. 4; Ep. 23.2-6, 59.2, 72.4, 98.1; De Vita Beata 15.1; Graver (2016), 126-129. 50 insatiable evil would relish also misrepresentations,” Nat. 1.16.3). Unsatisfied with the already large penises of his chosen partners, Hostius rejoices in an explicitly false image.

Soon after, however, Seneca locates the horror of Hostius’ actions in the delight he takes in uncovering truths about himself.118 Seneca contrasts Hostius’ hunger to witness his sexual acts with the modicum of shame retained by other sinners, who prefer not to know the extent of their perversions: est aliqua etiam prostitutis modestia, et illa corpora publico obiecta ludibrio aliquid quo infelix patientia lateat obtendunt (“there is a certain modesty even among prostitutes, and those bodies offered up for others’ delight find some means of hiding their submission,” Nat. 1.16.6). Hostius’ excessive sin lies in enjoying the truth of his acts rather than fearing it. Modest subjects, with averted eyes, serve the delight of others (publicum ludibrium).

By positioning himself as his own voyeur, however, Hostius Quadra is able to enjoy the full extent of his sin with the lights on: non pertimuit diem, sed illos concubitus portentuosos sibi ipse ostendit, sibi ipse adprobauit (“he did not fear the daylight, but he even showed himself his perverted sex acts, and he approved of them to himself,” Nat. 1.16.5). In bringing his sexual submission into the light of day, Hostius Quadra reproduces the effects of metaphysics, which multum supra hanc in qua uolutamur caliginem excedit, et e tenebris ereptos perducit illo unde lucet (“rises far above this darkness in which we dwell and leads us, taken out of the shadows, into that place where there is light,” Nat. 1. Praef. 2). Hostius’ positive affective reaction

(adprobavit) stems from a revelation of these truths; in fact, the verb adprobo carries both the affective meaning of “favor” or “approve” and the intellectual meaning of “prove” or “confirm,”

118 For the tension between self-perception as truth and self-perception as illusion, see Toohey (2004), 262: “What else does Hostius Quadra attain by his lustful gaze than an acute (even exquisite) sense of himself (a notitia sui, as Seneca later puts it), his physical independence, and his separate but linked relation with others. Does he not, with his mirrors, display a remarkable level of self-awareness and, through this, a heightened sense of selfhood?... But there is, it seems, an inevitable alienation to be linked with Hostius’ bizarre perception of himself. The being on which Hostius gazes is, after all, an illusion.” 51 fusing together affect and accurate knowledge.119 Similarly, Seneca recounts: quia non tam diligenter intueri poterat cum caput merserat inguinibusque alienis obhaeserat, opus sibi suum per imagines offerebat (“since he could not watch so attentively, when he had dunked his head and latched it onto other peoples’ crotches, he presented himself with his work through images,”

Nat. 1.16.4). First of all, this passage attributes to Hostius Quadra an affective investment in himself reflected in his desire to “attentively” (diligenter) observe his own opus—language reflecting 3 Praef. 4, where the cosmic subject took pleasure in the magnitude of his opus.

Secondly, Hostius’ images emerge as a vehicle which, rather than distorting the truth, reveals a truth otherwise invisible to the naked eye. In fact, forms of diligens recur throughout the Natural

Questions to denote careful academic inquiry;120 like adprobauit, diligenter equates Hostius

Quadra’s affectively charged self-obsession with his quasi-scientific access to truth.

Since we have established Hostius Quadra as affectively analogous to the sage, we may ask what implications each formulation of our perverted subject has for our sublime one.

Hostius the deluded viewer delights in objects that are purely the product of his own subjective fantasy; this form of enjoyment would suggest that cosmic logos, too, might reflect the desires of a subject who craves the aesthetic pleasures of an orderly world. Logos would thus reveal itself as a mere empty projection on the part of the sublime subject. On the other hand, drawing upon the portrayal of Hostius Quadra as witness to his true sexual behavior, we might suggest that the cosmic viewer transcends his physical vision and his narrow subject-position to view something ontologically real. Both potential answers are vividly and plausibly explored in this fabella, yet Seneca pointedly refuses to choose just one. Delighted vision vacillates between delusion and truth.

119 See definition 1 of approbo in the OLD: “to express approval of, commend, endorse;” and definition 5 of the same word: “to prove true, confirm.” 120 E.g. Nat. 3. Praef. 3; 5.14.4; 5.16.3; 6.12.1; 7.3.3; 7.30.2. 52 Why does Seneca so actively forego a firm stance on ontology? I will suggest that the ontological status of the objects portrayed in these images is not significant; rather, Hostius is defined through his affective relationship with the image itself. Large penises and an ordered cosmos are besides the point—the aesthetic beauty of their image serves as a mirror that constitutes the subject. Thus, Seneca privileges a person’s subjective “sense of self,” constituted by affect, over and above the ontology of the natural world. At the end of a speech outlining his sexual preferences, Hostius declares:

id genus speculorum circumponam mihi quod incredibilem magnitudinem imaginum reddat. si liceret mihi, ad uerum ista perducerem; quia non licet, mendacio pascar. obscenitas mea plus quam capit uideat, et patientiam suam ipsa miretur.

“I will place this type of mirrors around me, which generates images of an amazing size. If it were permitted to me, I would make those images real; since it is not allowed, I will feast upon the illusion. Let my lust see more than it has the capacity for and marvel at its own submissiveness.” 121 (Nat. 1.16.8-9)

This passage presents in condensed form the ontological vacillation we have witnessed throughout the fabella, while also renouncing the question of ontology in favor of affect. The first sentence expresses the amazement that has characterized both the sage and the voyeur thus far, with our narrator gazing at an object of incredibilis magnitudo. The ontological status of this amazement is ambivalent. Of course, the images in Hostius’ mirrors appear far larger than the actual genitals they represent, as the rest of the story indicates. However, here Hostius fixes his expression of wonder (incredibilis) upon the size of the images (imagines), which are actually large. While the massive penises are false, the massive images are real— by fixating his admiration upon an image rather than upon a thing, his enticement takes on a different

121I translate patientia as “submissiveness” because it best fits the derogatory tone of Seneca’s description. However, this passage perfectly exemplifies the aforementioned linguistic echoes between Hostius and the sage; of course, patientia in the sense of “endurance” is also a (both conventional Roman and Stoic) virtue. For the ambivalence of patientia in general, see Kaster (2002); Wildberger (2015). For its ambivalence in this particular passage, see Berno (2003), 47. According to Bartsch (2006), 251: “It is only in Seneca’s writing that endurance (patientia) and victimhood (patientia) can meld into the same state.” Seneca himself comments on the corresponding ambiguity of inpatientia at Ep. 9.2. 53 ontological status than that aimed directly at the magnitudo ipsius membri at 1.16.6—a magnitudo that was patently falsa. These images exist in and of themselves, and are legitimate objects of amazed fixation regardless of the truth or falsehood of the objects they represent.

Next, Hostius declares: si liceret mihi, ad uerum ista perducerem; quia non licet, mendacio pascar. This sentence establishes a dichotomy between truth (verum) and falsehood

(mendacium), locating Hostius’ present situation squarely in the latter category. However,

Hostius’ hungry desire, happy to feast upon images of any ontological status, remains the same, whether its object is verum or mendacium. Finally, Seneca’s voyeur declares, Obscenitas mea plus quam capit uideat, et patientiam suam ipsa miretur. Here, Hostius’ obscenitas engages in two acts of viewership. In the first clause, the verb is videre, an affectively neutral verb of perception, and its object seems to be the penises of Hostius’ partners (since these are the objects which his mirrors aim to enlarge and thus render plus quam their usual size). Thus, videre perceives a concrete object in the external world.122 From an ontological perspective, this form of perception fails; the object of videre is distorted, and Hostius falsely bears witness to an impossibility: plus quam capit. The next clause, however, features the affectively charged, enchanted viewership denoted by mirari. Unlike videre, which aimed to understand an external object, this form of viewership is emphatically reflexive, as indicated by the placement of suam ipsa: obscenity marvels at its own submissiveness. This enchanted viewership may not reveal anything true about external objects, but the submissiveness it perceives within Hostius Quadra is undeniably real: miratio allows Hostius Quadra to recognize himself as a subject. From this perspective, Hostius’ synechdochical identification with his obscenitas as the subject of his viewership (obscenitas mea… videat, et… miretur) is particularly significant, since this feature

122 We might alternatively posit that capit refers not to the penises of Hostius’ partners specifically but to the sex acts in which Hostius is engaged. Either way, it must refer to something concrete and physical, since the enlargement indicated by plus quam refers to distortion of a smaller physical reality to a larger image. 54 crystallizes his character and defines him throughout the fabella. While the ontological reality of his circumstances fall away, his most salient attribute reaffirms itself in an enchanted specular image. Regardless of the truth of external images, Hostius’ invested affects reflect something fundamentally true of himself.

A passage from the opening of the fabella will further illustrate this point. In his exposition of Hostius Quadra’s perversions, Seneca describes:

illi specula ab omni parte opponerentur ut ipse flagitiorum suorum spectator esset, et quae secreta quoque conscientiam premunt, quaeque et sibi quisque fecisse se negat, non in os tantum sed in oculos suos ingereret.

“Mirrors were placed facing him on all sides, so that he might become a spectator to his crimes, and so that he might present not only to his mouth but also to his eyes things which, if kept secret, weigh upon the conscience, and which everyone denies to himself that he has done.” (Nat. 1.16.3)

In this passage, the physical reality of penises cedes to the image of penises, which an individual can chose to shamefully deny or gleefully recognize. The zeugma of non in os tantum sed in oculos ingereret substitutes the ontological truth of oral sex (in os), in which many men participate, with the image or idea of oral sex (in oculos), which only Hostius is happy to uncover. Thus, his willingness to engage an image distinguishes him as a subject, setting him aside from others and marking him as particularly “monstrous,” far more than the fleshy truth underlying the image does.

Hostius Quadra’s voyeuristic tale raises the possibility that the image upon which the sublime subject gazes admiringly could be true or false; regardless, the ontological truth behind these images is less important than the admiration they engender. In learning to delight in an image of himself, the subject is defined and nurtured, either as a lofty sage or as a narcissistic voyeur. At the beginning of this chapter, I raised two claims of Kant’s which I aimed to test against Seneca. First of all, Kant argues that the joy and admiration inherent to sublimity stem from the subject’s own reason. Secondly, he claims that the sublime subject grasps an

55 underlying and all-pervasive reason that is entirely his own. I have argued that Seneca and Kant agree on the latter claim. As for the former, Seneca does not ignore the question entirely: he draws out two distinct possible answers, but treats them interchangeably. Ultimately, no matter the ontological status of sublimity, its affective valence remains constant: a state of wonder towards a real or perceived mirror image. Regardless of its ontological status, this reflexive enchantment enables the sage to perceive himself as an exalted subject.

Conclusion

When taken at face value, the Senecan sage appears to push beyond the limits of himself and towards an external knowledge of nature. However, when we trace the valence of the sage’s affects, their inward-facing trajectory suggests to us that the project of learning about nature frequently becomes muddled with self-love and solipsistic admiration. The sage’s admiration of himself slips towards perversity, sharing some crucial features with the affects of Seneca’s

“monster” Hostius Quadra. Thus, as discussed in the Introduction to this dissertation, affect blurs the distinction between the sage and his putative opposite.

However, in the case of both the pervert and the sage, affect serves as a vehicle for proprioception. Thus, even in the case of sagehood, the most exalted form of Senecan subjectivity, straightforward virtue on its own is not enough. The sage develops his sense of self through an array of specular feelings, which he shares with even morally corrupt figures. These enchanted affects may or may not obscure the sage’s apprehension of objective truths; regardless, Seneca ultimately puts a premium on the subjective.

56 Chapter 2: Natural Disaster, Stupefaction, and Anxiety

Introduction: Alternatives to Sagehood

In the first chapter of this dissertation, I argued that the sage’s joy and enchantment serve to cultivate and nourish his exalted sense of self. This solipsistic reflexivity blunts the epistemic force of ostensibly knowledgeable feelings, which are engaged with the self rather than with an external reality. However, it is this very reflexivity, in its epistemic ambiguity, that allows the sage to recognize himself and the beauty of his mind. This chapter will continue the argument set forth in Chapter 1, arguing that morally ambiguous affects hold special potential for the

Senecan subject. However, I will shift my focus from the figure of the sage to that of the epistemically compromised proficiens. What feelings does he experience, and what philosophical potential do they hold?

Throughout the Natural Questions, the sublime affects of the sage are frequently contrasted with a slew of problematic and stultifying feelings, which the wise man must eschew.

Such feelings are generally attached to aspects of life on earth or the events of the phenomenal world. As we will remember, the all-knowing sage has attained a vast and penetrating knowledge of natural phenomena; this cosmic awareness has shown him the insignificance of his earthly subjectivity.123 Accordingly, the sage does not experience the fear of death (Nat. 1.

Praef. 4; 6.3.2-4.2); he feels neither hope nor desire (Nat. 3. Praef 11).; he is neither happy nor upset by his fate (Nat. 3. Praef. 15). Faced with positive and negative twists of fortune, he knows how to aduersus utramque intrepidus inconfususque prodire, nec illius tumultu nec huius fulgore percussus (“go in the face of either unafraid, undisturbed, stricken by neither the turmoil of [bad luck] nor the luster of [good luck],” Nat. 3. Praef. 13). Although he experiences enchanted self-love in the face of his own rationality, the sage does not experience affective

123 See pp. 20-21 above. 57 attachment towards the trivial details of the phenomenal world. Rather, his all-encompassing, cosmic perspective causes the phenomenal world to appear insignificant and unworthy of emotion.

Seneca frequently reminds his readers of the importance of the sublime subject’s indifference to worldly concerns, elevating it as an ideal form of Stoic wisdom. Yet in all of

Seneca’s philosophical works, ideals are almost unattainable. Seneca claims that the perfect

Stoic sapiens exists only every 500 years, and he positions both himself and his readers as mere proficientes who will probably never attain perfect sagehood but who nevertheless persist in modeling themselves according to idealized exempla.124 Indeed, Seneca’s works abound not only with praise of and exhortation towards perfect virtue, but also with strategies tailored towards imperfect readers who must attempt to live ethically despite their limitations.125

The Natural Questions is no exception to this Senecan tension between reality and ideals. While, as we have seen, Seneca does extol the cosmic perspective of the all-knowing sage in key programmatic moments throughout this text, he frequently reminds us that this perspective is an aspirational ideal. As Inwood has argued, the epistemic limits of human knowledge are one of the main concerns of the Natural Questions, and Seneca often emphasizes our imperfect grasp of nature and natural causes.126 Perhaps more surprisingly, Seneca’s own narrative often reflects a compromised human perspective, rather than a wise one. Although the cosmic viewer is elevated by grasping the rational causes of natural phenomena, Rosenmeyer notes that,

124 Ep. 6.1; 8.2; 57.3; 71.30, 35-7; 75.16-18; 79.11-13; 87.4-5; Helv. 5.2; Ben. 7.17.1; Tranq. 8.9; Vit. Beat. 17.3- 18.2. On the rarity of the Stoic sage, see Veyne (2003), 68-71; Cooper (2006), 43-4. 125 See Manning (1974), Motto (1984), Smith (2006), Long (2009). 126 Inwood (2002), 125. For example, in Book 6, Seneca reminds us to assume an indulgent perspective when we read the inexact and crude writings by scholars of previous generations: after all, their attempt to discover natural causes was magni animi (“courageous”) in and of itself, especially in hac… re omnium maxima atque involutissima in qua, etiam cum multum acti erit, omnis tamen aetas quod agat inveniet (“when it comes to this subject matter [i.e. meteorology], the most vast and obscure of all, in which, even though much progress has been made, nevertheless every age will find more to be discovered,” Nat. 6.5.2-3). 58 “outside of the prefaces, Seneca puts no premium on accountability or rational order. As he looks at his natural phenomena, the accent is often on the unexpected and the exciting, on disasters and catastrophe, with little effort to accommodate their strangeness to a divinely constituted whole.”127

The affective detachment of the rational cosmic viewer thus often cedes to fascination, surprise, and excitement towards external phenomena, reflecting the vantage point of an epistemically- compromised human.128 Unlike the sage, who greets natural phenomena with the bored ennui of omniscience, laughs at the world, and delights only in himself, the reader of the Natural

Questions is often invited to gawk at phenomena that are painted as abnormal and exciting, sharing in the affective attachment of ignorance.129

What purpose do these myopic, affectively invested, and emotionally charged narrative passages serve? This chapter will explore the alternative paths to ethical and spiritual elevation that Seneca’s imperfect prose provides for his imperfect readers. In particular, I will examine two affectively charged, vivid descriptions of natural disasters in the Natural Questions: an account in Book 3 of the all-consuming flood that Seneca predicts will destroy and then renew the human race, and a discussion of earthquakes in Book 6. The former description is pervaded by a stupefied tone, and the latter, as Seneca himself admits, provokes what I will call a sort of generalized anxiety, or a pervasive fear of all our surroundings. Both the narrator and the human

127 Rosenmeyer (2000), 109. Similarly, Berno (2015), 91 says of the Natural Questions: “The enduring appeal of the works lies in the constant tension between the grandiose descriptions of natural phenomena and the attempt to interpret them in light of reason, a tension that mirrors the underlying contrast between appearance and reality. Appearances cause fear and vice; an understanding of reality paves the way to serenity and virtue.” Roby (2014) argues, on the other hand, that many of Seneca’s detailed and vivid descriptions function as “scientific fictions,” which may distort aspects of phenomenal reality only to illuminate deeper truths and encourage interpretive strategies of engagement, rather than strictly empirical ones. 128 Hine (2006) explores the political implications (rather than the affective ones) of this tension between cosmic and myopic perspectives, claiming that, while Seneca’s cosmic ideal would involve viewing Rome as a mere pinprick in the cosmos, many passages in the treatise are entrenched in the Roman political world. 129 According to Gale (2000), 198-200, a similar tension exists in Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura—Gale argues that, while Lucretius’ stated goal is to eliminate our sense of wonder towards natural phenomena, his poetry “frequently conveys a sense of awe and admiration before the majesty of the natural world” (198). 59 actors within the text express stupefaction and anxiety in the face of natural disasters.130

Crucially, by focalizing the description through a stupefied lens, often emphasizing the immensity of natural disasters and the dangers that will follow from them, the narrator encourages his readers to share his affective reactions in the face of natural phenomena. Why does Seneca invite us to experience a set of feelings so antithetical to those of the sage?

I will argue that these two affects (stupefaction and anxiety), though contrary to the cosmic perspective and reflecting an emotionally invested and narrow field of vision, serve to diminish the self-absorbed human subject. First of all, drawing upon Sianne Ngai’s theory of

“stuplimity,” I will argue that the emotional universe conjured by Seneca in his descriptions of natural disaster overwhelms, stuns, and incapacitates the affectively invested human. This impotence serves a crucial ethical purpose: in his affective overstimulation in the face of an overwhelming universe, the immobilized individual paradoxically cannot experience punctuated emotions such as the fear of death, and is therefore dulled and flattened in a manner that resembles serenity.131 As discussed in the introduction to this dissertation, fear constitutes an unequivocally reproachable pathos for the Stoics,132 and Seneca frequently characterizes fear as a toxic emotion driving unethical action. 133 Thus, the emotion fear, a rigidly classifiable vice, is overturned by a morally flexible and paradoxical set of affects, resulting in real ethical progress for imperfect readers.

130 I draw this terminology from Bal (1980/1985). Bal defines “narrator” as “the (linguistic, visual, cinematic) subject, a function and not a person, which expresses itself in the language that constitutes a text” (15) and “actor” as a human or inanimate agent within the narrative (6). 131 This element of my argument is nicely compatible with Kaufman (2014): Kaufman draws upon evidence from De Ira and the Epistulae Morales, claiming that Seneca advocates the treatment of unpleasant emotions via the stimulation of less violent rival emotions. According to Kaufman, this is a Stoic adaptation of the Epicurean methods of avocatio (distraction) and revocatio (redirection) in the face of distress (127-131). 132 See p. 4 above. 133 See Ep. 14.3-10; 17.6; 57.6; 74.3-4; 75.16-7; 78.14; 82.23; 85.15, 26; 95.37; 106.9; 109.16. On the eradication of the fear of death as one of the main ethical goals of the Natural Questions, see Grilli (1992), 467; Berno (2003), 239-242; Limburg (2007), 299-342; Hine (2010), 12-3. On this issue in Seneca’s work in general, see Ker (2009), 87-112; Setaioli (1985), 276; Noyes (1973); Motto and Clark (1955), 189. 60 Secondly, Seneca’s affective prose encourages the emotionally charged reader to take up a position somewhat similar to cosmic sublimity, painting a picture of a vast and unified cosmos in which the reader might see himself reflected. However, the world presented to the imperfect reader of Seneca is unified by an emotional coherence rather than a logical one: drenched in stupefaction and anxiety, the epistemically compromised reader of Seneca can comprehend natural laws only to the extent that they shockingly and terrifyingly presage his own destruction.

Thus, rather than reaffirming the subject, as the sublime affects of the sage do, this affective perspective only serves to underscore the subject’s smallness and fragility. Nevertheless, the minimization of the imperfect subject is an important ethical move for Seneca, as discussed in the introduction to Chapter 1 of this dissertation:134 before attaining sublimity, the subject must understand the insignificance of his earthly self and all the material goods in which he is invested. Overall, then, while stupefaction and anxiety are ostensibly opposed to the affects of the sage, they mimic the effects of sagehood and serve a didactic purpose for imperfect human subjects.

“Stuplimity” and the Paralyzed Subject

Before turning to the Natural Questions itself, I will outline Sianne Ngai’s conception of

“stuplimity.” In the sixth chapter of her book Ugly Feelings, Ngai draws upon a variety of twentieth-century genres, from the literary works of such authors as Gertrude Stein, Nathanael

West, and Samuel Beckett to the slapstick comedy of Buster Keaton, in order to argue for a twentieth-century aesthetic designed to elicit in readers a certain type of affective response, which I will argue Seneca anticipates and deploys for the ethical improvement of the imperfect subject. Through extended and grammatically nonsensical phrases or stultifying repetition, the

134 See pp. 20-21 above. 61 works cited by Ngai generate a sense of incomprehensible vastness and leave their readers simultaneously shocked and bored.

While shock and boredom might seem to be diametrically opposed and irreconcilable affects, in reality they are both characterized by a subject’s inability to respond to the language with which she is faced. As Ngai puts it, stuplimity is induced by “language that threatens the limits of self by challenging its ability to respond—temporarily immobilizing the addressee.”135

Stuplimity undermines the subject, who normally views language as an object over which she has ultimate control, but who suddenly finds herself paralyzed by language’s vastness and her inability to comprehend it; such language,

“raises the significant question of how we might respond to what we recognize as ‘the different’ prior to its qualification or categorization (as ‘sexual’ or ‘racial’ for instance), precisely by pointing to the limits of our ability to do so.”136

Thus, the subject loses all sense of intellectual control and knowledgeable self-assertion in the face of a linguistic system beyond her comprehension.

Ngai is careful to distinguish stuplimity from Kantian sublimity. Though the Kantian subject is initially dwarfed by the sight of a vast object beyond the scope of his imagination, such as the sea during a storm, the mind ultimately learns to associate itself with reason, which, unlike the faculty of imagination, can grasp the immensity of the natural systems with which it is faced.137 In this respect, the Kantian sublime bears a striking resemblance to the sublimity of the Senecan cosmic viewer, who understands the reason inherent to the universe, sees his own reason reflected therein, and thus is reconstituted by identifying himself with the rational laws of the cosmos. 138

Ngai’s stuplime subject, on the other hand, remains unredeemed:

135 Ngai (2004), 254. 136 Ngai (2000), 4. 137 Ngai (2004), 266-7. See pp. 23-26 above. 138 See pp. 21-23 above. 62 “The reader’s or observer’s faculties become strained to their limits in the effort to comprehend the work as a whole, but the revelation of this failure… does not, in the end, confirm the self’s sense of superiority over the overwhelming or intimidating object.”139

Furthermore, rather than facilitating the serene detachment of the rational viewer from the object of amazement, stuplimity “immobilizes and stupefies—and indicates the inability of other mental activities, including reason, to overcome an affective state.”140 The stuplime subject, then, negated in the face of an overwhelming object, cannot transcend his destruction through reason, as the Kantian one can, but rather remains entrenched in the affects that have diminished him. I will argue that, in contrast to the cosmic viewer who has attained transcendent sublimity,

Seneca’s imperfect human subject views natural disasters with a state of stuplimity, his subjectivity annihilated by an immobilizing affective state. This stuplimity manifests itself through both stupefaction and anxiety. As we will see, both feelings are induced by an object beyond human comprehension, and both involve a simultaneous affective overstimulation and dulling that ultimately incapacitates the subject.

Importantly, we will see Seneca deploy this incapacitation towards ethical and didactic ends. Indeed, Ngai views the stuplime demolition of the subject as an opportunity for the subject to attain new forms of knowledge and understanding:

“‘Temporary paralysis’ is not merely a state of passivity; rather, it bears some resemblance to what Stein calls ‘open feeling,’ a condition of utter receptivity in which difference is felt rather than qualified or assigned a particular value… As ‘dispositions’ which result in a fundamental displacement from secure critical positions, the shocking and the boring usefully prompt us to look for new strategies of engagement and to extend the circumstances under which engagement becomes possible.”141

We will see that for Seneca, this “condition of utter receptivity” is leveraged for an ethical purpose: the affectively paralyzed subject cannot feel fear, an emotion that defines a large part of misguided and unethical human action for Seneca. Affectively glued to his own

139 Ngai (2004), 270. 140 Ngai (2004), 270. 141 Ngai (2000), 9-10. 63 insignificance and impotence, he experiences a vacuous dullness, similar in its flatness to cosmic serenity. Thus, stuplime affect provides the only form of wisdom truly accessible to human subjects. Though it does not provide affirmation and expansion for the subject in the same way that sublime serenity does, affectively glutted flatness does provide peace and freedom from punctuated fears.

Natural Questions 3: The Flood

We will now turn to Seneca’s first account of natural disaster in the Natural Questions, exploring the didactic functions of stupefaction for epistemically compromised readers. At the close of Book 3, Seneca launches into a detailed account of the all-consuming flood destined to engulf and exterminate all of humanity, giving rise to a newly innocent race of humans. This flood is apparently a watery version of the more traditional Stoic notion of ekpyrosis, the cycle of periodic destruction and renewal of the earth by conflagration.142 Seneca’s stated concern is to determine the cause of this imminent deluge (Nat. 3.27.1), and he lingers over this question, arguing that the flood will occur as a result of a combination of every possible cause, from a swelling of the ocean to a downpour of rain. However, this ostensibly academic pursuit of a scientific question fades in the shadow of extended, vivid ekphrases of the imminent flood.

These descriptions, which Hutchinson characterizes as “lavish to the last extreme,” a “terrifying narrative sequence,”143 emphasize the unprecedented magnitude of the flood, both expressing and inducing a sense of stupefaction at the destruction to come.

The flood described is a part of a divinely ordained rational order; therefore, the all- knowing and rational sage should not experience stupefaction in its wake.144 As Seneca himself

142 Limburg (2007), 151-5; Inwood (2002), 130; Parroni (2002), 545; Gross (1989), 142. For a discussion of Seneca’s choice to paint this cycle as flood rather than a fire, see Mazzoli (2005), 172-3. 143 Hutchinson (1993), 128. Gross (1989), 143 and Limburg (2007), 163-5 also note the dramatic tone of the passage; Mazzoli (2005), 147 even calls Nat. 3.27-31 “l’investimento letterario più imponente e impressionante che ci sia dato di reperire nella prosa senecana.” Scholars such as Reinhardt (1921), 174 goes so far as to deem the passage a mere “pomphafte Gemälde” with no scientific purpose whatsoever. See also Levy (1928). 144 See Kullmann (2005), 142; Mazzoli (2005), 173; Stahl (1964), 425. 64 reminds us, the water inundating the earth is fatis mota (“moved by the fates,” Nat. 3.28.4), the tides will surpass their usual limits cum deo visum est ordiri meliora (“when god has resolved on beginning a better world,” Nat. 3.28.7), and a panoply of natural disasters will converge ut naturae constituta peragantur (“so that the decrees of nature may be achieved,” Nat. 3.29.4). To the cosmic viewer who understands such hidden laws, then, the flood will not come as a surprise; after all, whatever nature has ordained non subito sed ex denuntiato venit (“comes not suddenly, but having been decreed beforehand,” Nat. 3.30.1).145

Some passages within the flood description reflect this emotionally detached, rationalizing approach;146 much of Seneca’s vivid description, however, is narrated not from the perspective of the unsurprised rational viewer but from the position of an epistemically- compromised human viewer. As Inwood points out, Seneca assesses the destruction wrought by flood according to anthropocentric standards: agriculture will be disrupted (Nat. 3.27.4), homes will be uprooted (Nat. 3.27.7), and commerce will cease (Nat. 3.27.11).147 Furthermore, Seneca measures the flood by appealing explicitly to the human perspective, describing the way omnia qua prospici potest aquis obsidentur (“wherever can be seen, all things are beset by water,” Nat.

3.27.11).148

In accordance with the limited human perspective of the narrative, the drama of this passage stems largely from a sense of stupefaction. (Following Ngai, I will refer to the narrator as stupefied when he is overwhelmed by a sight that exceeds the limits of his previous experience and stretches the bounds of his comprehension.) Seneca describes the flood as

145 Because of this emphasis on the fatedness of the flood, both Berno and Mazzoli see this passage as a rationalizing consolation, in which “the terror instilled in men by such disasters is thus revealed to derive from an incorrect evaluation” [Berno (2015), 85]. Mazzoli (2005), 174 addresses the affective flair of the ekphrasis but claims that Seneca’s overabundant style is merely his way of channeling the rhetoric of the vices against them; see also Grilli (1992), 467. I hope to show instead that the terror instilled by the flood constitutes a new form of irrational, affective consolation. 146 For example, see Nat. 3.28.4-5. 147 Inwood (2002), 130. 148 For more on the narrator’s attached and absorbed vantage point, see Castagna (2000), 244-5. 65 occurring subito (Nat. 3.27.2) and statim (Nat. 3.30.5), both meaning “suddenly.” These adverbs directly contradict the statement, cited above, that the flood non subito sed ex denuniato venit.

Whereas the latter claim is brought forth in the context of the predestination of the flood and represents the viewpoint of someone with the ability to read natural signs and discern from them the trajectory of divine intentions, the former adverbs reflect an unsuspecting perspective.

Adjectives such as inmodicus (Nat. 3.27.4; 3.28.1) and inmensus (Nat. 3.27.1), both of which translate literally as “immeasurable,” emphasize the inability of the narrator to grasp the magnitude of the flood. Comparative adjectives and adverbs emphasize the extension of natural phenomena beyond the bounds of everyday human experience: clouds advance magis magisque

(“more and more,” Nat. 3.27.7), and the tide, solitis maximisque uiolentior plus aquarum trahit

(“more violent than the highest of the usual tides, will bring with it more water,” Nat. 3.28.6).

Almost paradoxically, Seneca describes, crebra enim micant fulmina, procellaeque quatiunt mare, tunc primum auctum fluminum accessu et sibi angustum (“for lightning flashes frequently, and storms shake the sea, then for the first time magnified by the arrival of rivers and too small for itself,” Nat. 3.27.10). The description of the sea as too small for itself highlights the narrator’s struggle to accommodate the unprecedented phenomenon of the flood into his worldview, firmly rooted in phenomena as they usually appear: the usual bounds of the sea are suddenly dwarfed by a newly magnified version of the sea, introducing a tension between mare and sibi.

In his most explicit expression of stupefaction, Seneca describes: deinde in miram altitudinem erigitur et illis tutis hominum receptaculis superest (“finally it rises up to an amazing height, and it overwhelms those safe shelters of men,” Nat. 3.28.4). The narrator characterizes the swelling of water as “amazing,” to the extent that the tide literally exceeds the human physical world—the narrator’s mental perspective is overwhelmed in tandem with the physical world in which it is entrenched. Thus, like Berno, I see the ekphrastic drama as a sign 66 of the tension between the ideal of a totalizing and purely rational spectatorship and the reality of human epistemic limits: while a truly wise viewer would calmly identify the flood as a part of a larger cosmic order, Seneca’s narrative style reflects the shock and horror which most people would experience in response to such a cataclysm.149

We have thus established that the narrator of the flood description speaks not from a cosmic perspective but from the vantage point of an epistemically compromised human, and that this compromised human position activates a stupefied affect, which pervades the flood ekphrasis and defines its dramatic flair. Next, we will examine the function of this affect and its philosophical potential for the imperfect subject.

The human witnesses of the flood, embedded in Seneca’s narrative description, exhibit the same stupefaction expressed by Seneca’s own narrative voice. We will dwell on this mirroring of affects later, but for now, we will linger over Seneca’s descriptions of flood- stricken humans: these descriptions contain fuller articulations of the overwhelming nature of stupefaction and its philosophical potentials. For example, as a massive river rushes across the earth, urbes et implicitos trahit moenibus suis populos, ruinam an naufragium querantur incertos; adeo simul et quod opprimeret et quod mergeret venit (“it drags away cities and populations entangled in their own walls, uncertain whether to lament collapse or shipwreck, for what could crush them and what could drown them come at the same time,” Nat. 3.27.7). The population described in this moment is glutted with affect, primed to queri. Yet their lamentations remain in the subjunctive: possible, imminent, but unactualized, because they cannot be directed at an object. The physical smothering (by both water and overturned physical structures) of the helpless humans induces in them an emotionally overwhelmed state: the destruction comes in so many forms that they are incerti as to where to direct their grief. They

149 Berno (2003), 97. 67 thus cannot express their feeling as an “emotion” in Massumi’s sense,150 a communicable and explicable response to a fixed cause.151 Instead, these characters perfectly embody Ngai’s stuplimity: stricken by a vast and incomprehensible sight, they are both affectively glutted and immobilized, rendered aware of the limitations of their mental capacities.

Yet, as I alluded to earlier in this chapter, in both Ngai and Seneca, this passive and emotionally saturated state opens the subject to new forms of knowing and being. In another description of affectively overwhelmed humans, Seneca alludes to the potential inherent to stuplimity:

Editissimis quibusque adhaerebant reliquiae generis humani, quibus in extrema perductis hoc unum solacio fuit, quod transierat in stuporem metus. non uacabat timere mirantibus; ne dolor quidem habebat locum, quippe uim suam perdit in eo qui ultra sensum mali miser est.

“What remained of the human race clung to the highest peaks. When they had been driven to such extremes, this was their only solace: that fear had transformed into shock. Since they were amazed, there was no opportunity for them to be afraid, nor did pain have any place, because it loses power in him who is miserable beyond the point of feeling misery.” (Nat. 3.27.12)152

For Seneca, fear is a major driver of an imperfect human’s actions, desires, and downfalls.

Stupefaction, however, empties the subject of his usual problematic drives. The phrases vacare and habere locum imagine a fixed affective space possessed by the subject.153 Stupefaction clears this space of fear, the emotion that normally defines the imperfect Senecan human and

150 See p. 6 above. 151 See Trinacty (2019), ad loc.: “The fact that these individuals do not know how to classify or describe this event highlights the importance of language and description in this section as a whole.” I would emphasize that this passage specifically emphasizes the failure of language and classification (an important element of Ngai’s stuplimity), and that this failure is on the part both of the actors within the narrative and of the narrator—Seneca himself grants that adeo simul et quod opprimeret et quod mergeret venit and does not classify the event as either a naufragium or a ruina. Thus, the actors’ ignorance is not pitted against a cosmic narrative perspective; rather, actors and narrator share a stuplime perspective. 152Both this quotation and the one cited above (from Nat. 3.27.7) occur as a part of a section of the flood passage (Nat. 3.27.4-15) that is explicitly framed as an aside, a break from Seneca’s discussion of the causes of the flood and a temporary turn to the sequence of events that will unfold when the flood hits. Nevertheless, this digressive framing should not deter us from taking seriously the work performed by this extended and vivid passage, which has a narrative effect regardless of its relevance to Seneca’s ostensible scientific goals. 153 For metaphors of the self as a space, see Bartsch (2009), 201-204. 68 inhibits his progress. Much like Ngai, Seneca characterizes stupefaction as a state of emptiness and non-response: amazement renders the subject incapable of feeling fear. In this sense, it provides subjects with something similar to Ngai’s “open feeling,” or “an indeterminate affective state that lacks the punctuating ‘point’ of an individuated emotion.”154 The fearlessness

Seneca describes here is not the result of the hyper-rational affective detachment of the cosmic viewer, who grasps the vastness of the cosmos so thoroughly that he understands he has nothing to fear; rather, it is caused by affective oversaturation in a subject who is ultra sensum mali miser.155 At the same time, however momentarily, imperfectly, and, to an orthodox Stoic, problematically, the oversaturated, stupefied subject has paradoxically achieved a sort of serenity through excessive affect. This quasi-serenity is analogous to the securitas of the sage, who observes natural phenomena untroubled, in that it is not punctuated by acute fear; however, it stems not from the active engagement of a curiosus spectator (Nat. 1. Praef. 14), but from the stunted incapacity of an overwhelmed and passive subject.

The description of the stupefied flood victims thus reveals one potential Stoic ethical benefit to stupefaction: by immobilizing the subject and affectively oversaturating him, it prevents him from feeling fear. Next, we will discuss the philosophical potential of the shared stupefaction of the humans described inside the narrative and the narrative voice itself. While the narrator expresses his own shock throughout his description, and most explicitly when he describes the height of the tide as mira (Nat. 3.28.4), the human objects he describes are similarly mirantes (Nat. 3.27.12). What can we make of this parallel between the narrator and his narrative object?

154 Ngai (2004), 284. 155 This notion recurs in Senecan tragedy: Boyle (2011), 301 refers to it as, “the Senecan tragic paradox that freedom comes from the loss of fear (and hope) consequent upon extreme suffering.” This tragic paradox will be the focus of Chapter 5 of this dissertation. 69 Gunderson argues that, in the Natural Questions, narrative provides readers with partial access to the cosmic Senecan sublimity outlined in Chapter 1 of this thesis. Narrative constructs unity among seemingly disjointed phenomena, and the figure of the narrator, entrenched within the text and graspable by readers, points to an all-knowing author who, like god to the universe, created the text, is the text, and is inside the text.156 As “the mind that is both the subject and object of a universum,”157 the author provides a model for the cosmic viewer, who sees his own reason reflected in the rational universe he apprehends. We might apply this idea that narrative reflects the structure of the cosmic viewpoint to the flood passage. The myopic and affectively charged reader can identify both with the narrative voice of the text and with actors described therein. Thus, the imperfect reader, like the divine viewer, occupies the position of both subject and object of the description. However, it is stupefied affect, rather than reason, that facilitates a connection between reader, narrator, and narrative actor.

Subsumed into this quasi-cosmic narrative position, the imperfect reader experiences a broadening of perspectives. In his reading of the flood passage, Williams acknowledges that the account of the flood reflects a “helpless astonishment… at nature’s matchless power,”158 but he ultimately dismisses this sense of astonishment as insignificant in comparison to a cosmic spectatorship, which he claims is still maintained throughout, since the narrator’s perspective encapsulates an immense breadth of space and time: “What matters is Seneca’s imaginative construction of a cosmic mind-set here, a form of consciousness that ranges unfettered over all ages and territories.”159 Indeed, readers of the flood description will witness destruction that ranges from the peaks of mountains to level farmlands (Nat. 3.27.8-10), recounted mostly in a

156 Gunderson (2015), 61-71. 157 Gunderson (2015), 70. 158 Williams (2012), 113. 159 Williams (2012), 114. 70 timeless present tense, which, according to Williams, facilitates “a permanent condition of full ownership of all times past, present and future” on the part of the reader.160

Rather than treating the stupefaction induced by Seneca’s prose as necessarily in tension with (and therefore less significant than) an all-encompassing perspective, as Williams does, I would like to suggest that, in the flood passage, amazement at the unexpected serves as a vehicle for an all-encompassing perspective. The vastness of the flood’s destruction often serves as both an object of stupefaction and an instrument for a broadening of perspectives. For example,

Seneca describes,

Flumina uero suapte natura uasta et sine tempestatibus rapida alueos reliquerunt. quid tu esse Rhodanum, quid putas Rhenum atque Danuuium, quibus torrens etiam in canali suo cursus est, cum superfusi nouas sibi fecere ripas ac scissa humo simul excessere alueo? quanta cum praecipitatione uoluuntur, ubi per campestria fluens Rhenus ne spatio quidem languit, sed latissimas uelut per angustum aquas impulit, cum Danuuius non iam radices nec media montium stringit, sed iuga ipsa sollicitat, ferens secum madefacta montium latera rupesque disiectas et magnarum promuntoria regionum, quae fundamentis laborantibus a continenti recesserunt. deinde non inueniens exitum (omnia enim sibi ipse praecluserat) in orbem redit, ingentemque terrarum ambitum atque urbium uno uertice inuoluit.

“Rivers that are vast by nature and swift even without storms have left their banks. What do you think the Rhone becomes, what do you think the Rhine and the Danube become, whose currents are rushing even in their own channels, when, overflowing, they make new shores for themselves and, with the soil ruptured, they exceed their banks? With what disturbance they roll along, when the Rhine, flowing over the fields, does not grow weary by its expansion, but it pushes its very wide waters as if through a narrow channel; when the Danube no longer grazes the bases or the middles of mountains, but it troubles the ridges themselves, carrying with it the soggy sides of mountains and broken off cliffs and the promontories of vast regions, which have receded from the mainland when their foundations struggled to stay intact. Finally, not finding an outlet (for it had shut everything off for itself), it returns in a circle, and it swallows up the immense swath of lands and cities in one whirlpool.” (Nat. 3.27.8-9)

This dramatic passage exudes stupefaction, insofar as it paints the flood as a movement beyond the limits of normal human experience: it emphasizes that rivers which are already vasta have

160 Williams (2012), 115. Other interpretations of the use of the present tense in this passage include the idea that it reflects the recurrence of the flood as a “permanent feature of the universe” [Corcoran (1971-2), vol. 1, 271 n. 2], that it emphasizes the narrator’s own absorption in the scene [Castagna (2000), 245], and that it emphasizes the inevitability of the flood, always already written into the logic of the universe [Mazzoli (2005), 176]. 71 flown over their usual riverbeds; the compound verbs superfundere and excessere imply a transgression of normal boundaries; the narrator conjures tide levels of escalating severity

(imagining waters rising to the bases and middles of mountains), each transgressed until the

Danube even touches iuga ipsa. The rhetorical question quid tu esse Rhodanum, quid putas

Rhenum atque Danuuium… draws attention to the irrelevance of a human classificatory control over geography in the face of disaster, and to the inability of our normal system of reasoning to grasp what will occur.161

In emphasizing the immensity of the destruction, however, Seneca draws our attention to geographical vastness: we see the sweeping away of magnarum promuntoria regionum and the ingens terrarum ambitus. The waters are latissimae, and their description nudges our gaze from the bottoms of mountains to their very peaks. Thus, stupefied affect is not in tension with a broadened perspective. Rather, it is the affectively laden description that, in emphasizing the magnitude of devastation, causes us to envision a vast, watery world. However, unlike the serene cosmic perspective, this bird’s-eye view of the deluge forces us to witness our own destruction. After all, we appreciate the magnarum promuntoria regionum and the ingens terrarum ambitus only when they are swallowed up by a violent whirlpool. Thus, rather than reasserting himself through his rational control over the universe, the subject of this affectively charged cosmic viewpoint is rendered more aware of his own fragility and insignificance.

Not only does the stupefied description of the flood encourage readers to take a broadened perspective on the universe, but it also provides a unifying purpose for natural phenomena: the destruction of humankind.162 Seneca continually refers to this purpose

161 It also heightens the dramatic tension of the passage: see Limburg (2007), 163-65; Mazzoli (2005), 175. 162 Thus, the occasion of the flood will be a fatalis dies (Nat. 3.27.1) in two senses: it will be both fated and fatal— see Trinacty (2019), ad loc. Seneca uses the same phrase to describe the end of the world in Thy. 834; this double sense of fatalis is “both liked and used sparingly by Seneca” [Boyle (2017), 195]. Of the fatal fatedness of nature, Boyle (2017), 377 says: “The portrayal here of Natura and Fate… as prime agents of the world’s return to chaos seem to mark this ‘world’s end’ as Stoic… what is not Stoic is the Chorus’ fear.” 72 throughout the flood passage.163 As Inwood argues, the belief that the flood has been conjured specifically in order to destroy mankind is rooted in a compromised human perspective, which refers everything to itself.164 Indeed, a number of scholars have pointed out that this anthropocentric teleology does not correspond to the orthodox Stoic take on ekpyrosis, which occurs cyclically, independent of human affairs, and with a focus on renewal rather than destruction.165 Seneca has modified the usual account to make it all about us. Accordingly, as we will see, articulations of the flood’s purpose are often tinged with stupefaction. When weighing the possible causes of the flood, Seneca asks:

An non sit una tanto malo causa, sed omnis ratio consentiat, et simul imbres cadant, flumina increscant, maria sedibus suis excita procurrant, et omnia uno agmine ad exitium humani generis incumbant. ita est.

“Or will there not be a single reason for such a disaster, but every law will converge, and at the same time the rains will fall, the rivers will grow, the seas will rush forth, stirred up from their usual seats, and all things will press towards the destruction of humankind with a united front? That is the case.” (Nat. 3.27.1)

This passage exhibits the same stupefied affect we have identified in the rest of the flood ekphrasis: the deluge is referred to as tantum malum, in a phrase reflecting both an amazement towards its magnitude and an affective attachment to the human world it will destroy,166 and the swelling of the sea is formulated as a transgression of normal boundaries: sedibus suis excita. At the same time, the description ties together the terrifying phenomena involved in the flood via a single, unifying logic typical of the cosmic viewpoint. No smattering of disjointed occurrences, waters will rise because omnis ratio consentiat and because omnia uno agmine… incumbant:

163 Nat. 3.27.3; 3.28.2; 3.28.7; 3.29.2-5; 3.29.9; 3.30.3; 3.30.7. 164 Inwood (2002), 130. This anthropocentric viewpoint directly contradicts that expressed at e.g. De Ira 2.27.2, where Seneca claims that to view natural phenomena as divine punishments is to esteem oneself too greatly. 165 Waiblinger (1977), 44-53; Mader (1983), 62-66; Gauly (2004), 245-53; Volk (2006), 191-192. For the traditional Stoic view of ekpyrosis, see Long (1985), 25 and Long and Sedley (1987), 275-80. Though it does not reflect Stoic doctrine, the idea of a flood designed to punish mankind for its sins recurs in ancient literature and thought: see Caduff (1986), 205-216. 166 As Trinacty (2019), ad loc notes, the phrase tantum malum is rare in Seneca’s prose but abounds in his tragedies (e.g. Phaed. 360, Oed. 57, Thy. 900). Its use here speaks to the unusually dramatic tone of the flood passage. 73 natural phenomena function as one.167 This unity stems from a shared teleology: ad exitium humani generis. Thus, this stupefied, anthropocentric viewpoint serves to provide unity and meaning to the flood.

The idea that the flood’s anthropocentric, destructive intent provides a sort of logic to the universe is reflected by Seneca’s strategic use of the word ratio, which recurs in the programmatic prefaces of the Natural Questions as a term for cosmic rational unity. In some sense, then, stupefaction over the destruction of the mortal world weaves the flood into a larger, underlying divine logic. However, in the programmatic prefaces and the flood passage, Seneca draws upon two divergent meanings of the word ratio with starkly different implications. For example, in the preface to Book 1, Seneca says of the difference between god and humans: nostri melior pars animus est, in illo nulla pars extra animum est. totus est ratio (“The superior part of us is our mind, in [god] there is nothing but mind. He is entirely reason,” Nat. 1. Praef.

14). Seneca seems to be using ratio and animus interchangeably here to refer to both the logic by which god arranges the world and the process by which we understand this arrangement.

This form of ratio enhances the subject by linking him to a larger divine order. Furthermore, this divine, cosmic “reason” is an active capacity inherent to the subject: Seneca laments that we compromised humans naturam oculis non ratione comprendimus (“grasp nature with our eyes, not our reason,” Nat. 6.3.2). This sense of “reason” denotes a process of intellectual dominance over nature, a subject-affirming act of apprehension. In the passage explaining the converging causes of the flood, on the other hand, ratio seems to mean “reason” purely in the causal sense: a process in the phenomenal world that explains a certain event. (The possible rationes Seneca has discussed have been rising tides, excessive rains, and newly sprouted rivers and springs.)

167 See Trinacty (2019), ad loc: “Elsewhere Seneca argues that the Stoic believe the maker (a.k.a natura, deus) to be the sole cause of action… and, in a sense, that is correct here (on the macro-level) as well.” I wish to emphasize that our sense of a macro-level divine cause is conjured out of our identification of an anthropocentric micro-level cause: the destruction of humankind. 74 The meaning of ratio here implies a completely different form of subjectivity: ratio as “cause” is not a subject’s active faculty, but rather something external, which happens to a passive subject. Thus, the word ratio in this passage points to the possibility of a logically unified world; recalls our ideal selves (melior pars animus est), who should be able to actively share in this reason; and forecloses this ideal, redefining “reason” as an external cause that happens to us. Thus, stupefied subjects can perceive some form of “reason” in the universe; however, this reason has been rewritten in such a way as to leave them impotent and overwhelmed.

In a similar passage, Seneca frames the flood as a shocking aberration from the natural order, coalescing around an anthropocentric purpose:

Per centena milia quibusdam locis aestus excurrit innoxius, et ordinem seruat: ad mensuram enim crescit iterumque decrescit. at illo tempore solutus legibus sine modo fertur. ‘qua ratione?’ inquis. eadem qua conflagratio futura est. utrumque fit cum deo uisum est ordiri meliora, uetera finiri. aqua et ignis terrenis dominantur; ex his ortus, ex his interitus est. ergo quandoque placuere res nouae mundo, sic in nos mare inmittitur desuper, ut feruor ignisque, cum aliud genus exiti placuit.

“In certain places the tide comes inland by a hundred miles without doing any damage, and it preserves the natural order (for it grows to its regular measure and recedes again): but at that time, breaking free from its laws, it progresses without a limit. ‘According to what principle?’ you ask. The same one according to which the conflagration will occur. Each will happen when god has decided that a better order should begin and that the old order should end. Water and fire rule the earth; from these comes its birth, from these its destruction: therefore, when the world has decided on a revolution, the sea is cast over us, as heat and fire do when another type of destruction has been decided upon.” (Nat. 3.28.6-7)

This description reflects the decidedly stupefied position of an ignorant subject. It uses the terms ordo and leges to refer to natural phenomena as they normally appear to humans. If the observable status quo is treated as a law of nature, the flood emerges as a violation of this law rather than its consequence;168 as Berno points out, the framing of the flood as an adynaton

168 As Inwood (2002), 132 puts it, the flood “violates empirically grounded physical theories.” Seneca draws upon the term lex variously throughout his works; Inwood (2005), 229-234 outlines four major usages of the word. According to Inwood, Seneca sometimes uses lex to refer merely to physical regularities (as he does here), and other times to refer to physical regularities with an implied divine reason underlying them (for example, at Ep. 101.5). The non-theological use of lex here underscores the anthropocentric viewpoint expressed. 75 points to our limited understanding of nature’s functioning, since something we understand to be impossible is actually destined to occur.169 At the same time, this adynaton begs for an explanatory ratio, and the only explanation available to a limited human perspective is the anthropocentric ratio of the obliteration of mankind. Unlike in the passage discussed above, the word ratio here does not refer to a physical process, but, similarly to the previous passage, this passage does frame ratio as a cause external to a passive viewer. All agency lies in the hands of a divinity, who “has decided” (visum, placuit) upon a new world order. Thus, shock and horror at the destruction of humanity provide a unifying logic to the universe of the imperfect human.

However, it is a logic that both centers upon humans in such a way as to demonstrate their inability to conceive of a broader perspective, and excludes all human agency, defining ratio as an external causation rather than an internal method of interpreting the universe.

Most importantly, unlike a subject-affirming logic, which ties the eternal reason of the universe to the reason of the sage’s mind, the logic of stupefied affect converges upon the destruction of the subject. At the end of the book, Seneca emphasizes the ethical benefit of this obliteration of humanity: human vice will be eliminated with it (Nat. 3.30.7). Thus, the drowning humans in the flood passage are a literal manifestation of the deflated subjectivity of the student of nature,170 just as scientific study causes individuals to minimize their frivolous worldly selves, so the deluge physically squelches out vice-ridden humans. Though the flood description does not reaffirm human subjects through reason, it does show them the fragility and insignificance of their earthly existence.

169 Berno (2003), 97-99. 170 As Castagna (2000), 243 puts it, the drowning of humankind constitutes a physical “sperdimento dell’io nel tutto.” Castagna also notes that this dissolution of subjectivity is “accompagnato da un moto di sollievo e di liberazione,” though he unfortunately does not elaborate on the nature of this relief. 76 Natural Questions 6: Earthquakes

The opening of Book 6 of the Natural Questions is structured as a letter in response to a recent devastating earthquake in Campania. Having occurred during the winter months, quos uacare a tali periculo maiores nostri solebant promittere (“which our ancestors used to say was free from such dangers,” Nat. 6.1.1), the event has come unexpectedly, revealing the limits of accrued knowledge of natural phenomena. The earthquake has laid low most of Pompeii, much of Herculaneum, and some of Naples. Some witnesses to the event are said to have motae post hoc mentis aliquos atque inpotentes sui errasse (“wandered about, unable to control themselves and with their minds scrambled as a result of this event,” Nat. 6.1.3), epitomizing physical and mental impotence in the face of disaster.

According to Seneca, the situation demands quorum ut causas excutiamus (“that we discuss the causes of these events,” Nat. 6.1.3). After all, quaerenda sunt trepidis solacia, et demendus ingens timor (“solace must be sought for the agitated, and their immense fear must be removed,” Nat. 6.1.4).171 Seneca explicitly endorses the rational process of discovering scientific causes as a way of eliminating fear. However, immediately after this mission statement, he asks a series of rhetorical questions whose style only serves to underline the reasons one might experience fear in response to the natural disaster at hand:

Quid enim cuiquam satis tutum uideri potest, si mundus ipse concutitur et partes eius solidissimae labant, si quod unum immobile est in illo fixumque, ut cuncta in se intenta sustineat, fluctuatur, si quod proprium habet terra perdidit, stare? ubi tandem resident metus nostri? quod corpora receptaculum inuenient, quo sollicita confugient, si ab imo metus nascitur et funditus trahitur?

“For what can seem safe enough to anyone, if the world itself is shaken, and its most solid parts slip away? If the one thing that is immobile and fixed in the world, so as to hold up everything that depends on it, wavers, if the earth loses what it has as its defining characteristic, namely, to stay in one place? When will our fears abate? What shelter will our bodies find, where will they flee in their trepidation, if fear springs from the depths and is drawn up from the bottom?” (Nat. 6.1.4)

171 On the discussion of earthquakes as a consolation, see Ker (2009), 107. 77 As in the flood passage, Seneca’s narrative positioning here reflects the perspective of an epistemically compromised human. Each question in this sequence begins with an appeal to physical phenomena as they normally appear to humans: Seneca refers to the earth as

“immobile” and “fixed,” and claims that its primary characteristic is to stand still.172 From this perspective, the earthquake is framed not as the natural and explicable product of all- encompassing divine reason, but as a disruption of the world as humans understand it.

Accordingly, Seneca adopts a dramatic, fear-inducing tone,173 rendered vivid by a series of repetitive rhetorical questions, which emphasize the destruction that the earthquake will bring and the vulnerability of frightened human bodies (corpora… sollicita), which will be unable to find shelter. He presents himself as sharing the unchecked fears of his readers (metus nostri), appropriating the emotion he aims to work against. Finally, fear itself is configured as a physical process: it rises from the depths of the earth in such a way as to prevent our bodies from finding shelter anywhere. Seneca thus reifies fear as phenomenal aspect of the natural world. The world that emerges from this description is a far cry from the universe, as it is observed by the cosmic viewer, whose regular laws should induce serenity and function as an antidote to fear.

Indeed, Seneca both describes agitated and fearful individuals and, through his narrative, amplifies their reasons for fear. Among human populations, consternatio omnium est ubi tecta crepuerunt et ruina signum dedit. tunc praeceps quisque se proripit et penates suos deserit ac se publico credit (“there is confusion on the part of all when houses have creaked and ruin has alerted us to its approach. Then each person casts himself headlong, and deserts his household, and entrusts himself to the outdoors,” Nat. 6.1.5). Physical collapse causes a pervasive anxiety and a loss of self-control among individuals who rashly fling themselves outdoors and entrust

172 For the illusion of stability as a product of human ignorance, see Berno (2003), 252-3. 173 See Williams (2012), 218-219 and Berno (2003), 243-4 for more on the terror-inducing tone of the description and its rootedness in a limited epistemic perspective. 78 themselves to whatever they might find. Yet rather than abating this anxiety, Seneca emphasizes the magnitude of physical destruction, contrasting the earthquake’s all-consuming ruin with military attacks, fire, and thunder, all of which can be escaped and therefore pale in comparison to the disaster at hand (Nat. 6.2.6-7). Unlike other disasters, hoc malum latissime patet, ineuitabile, auidum, publice noxium. non enim domos solum aut familias aut urbes singulas haurit: gentes totas regionesque submergit (“this misfortune extends far and wide, inevitable, insatiable, deadly for everyone. For it not only guzzles homes or families or individual cities; it submerges peoples and entire regions,” Nat. 6.1.7). This crescendo of destruction, devastating larger and larger groups, and the heaping of negative adjectives onto the imminent malum serve to underscore the reasons for human fears of earthquakes rather than assuage them.

In sections 6.1.10-15, Seneca begins a process, which will be articulated explicitly at

6.2.1-2, of transforming the pointed fear of earthquakes into a sort of generalized anxiety, which, since it has no specific object, cannot direct human action. Seneca has no patience for istos qui Campaniae renuntiauerunt quique post hunc casum emigrauerunt negantque ipsos umquam in illam regionem accessuros (“those who have renounced Campania and who, after this disaster, have emigrated, and who deny that they will ever return to that district,” Nat.

6.1.10). These individuals’ fear has an excessively narrow object: they act in response to hic casus and refuse to return to illa regio, the deictics emphasizing the pointed specificity of this emotion. Instead, they must learn to see the risk inherent to every possible location: hunc fortasse in quo securius consistis locum haec nox aut hic ante noctem dies scindet… erramus enim si ullam terrarum partem exceptam immunemque ab hoc periculo credimus (“perhaps this night, or, before night, this day, will split in half this place in which you stand confidently… for we are wrong, if we believe that any part of the earth is exempt or immune from this danger,”

Nat. 6.1.11-12). The escalating temporal immediacy of the earthquake and its omnipresent danger serve to increase the scope of our fear, but to deprive it of a specific object. Without a 79 single outlet, fear can no longer define human action: men who fear everything have no reason to escape Campania in particular. Of course, Seneca does not want us to feel active, acute fear towards all geographical locations—his prose is directed against those who let fear drive their decisions. However, his method for discouraging this active panic consists in escalation rather than eradication: in pointing out the dangers inherent to all locations, he dulls any specific anxiety about Campania’s particular risks.

Strikingly, Seneca interrupts his description to justify the expanding terror of his prose.

He exclaims:

Quid ago? solacium aduersus pericula rara promiseram: ecce undique timenda denuntio. nego quicquam esse quietis aeternae; quod perire possit, et perdere. ego uero hoc ipsum solacii loco pono, et quidem ualentissimi, quoniam quidem sine remedio timor stultis est: ratio terrorem prudentibus excutit, imperitis magna fit ex desperatione securitas. hoc itaque generi humano dictum puta quod illis subita capiuitate inter ignes et hostem stupentibus dictum est: ‘una salus uictis nullam sperare salutem.’

“What am I doing? I had promised comfort against rare dangers: now look, I am reporting things to be feared on all sides. I deny that anything has a share in eternal peace; what can be ruined can also destroy. But I treat this fact as a comfort, and indeed a very effective one, since inescapable fear is for foolish people.174 Reason shakes out fear from the wise, but, for the ignorant, relief comes out of great desperation. So, consider this thing, which was said to men stunned by sudden captivity between fire and enemies, to have been said to the human race: ‘The one salvation of the conquered is not to hope for salvation.’” (Nat. 6.2.1-2)

174 The phrase is emended and translated in various ways. Hine has emended the phrase in such a way as to make the implication of redemption through fear explicit: his translation reads, adding Along these same lines, Bailey’s text reads sine remedio timor stultis est [Bailey (1979), 453-4]. Corcoran (1971-1972), vol.2, 135 preserves the same meaning without emending the text: he treats sine remedio as attributive to timor, and stultis as a dative of possession (“fear without remedy is what foolish men have”). According to these readings, the stulti and the imperiti are one and the same, and they stand to benefit from extreme fear; the earthquake description is aimed at them. On the other hand, Parroni (2002), 349 takes sine remedio as predicative and reads exclusivity into the dative stultis: “Solo per gli stolti il timore è senza rimedio.” Oltramare (1961), vol. 2, 252 does the same: “Car c’est pour les sots qu’il n’est pas de remède contre la peur.” According to Parroni (2002), 575, Seneca dismisses the stulti for whom fear has no remedy, and the earthquake passage is geared towards neither the stulti nor the prudentes, but towards a third category of people: the imperiti, for whom fear does have a remedy. Parroni’s interpretation strikes me as less likely than Hine’s, Bailey’s, and Corcoran’s, since the sine rimedio timor of the stulti seems equivalent to the magna desperatio of the imperiti—I do not see a distinction between the two groups. In any case, whether Seneca has outlined a total of three groups or two, in all the above interpretations, Seneca justifies his prose style (Quid ago?) with the promise of paradoxical relief through extreme fear (magna fit ex desperatione securitas) for some group (either the stulti and the imperiti together or just the imperiti) that is contrasted to and less lofty than the prudentes. 80 Seneca acknowledges the affective effect of his prose: he has characterized his surroundings as undique timenda, a tactic which might appear to aggravate the initial, sparser problem of fearing pericula rara, and he has stripped the human world of quies aeterna. Nevertheless, Seneca sees a benefit to excess affect. He explicitly justifies his dramatized prose with reference to the split between idealized wisdom and the reality of human ignorance: whereas the wise man will learn to overcome fear through reason, the ignorant person can find a sort of solacium in universal fear.175 He appeals to a Vergilian176 image of men stupefied, as in the flood passage, by the number of dangers surrounding them (fires on one side, enemies on the other). In recognizing that they cannot be redeemed (nullam sperare salutem), they paradoxically reach a sort of salvation. This stuplime form of anxiety deprives the subject of all potential outlets or forms of redemption: he looks upon his weakness in the face of an overwhelming world without any hope of remedium or salus. However, this passivity translates into a form of solacium.

The anxiety endorsed by Seneca spreads as the book continues: not only can earthquakes occur anywhere, but they are one of myriad possible deaths. A head-cold can kill us, as can a catarrh, or even a split fingernail (Nat. 6.2.4-5). This harping on the ubiquity of death is a useful exercise to the extent that si uultis nihil timere, cogitate omnia esse metuenda (“if you want to fear nothing, consider that all things are to be feared,” Nat. 6.2.3). Williams reads Seneca’s initial panicked attitude towards earthquakes as a case of “amplification before reduction,” and he interprets this paragraph’s reminder that danger lies everywhere as a form of “reduction by

175 See Limburg (2007), 314: “Liberation from fear by means of scientific discussion (for the wise ones) is sought in the main part of the book, and liberation from fear by means of an ethical lesson (for the less intelligent ones) is found in preface and epilogue.” On this “dual audience,” see also Inwood (2002), 138-9. 176 Verg. A. 2.354. Seneca frequently cites poetry in order to extract Stoic meaning from it—see Setaioli (1965) and Batinski (1993). However, in the Natural Questions, citations from Ovid and Vergil provide the additional function of heightening the drama of the prose—see Parroni (2012) and De Vivo (1992). Parroni (2012), 19 argues that the heightened drama expresses the intense emotion involved in scientific discovery: “La conquista di una ‘verità’ scientifica… o il rifiuto di una teoria che non regge sono vissuti dallo scienziato come momenti di forte tensione della mente e insieme di forte partecipazione sentimentale.” In my reading, then, Seneca combines these two functions of poetry, which serves as both a source of drama and as a purveyor of Stoic truths, reading into Vergil and Ovid a quasi-Stoic but affectively saturated ethics. 81 locating the specific event within a normalizing context of cognate phenomena.”177 He thus sees the passages emphasizing widespread threat of death as a triumph of reason over natural phenomena, exhibiting a positive Kantian sublime distinct from the “passive submission to nature’s power” manifest in the initial description of the Campanian earthquake.178 However,

Seneca himself has framed the passage as an expansion, not a neutralizing, of fear (omnia metuenda), a form of salvation to be gained through magna… desperatione, and geared not towards wise men but towards stulti. Thus, the recognition of ever-present danger is not a case of reduction, but one of amplification, facilitated by affect rather than reason.

While I do not see the pervasive anxiety facilitated by Seneca’s style at 6.2.1-9 as a reflection of a rationalized cosmic viewpoint, I do agree that it shares some structural similarities with the sublime perspective. First of all, as Williams points out, it involves a broadening of perspectives: 179 whereas the pointedly afraid subject focuses on one object, the anxious subject sees a cosmos’ worth of dangers, encompassing the entire geographical world— the earthquake is an omnis soli vitium (“a flaw of every land,” Nat. 6.1.15)—but also the various illnesses within the human body. Furthermore, this broadened perspective necessitates an understanding on the part of the fearful human that omnes sub eadem iacent lege, nihil ita ut inmobile esset natura concepit (“all [places] lie under the same law, nature made nothing immobile,” Nat. 6.1.12). When the subject realizes he has reason to fear wherever he goes, he will embrace the very Stoic conclusion that the universe is governed by a single law. Thus, anxiety provides a sort of unifying logic to the universe. However, the only unifying logic the anxious subject can confer upon his surroundings is the logic of his own imminent destruction: the universe is held together logically by its volatility and imminent danger to humans.

177 Williams (2012), 219. 178 Williams (2012), 225. 179 Williams (2012), 225. 82 Furthermore, the anxious subject learns to see himself as a part of this all-encompassing logic of destruction. Seneca emphasizes that nullum maius solacium est mortis quam ipsa mortalitas, nullum autem omnium istorum quae extrinsecus terrent quam quod innumerabilia pericula in ipso sinu sunt (“there is no greater comfort in the face of death than mortality itself; moreover, there is no greater comfort in the face of those things which terrify us from without than the fact that there are innumerable dangers within our very breasts,” Nat. 6.2.6). Seneca has established that every element of the cosmos is bent towards man’s destruction; here, his readers are reminded that they are no exception to this unifying law, since they, too, contain dangers.

The terror the subject derives from the outside world can also be derived from within: he is thus subsumed into a perverse, affective version of the rational universum of the cosmic viewer. Just as the sage recognizes that his mind is a “piece broken off” (apospasma)180 of cosmic rationality, the proficiens perceives his body as a “piece broken off” from a universe’s worth of terrifying dangers. Because this unity is based upon the subject’s terror at his own demise, it cannot reaffirm his subjectivity and dominance over nature, as cosmic apospasma does. Instead, reminds the proficiens the fragility of humanity.

We might also re-read the opening description of the earthquake as a reflection of this affectively-tinged version of Stoic apospasma. According to Seneca, during the earthquake, ab imo metus nascitur (“fear springs from the depths,” Nat. 6.1.4)—as I stated above, fear is configured as a quasi-physical feature of the earth. Here, I want to emphasize that the fear within the earth harmonizes with the fear experienced by an individual. In the first chapter of this dissertation, I emphasized that the sage’s rationality partakes in the all-consuming rationality of the cosmos; in this passage, on the other hand, the individual’s fear shares in a fear inherent to nature. The rationality of the cosmos foregrounded in Chapter 1 should, technically

180 See p. 22 above. 83 and ideally speaking, exist outside the individual. In this description, however, the “fear” residing in the earth is explicitly a projection of the individual’s subjective affective state— metus exists only subjectively. Nevertheless, though this shared fear is affectively problematic and ontologically chimerical, it promotes a sense of sympathy between the individual and his world.

Seneca leverages the natural law of the anxious individual for his own ethical ends.

Constant fear diminishes the subject, who is easily destroyed in the face of the slightest danger:181 iam intellegetis nugatoria esse nos et inbecilla corpuscula, fluida, non magna molitione perdenda (“you will soon understand that we are paltry and feeble little bodies, soft, to be destroyed by the slightest effort,” Nat. 6.2.3). Seneca contrasts this subject-denying generalized anxiety to specific fears, which he associates with the overinflated subject: magni se aestimat qui fulmina et motus terrarum hiatusque formidat! (“he who fears lightning, earthquakes, and gaping holes in the ground thinks of himself highly!” Nat. 6.2.4). In other words, fear of natural disasters implies immunity from other forms of death and constitutes an overestimation of the self.182 On the other hand, the recognition of these omnipresent dangers instigates a healthy sense of the fragility and insignificance of the human subject.

After his excursus on anxiety as a tool for the ignorant, Seneca returns to the logic of wise men:

Nobis autem ignorantibus uerum omnia terribiliora sunt, utique quorum metum raritas auget. leuius accidunt familiaria, at ex insolito formido maior est. quare autem quicquam nobis insolitum est? quia naturam oculis non ratione comprendimus, nec cogitamus quid illa facere possit sed tantum quid fecerit… nihil horum sine timore miramur. Et cum timendi sit causa nescire, non est tanti scire, ne timeas? quanto satius est causas inquirere, et quidem toto in hoc intentum animo!

“All these phenomena are even more terrifying to us because we are ignorant, since their rarity increases our fear; things that are familiar to us affect us less; a greater fear comes

181 See Berno (2003), 247. 182 As Parroni (2002), XXI puts it, the belief that we should fear individual disasters is a “sciocco atto di presunzione.” See also Williams (2012), 228. 84 from unusual things. But why is anything unusual to us? Because we grasp nature with our eyes, not with our reason, and we do not understand what nature is capable of, but only what it has done… We marvel at none of these phenomena without fear. And since the cause of fear is ignorance, is it not worthwhile to have knowledge, in order not to fear? It is much more valuable to investigate causes, intent on this with one’s entire mind!” (Nat. 6.3.2-4)

This passage explicitly articulates the rational process of affective detachment by which the cosmic viewer achieves serenity: by understanding the laws of nature via reason, the wise man overcomes his entrenchment in the phenomenal world, is surprised by nothing, and consequently fears nothing. This rational route to affective flattening is, of course, starkly different from the oversaturated affective dulling through excess fear presented in the opening passage of this book. While the latter approach is geared, in Seneca’s own words, towards the stulti, the former applies to the prudentes. The rest of Book 6 follows through with the tactics of wise men: it consists in an academic discussion of the possible causes of earthquakes, with

Seneca ultimately positing that the underground movements of compressed air are the most likely explanation for the phenomenon (Nat. 6.13.3-5).183

The above statement on the eradication of fear through reason, combined with the scientific discussion that defines most of the book, has caused a number of scholars to dismiss the role of anxiety as articulated at the opening of the book. Both De Vivo and Berno see it merely as a stepping stone to rational affective flattening,

“una sorta di prima tappa di un percorso didattico che conduce l’allievo dall’ingenua rappresentazione spaventosa dei fenomeni alla conoscenza scientifica e razionale di essi, cui consegue la fine della paura.”184

Of course, I will not deny that the rational method of conquering the fear of death is consistently glorified in the Natural Questions, over and above the affective oversaturation that provides

183For the many ways in which this scientific discussion facilitates a cosmic viewpoint, see Williams (2012), 230- 251. 184 Berno (2003), 244-5. See also De Vivo (2012), 100; Inwood (2002), 140: “Seneca moves smoothly through a gamut of emotional and intellectual stages… until the deepest motivation is unveiled.” 85 solace to fools. However, as I hope to have shown, anxiety has a philosophical function in its own right: totalizing fear not only helps the flawed subject overcome the fear of death, but also broadens his perspective, creating a sort of cosmic anxiousness that bears some resemblance to

Senecan sublimity.

Furthermore, given the near-impossibility of attaining totalizing omniscience, we should treat the alternative, affectively overwhelming approach to the eradication of fears as more than a flawed starting-point. The ending of Book 6 illustrates the weight which Seneca grants to anxiety in overcoming human fears. After an extended discussion of the causes of earthquakes,

Seneca concludes:

Haec, Lucili uirorum optime, quantum ad ipsas causas: illa nunc quae ad confirmationem animorum pertinent, quos magis refert nostra fortiores fieri quam doctiores; sed alterum sine altero non fit. non enim aliunde animo uenit robur quam a bonis artibus, quam a contemplatione naturae. quem non hic ipse casus aduersus omnes firmauerit et erexerit? quid est enim cur ego hominem aut feram, quid est cur sagittam aut lanceam tremam? maiora me pericula expectant: fulminibus et terris et magnis naturae partibus petimur… hoc senectus ablatura est, hoc auriculae dolor, hoc umoris in nobis corrupti abundantia, hoc cibus parum obsequens stomacho, hoc pes leuiter offensus.

“So much for these causes, Lucilius, best of men: now to those things which pertain to the strengthening of minds. It is more important that our minds become braver than that they become more learned. But one cannot happen without the other; for strength does not come from anywhere other than the liberal arts and the study of nature. Did this very disaster not strengthen and build up each man against all disasters? Why should I tremble at man or beast, why should I tremble at arrow or lance? Greater dangers await me. We are assailed by lightning and earthquakes and the vast parts of nature… Old age will take away [life], an earache will take it away, as will an excess of corrupt moisture in us, food that does not agree with our stomachs, a foot slightly injured.” (Nat. 6.32.1-3)

Seneca prioritizes his ethical aims over his scientific ones: his main aim is to fortify human minds in the face of fear-inducing objects. He begins by claiming that academic studies are indispensable for the eradication of fear, which can be achieved only through the bonae artes and the contemplatio naturae. However, he follows this claim with a disjointed and inappropriate example: Seneca recalls for Lucilius not the academic discussions of natural causes that occupy the bulk of Book 6, but ipse casus, namely, the terrifying earthquake in 86 Campania that opened the book. By referring to a specific earthquake rather than general principles concerning them, Seneca pulls his student back into the phenomenal world, and into all the affects inherent to it. Next, he repeats, in miniature, the same argument he had presented at the opening of book six: we are feeble, death awaits us at every turn, and we have no reason to fear anything specific. Ultimately, then, though most of the book is filled with rational explanations, Seneca cannot fully escape the logic of the stulti. He returns to anxiety at the end of the book, undermining any sense of teleological progression towards pure rationality with an affective ring composition.185 The opening of book six attributes anxiety to fools, but its ending reminds us that even those who have grappled rationally with scientific explanations may find themselves turning to foolish sources of comfort.

Immediately after this revival of the logic of the stulti, Seneca launches into a praise of affective flattening:

Pusilla res est hominis anima, sed ingens res contemptus animae. hanc qui contempsit securus uidebit maria turbari, etiamsi illa omnes excitauerunt uenti, etiamsi aestus aliqua perturbatione mundi totum in terras uertet oceanum. securus aspiciet fulminantis caeli trucem atque horridam faciem, frangatur licet caelum et ignes suos in exitium omnium, in primis suum, misceat. securus aspiciet ruptis compagibus dehiscens solum, illa licet inferorum regna retegantur. stabit super illam uoraginem intrepidus, et fortasse quo debebit cadere desiliet.

“The soul of man is a paltry thing, but contempt for the soul is an extraordinary thing: he who has contempt for it will watch untroubled as the seas are disturbed, even if every wind shakes them, even if, in some disturbance of the world, a tide turns the entire ocean onto the land; untroubled he will watch the grim and frightful spectacle of the flashing sky, although the sky might shatter and rally its fires for the destruction of everything, especially its own destruction; untroubled he will watch the earth gaping when its structure is broken, although the kingdoms of the underworld might be uncovered. He will stand unafraid over that chasm, and perhaps he will jump where he will eventually have to fall.” (Nat. 6.32.4)

185 Both Berno (2003), 241 and De Vivo (2012), 100 characterize the beginning and ending of Book 6 as constitutive of a ring composition, but only to the extent that both sections prioritize the moral end of the eradication of fears; they claim that the means by which the reader learns to eradicate fears has changed by the end, whereas I wish to emphasize that Seneca has in fact returned to the method of consolation he expounded at the beginning. 87 The word securus recurs at the beginning of almost every clause, emphasizing the ethical importance of affective flattening. We are left uncertain, however, as to what form of securitas

Seneca recalls here. On the one hand, the initial statement that ingens res contemptus animae heavily recalls the reaffirmed subjectivity of the cosmic viewer, whose contempt of humanity elevates him to a state of vast expansion. His securitas stems from a straightforward affective detachment through reason. On the other hand, the previous paragraph emphasizing the ubiquity of dangers might invite us to reinterpret this securitas as the solacium granted to fools in their magna desperatio. The miniature descriptions of natural disasters embedded in this characterization of the untroubled spectator invite an accordingly ambivalent reading. These descriptions are frightening: Seneca hyperbolically imagines a conspiracy of omnes venti and totus oceanus culminating in a perturbatio mundi; the sight of lightning is described as trucis and horrida; a collapse of the earth might even lay bare the underworld. Should we imagine this affective charge as a testament to the strength of the rational cosmic viewer, who remains unperturbed even in the face of the most terrifying objects? Or could an affectively immersed spectator draw a sense of resigned, passive calm not despite but because of the terrors with which he is faced? After all, the sky appears to be plummeting in exitium omnium, reminding the subject of his own impotence in the face of nature and the inescapability of his own destruction. Seneca has primed us to understand both forms of tranquility here: the affectively detached, and the affectively overstimulated.

Conclusion

The Senecan proficiens is driven by his lack. He strives asymptotically towards the unattainable fantasy of sagehood, that is, of an exalted and coherent subjectivity that is unified with the cosmos and pervaded by rationality. The gap between imperfect humans and the ideals towards which they strive is stuffed with what Ngai would call ugly feelings: stupor, anxiety, incomprehension, speechlessness, grief over and attachment to frivolous things, all of which 88 stand in the way of the subject’s affirmation in an idealized form. At the same time, we have seen that, by clinging to this lack, the subject may construct a warped system of ethics and cosmology around it. He may overcome the fear of death through his sheer inability to feel such a pointed emotion, and he may grasp a unified law of the cosmos constructed around the kernel of his own insignificance. Through their paradoxical motions and transformations, ugly feelings have didactic potential for the imperfect subject.

89 Chapter 3: Comets and Seneca’s Double Miratio

Introduction: Models of Wonder

The first and second chapters of this dissertation treat the elevated emotions of the sage and the ethically questionable feelings of the imperfect human, respectively. Neither of these chapters concentrates upon a fixed Latin term or set of terms—in both cases, I apply my own terms, such as “enchantment” or “anxiety,” to the sorts of feelings that cluster around the two main subject positions that pervade the Natural Questions. This chapter, however, will focus upon Seneca’s use of the word miratio in order to designate a certain set of affective experiences. Strikingly, as we will see, this term could easily describe either wise enchantment, grouped with the sage’s affects in Chapter 1, or ignorant stupefaction, a compromised affect described in Chapter 2. Indeed, wonder, and its ancient equivalents, thauma and miratio, have markedly ambivalent valences. 186

In the works of Plato, Aristotle, and various Stoic philosophers, wonder is divergently defined as a state of ignorance to be replaced with scientific knowledge, or as a state of religious elevation and enlightenment, in which the subject glimpses signs of the divine order. I will begin by briefly summarizing these two main conceptions of thauma and miratio, providing examples from major authors. Next, I will discuss the ways in which Seneca draws upon both of these traditions, pitting them against each other in order to negotiate the relationship between the enlightened subject and his imperfect counterpart.

186 See Hepburn (1980), 1: “The chronicled objects of wonder display a prodigious diversity. They have included the products of freedom and intelligence and the products of chance: the inexplicably mysterious as well as the intelligible structures discovered in nature: not only the remote but the familiar too: the enduring and the eternal, but also the changing and ephemeral;” Kenaan and Ferber (2011), 7: “Wonder, consequently, is not a monolithic mood, but grounds philosophy by resonating the twofold structure of its response to the mystery of the world. It causes our fascination and captivation with the world to resonate while concomitantly responding to a fundamental discontent vis-à-vis what escapes explanation. Another way to put this is to say that wonder harbors both proximity and distance, both a passionate attraction and a resistance to the powers of fascination.”

90 In a famous passage from the Theaetetus, Socrates characterizes wonder as the beginning of philosophy. When presented with a series of numerical puzzles, Theaetetus remarks, ὑπερφυῶς ὡς θαυµάζω τί ποτ’ ἐστὶ ταῦτα, καὶ ἐνίοτε ὡς ἀληθῶς βλέπων εἰς αὐτὰ

σκοτοδινιῶ (“how greatly I wonder what on earth these things mean, and, truly, how dizzy I become sometimes when I consider them,” Tht. 155c). Socrates responds:

Θεόδωρος γάρ, ὦ φίλε, φαίνεται οὐ κακῶς τοπάζειν περὶ τῆς φύσεώς σου. µάλα γὰρ φιλοσόφου τοῦτο τὸ πάθος, τὸ θαυµάζειν: οὐ γὰρ ἄλλη ἀρχὴ φιλοσοφίας ἢ αὕτη, καὶ ἔοικεν ὁ τὴν Ἶριν Θαύµαντος ἔκγονον φήσας οὐ κακῶς γενεαλογεῖν.

“It seems to me that Theodorus was not mistaken in assessing your nature. For this feeling, wonder, is characteristic of a philosopher. You see, there is no other beginning of philosophy than this one, and the person who said that Iris was the child of Thaumas seems not to have traced her genealogy badly.” (Tht. 155d)

In this passage, the experience of thauma marks Theaetetus’ ignorance, his vertiginous disorientation in the face of an intellectual stumbling-block. Socrates assures Theaetetus that this dizzy amazement at the unknown constitutes the beginning of his philosophical journey, presumably because it will push him to search for knowledge and understanding—as the messenger of heaven, Iris represents the divine knowledge that wonder, her father Thaumas, might spur. Nevertheless, the feeling of wonder is linked to an initial state of ignorance.187

Echoing this Platonic antecedent,188 Aristotle presents a history of knowledge beginning with human wonder:

διὰ γὰρ τὸ θαυµάζειν οἱ ἄνθρωποι καὶ νῦν καὶ τὸ πρῶτον ἤρξαντο φιλοσοφεῖν, ἐξ ἀρχῆς µὲν τὰ πρόχειρα τῶν ἀτόπων θαυµάσαντες, εἶτα κατὰ µικρὸν οὕτω προϊόντες καὶ περὶ τῶν µειζόνων διαπορήσαντες, οἷον περί τε τῶν τῆς σελήνης παθηµάτων καὶ τῶν περὶ τὸν ἥλιον καὶ ἄστρα καὶ περὶ τῆς τοῦ παντὸς γενέσεως. ὁ δ’ ἀπορῶν καὶ θαυµάζων οἴεται ἀγνοεῖν.

187 See Chrysakopoulou (2013), 94-5: “In this ecstatic mental state, as if magnetized by the depths of ignorance, the soul feels as if it is falling into things it fails to grasp. Paradoxically, this vertiginous feeling of losing focus is the only possible first ground of philosophizing, its only beginning;” Llewelyn (2001), 51: “Interrogative or aporetic wonderment is based then on a sense of one's ignorance, where the ignorance is not any absence of knowledge, but an ignorance that challenges us to dispel it because it is presented dramatically in the form of an apparent contradiction or dilemma and is therefore difficult to live with;” Green (2004), 57-62; Nightingale (2017), 40-41. 188 Ross (1924), 123. 91 “Both today and from the very start, men began to philosophize because of wonder; at first, they wondered about the most immediate of the strange phenomena, and then, little by little, they progressed and puzzled over greater things, such as about the properties of the moon, sun, and stars, and about the creation of the world. He who is at a loss and amazed believes that he is ignorant.” (Metaph. 982b)

Aristotle’s thauma, like Plato’s, is a marker of ignorance (ἀγνοεῖν). Both authors view thauma as a locus of potential for the development of wisdom—philosophical and scientific inquiry begins with a sense of wonder that spurs a line of questioning. Aristotle, however, explicitly claims that, in motivating such questioning, wonder will ultimately replace itself with knowledge, its (superior) opposite:

δεῖ µέντοι πως καταστῆναι τὴν κτῆσιν αὐτῆς εἰς τοὐναντίον ἡµῖν τῶν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ζητήσεων. ἄρχονται µὲν γάρ, ὥσπερ εἴποµεν, ἀπὸ τοῦ θαυµάζειν πάντες εἰ οὕτως ἔχει, καθάπερ <περὶ> τῶν θαυµάτων ταὐτόµατα [τοῖς µήπω τεθεωρηκόσι τὴν αἰτίαν] ἢ περὶ τὰς τοῦ ἡλίου τροπὰς ἢ τὴν τῆς διαµέτρου ἀσυµµετρίαν (θαυµαστὸν γὰρ εἶναι δοκεῖ πᾶσι <τοῖς µήπω τεθεωρηκόσι τὴν αἰτίαν> εἴ τι τῷ ἐλαχίστῳ µὴ µετρεῖται): δεῖ δὲ εἰς τοὐναντίον καὶ τὸ ἄµεινον κατὰ τὴν παροιµίαν ἀποτελευτῆσαι.

“Therefore, it is necessary that the acquisition of knowledge bring about the opposite state for us to the one we had when we first approached the matter. For, as we said, everyone begins from wondering that things are a certain way, for example, in the case of marionettes, for those who have not perceived the cause of their motion, or the turning of the sun, or the incommensurability of a diagonal (for, when something cannot be measured by its smallest unit, it seems amazing to those who have not perceived the cause). But, as they say, it is necessary to end in the opposite state and the better state.” (Metaph. 983a)

For both Plato and Aristotle, then, wonder may be a marker of ignorance while also holding the potential to usher in philosophical and scientific knowledge.189 However, Aristotle emphasizes that, though wonder can guide us towards inquiry, it is ultimately opposed and inferior to the knowledge of causes.190

189 This same attitude takes a central place in Datson and Park’s account of wonder from the High Middle Ages to the Enlightenment: “But before and after this moment [of Descartes and Bacon], wonder and wonders hovered at the edge of scientific inquiry. Indeed, they defined those edges, both objectively and subjectively. Wonders as objects marked the outermost limits of the natural. Wonder as a passion registered the line between the known and the unknown” [Datson and Park (1998), 13]. 190 See Nightingale (2001), 43-53; Pinotti (1989), 34-43. See Jouanna (1992), 223-254 for a similar interpretation of the role of wonder in the Hippocratic corpus. 92 At the same time, wonder need not always be opposed to knowledge. Though the passage from the Theaetetus cited above associates thauma with the protagonists’ confusion,

Plato also conceives of another form of wonder, based upon a knowledge and appreciation of divine. For example, Nightingale argues that Plato adapts the common religious practice of theoria, in which the marvelous sight of a festival or shrine imbues witnesses with special understanding: in texts such as the Republic and the Symposium, the apprehension of divine forms constitutes a wondrous and divine vision on the model of theoria.191 Chrysakopoulou makes a similar point, claiming that, for Plato, philosophy not only begins but also ends in wonder: “such then is the task of the philosopher’s midwife, namely to reawaken the beatific vision of true being in the soul of the beholder.”192 In fact, Seneca’s own account of Plato’s forms in the Epistulae Morales foregrounds the importance of miratio in uncovering divine truths: miremur in sublimi volitantes rerum omnium formas deumque inter illa versantem (“let us be amazed at the forms of all things, flying about on high, and at the god who dwells among them,” Ep. 58.27). This Platonic miratio towards the forms is contrasted with the contempt we ought to feel towards earthly things: contemnamus omnia, quae adeo pretiosa non sunt, ut an sint omninuo, dubium sit (“let us have contempt for all things which are so worthless as to make us doubt whether they exist at all,” Ep. 58.28). Thus, wonder is associated not only with a knowledge of the forms, but also with the lofty and detached subject position that follows from this knowledge. Overall, then, wonder as a marker of ignorance coexists with a knowledgeable and spiritually enlightened counterpart.193

191 Nightingale (2001). E.g. see Symposium 210e. 192 Chrysakopoulou (2013), 107. See also Nightingale (2017), 43: “In the allegory of the cave, then, the philosopher… feels shocked by his ignorance and moral blindness… and he also feels the pathos of wonder about higher, metaphysical realities.” 193 See Sideris (2017), 1-13 for the coexistence and competition of these two forms of wonder in modern-day environmental literature and rhetoric. In opposition to popular authors such as Richard Dawkins, who argues that true wonder stems from our knowledge of natural patterns and laws, Sideris claims that there are legitimate ethical environmental benefits to experiencing wonder in response to the unknown. 93 The latter type of miratio is prominent among Stoic thinkers, for whom the perception of natural regularities is tinged with a feeling of enlightened wonder. Zeno, Chrysippus, and

Cleanthes draw upon our experience of wonder (denoted by thauma or miratio) in the face of a beautiful and orderly cosmos as proof of the existence of the concept of god.194 While other sources support the existence of such an argument among orthodox Stoic thinkers,195 the connection between wonder and the rational order of the cosmos is rendered most explicitly in

Book 2 of Cicero’s De Natura Deorum. Citing the theories of Cleanthes and Chrysippus, the

Stoic spokesman Balbus highlights the marvelous order of the stars and planets, which could not exist without the hand of a rational and beneficent deity. First, Balbus lists Cleanthes’ four main arguments for the existence of the concept of god, of which

quartam causam esse eamque vel maximam aequabilitatem motus conversionem caeli, solis lunae siderumque omnium distinctionem utilitatem pulchritudinem ordinem.

“the fourth and most important cause [of our belief in god] is the regularity of the motion and the most constant turning of the heavens, and the distinction, the utility, the beauty, the order of the sun, moon, and all the stars.” (N.D. 2.15)

Similarly, Balbus cites Chrysippus as having argued that res caelestes omnesque eae, quarum est ordo sempiternus, ab homine confici non possunt (“heavenly bodies and all those other things whose order is eternal cannot be created by man,” N.D. 2.16).

Balbus evidently draws upon these orthodox Stoic ideas throughout the rest of the book, where he gives miratio a central role in our subjective apprehension of the divinely designed cosmos. He describes the stars thus:

Maxume vero sunt admirabiles motus earum quinque stellarum quae falso vocantur errantes; nihil enim errat quod in omni aeternitate conservat progressus et regressus reliquosque motus constantis et ratos.

194 See Algra (2003), 161; Boys-Stones (1998), 171-2. For non-Stoic precedents to this sort of argument, see Pl. Lg. 10.876; Epin. 982; Arist. Cael. 1. 3. According to both Dragona-Monachou (1976), 91 and Meijer (2007), 47-8, Cleanthes’ position was directly influenced by an argument by Aristotle, cited in S.E. Phys. I.22, which posits that our notion of god derives from our apprehension of the regular motions of the sun and stars. 195 E.g. Aëtius Plac. I.6 (=SVF 2.1009); S.E. M, 9.99 (=SVF 2.1015). 94

“Most amazing are the movements of the five planets,196 which are erroneously called ‘wandering;’ for nothing wanders, which, for all eternity, keeps its movements forward, backward, and in every other direction constant and regular.” (N.D. 2.51)

Consistency and cyclical predictability form the core of this wondrous aesthetic, whose motions are described as constantes and rati, and whose regularities are preserved in omni aeternitate.

Pease points out that the balance of progressus et regressus exemplifies a balancing of words denoting opposite motion that recurs frequently in this chapter: Cicero’s own style thus mimics the stars’ marvelously cyclical regularity.197 This form of miratio allows for variation in the appearance and behavior of phenomena, which exhibit a wide range of traits, but always with the stipulation that this variation ultimately follow a predictable pattern. For example, Balbus describes Saturn’s course as follows:

multa mirabiliter efficiens tum antecedendo tum retardando, tum vespertinis temporibus delitiscendo tum matutinis rursum se aperiendo nihil inmutat sempiternis saeclorum aetatibus.

“Bringing about many things wonderfully, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing down, sometimes disappearing in the evening hours, sometimes reappearing in the morning, but it does not diverge at all throughout the many ages of eternity.” (N.D. 2.52)

Saturn’s varied movements only seems to render its ultimate cyclical immutability and regularity even more striking—this order is thus the prime object of our amazement. This fixation upon the regularity of the planets glosses over an epistemological problem in ancient astronomy: although, beginning in the fifth century, ancient astronomers understood on an abstract level that the motions of the planets were regular and cyclical, specific aspects of planetary motion (such as apparent retrograde motion) nevertheless appeared random and inexplicable, and various attempts were made to rationalize these apparent irregularities.198

196 The term stella can refer both to what we today call “stars” and to what we call “planets.” The “five stellae” are the planets Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn—see van den Bruwaene (1978), 78. 197 Pease (1958), 665. 198 Barton (1994a), 88. 95 Balbus takes the ultimate order of planets for granted and directs our amazement towards it, pushing past the inexplicable peculiarities of their movements. We should flag the epistemological problem, however: as we will see, a similar quandary exists in Seneca’s astronomical thought with regards to comets, and Seneca, unlike Balbus, will put pressure on this epistemic gap.

Balbus repeatedly draws upon the marvelous order of the stars as proof of the divine design of the universe. For example, he argues:

Earum autem perennes cursus atque perpetui cum admirabili incredibilique constantia declarant in his vim et mentem esse divinam, ut haec ipsa qui non sentiat deorum vim habere is nihil omnino sensurus esse videatur.

“Moreover, [the stars’] everlasting and continuous orbits, with their wondrous and incredible regularity, reveal that the force and intention of the gods is within them, to the point that whoever does not perceive that these things contain divine force seems to be entirely unable to perceive anything.” (N.D. 2.55)

Again, Balbus’ sense of miratio is latched to the quality of predictability, consistency, and regularity: the stars have an admirabilis incredibilisque constantia. Here, this aesthetic quality serves as proof of the divine order of the cosmos—such a marvelously regular pattern could not persist without the existence of a divine design pervading the cosmos. The progression enacted here is not just one from affect (miratio) to metaphysical knowledge; it is also a shift from a particular instance of overt order to the assumption of a general order underlying all things.

Obviously regular phenomena, such as the stars, serve as proof that god has rationally designed the entire cosmos, including the phenomena that do not initially appear orderly to us.199 Thus, while the subjective feeling of wonderment is attached exclusively to objects of perceptible order, it also prompts us to intellectually appreciate the existence of a certain all-pervasive order. Overall, then, Plato’s Theaetetus and Aristotle’s Metaphysics treated wonder as a

199 See Frede (2003), 184: all elements of the universe are interconnected according to this divine order, and “careful observation leads to the discovery of certain signs of those interconnections, even if human knowledge does not fully comprehend the rationale behind the observable order of all things.” 96 commendable starting-point for philosophy, but one that arises in response to ignorance and must ultimately be converted into knowledge; by contrast, other Platonic and Stoic texts treated wonder as an affect that arises in response to revelation and is therefore a sign of enlightenment and knowledge.

Where does Seneca’s assessment of miratio fit within this framework? The extant scholarly literature on miratio in the Natural Questions characterizes Seneca’s scientific mission as firmly opposed to this affective experience: according to many, Seneca treats miratio as an affect of ignorance, which must ultimately be replaced by scientific knowledge. For example,

Toulze-Morriset emphasizes that Seneca frequently uses phrases such as nimirum, nec mirum est, and nec miror si when describing natural occurrences; she argues that he does so in order to downplay astonishment, which would be “indigne d’une âme prête a s’ouvrir à la conaissance.”200 On essentially the same grounds, Williams claims that “the late Hellenistic and

Roman preoccupation with mirabilia and miracle literature is fundamentally resisted by

Seneca’s rationalizing discourse in the Natural Questions.”201 In fact, in a chapter on Pliny the

Elder’s Natural History, Beagon evokes “Seneca’s serene contemplation” in the Natural

Questions as a foil for what she perceives as Pliny’s unapologetic and vigorous reliance upon mirabilia as a source of knowledge.202 Indeed, nimirum and other such “rationalizing” verbal tics occur with striking frequency203 and undeniably betray the underlying assumption that, in many cases, scientific knowledge has the potential to eradicate miratio. However, this use of miratio to denote ignorance constitutes only one facet of a deeply ambivalent constellation of uses of the term.

200 Toulze-Morriset (2004b), 213. Such rationalizing expressions are also abundant in the poetry of Lucretius—see Clay (1983), 243-5; Gale (2000), 199-200. Gale makes a similar argument about Lucretius as Toulze-Morriset does about Seneca—expressions such as nimirum est serve to replace wonder with “the all-embracing power of ratio” (200). 201 Williams (2012), 43. 202 Beagon (2011), 75. 203 E.g. see Nat. 1.11.3, 1.1.7, 1.3.13, 1.5.11, 1.5.14, 1.6.6, 2.22.3, 3.8.1, 3.10.2, 3.12.2, 6.29.1. 97 In Book 7 of the Natural Questions, which treats the nature and causes of comets,

Seneca introduces two major types of miratio, which I will call “common” and “elevated.”204

Common miratio arises in response to unusual and surprising phenomena and is symptomatic of our ignorance of rational causes—in this sense, it aligns with the aforementioned scholarly characterizations of miratio as contrary to scientific knowledge. Like Aristotle in the passage cited above, Seneca acknowledges that this form of wonder linked to ignorance can spur scientific inquiry. However, Seneca ultimately treats this affect as an ethically and epistemically compromised form of viewership, which inevitably devolves into gawking voyeurism and reflects a truncated understanding of the cosmic order. As an alternative to this questionable affect, Seneca conceives of elevated miratio, which, like Balbus’ enchantment in the De Natura

Deorum, stems from an appreciation of the divine order pervading natural phenomena.205 While

Seneca clearly privileges the latter version of miratio, he paints it as essentially inaccessible, situating even his own narrative voice firmly within the realm of common miratio. Indeed, the narrator’s own epistemic limitations constitute a major theme of Book 7, as he argues that comets are planetary bodies with orbits, but that our current lack of data prevents us from identifying these orbits. These blind spots keep us from experiencing comets as regularities and consequently feeling elevated miratio in their wake. However, I will argue that, at the end of

Book 7, Seneca formulates a quasi-Stoic cosmic vision rooted in our lamentable but inevitable

204 I’ve chosen these terms because the most obvious and salient difference between these two types of wonder is the respective subject-positions attributed to the types of people who experience each form of miratio: I call “common” the miratio attributed to the vast majority of ordinary people, and “elevated” the miratio attributed to a privileged few. Implicit in Seneca’s distinction is the idea that the former type of miratio comes from a position of ignorance and the latter from a place of knowledge, but Seneca does not make this difference explicit. 205 Though they are never as explicitly outlined as they are here, these two iterations of miratio appear elsewhere in Seneca’s corpus. For example, the Epistulae Morales sometimes treat miratio as a sign of weakness (e.g. Ep. 71.17, 71.21, 71.23, 73.16, 87.1, 88.23, 95.15, 95.21, 104.20, 110.17), but also suggest that the sight of the divine could be an object of wonder (e.g. Ep. 102.28, 111.16). One of the most common uses of miratio in the Epistulae Morales, however, lies somewhere between the latter two: Seneca often suggests that we should feel wonder in the face of sages, exempla, and virtuous actions (e.g. Ep. 17.7, 31.4, 62.3, 67.6, 84.8, 86.1, 86.3, 92.3, 102.9, 110.12, 111.3, 120.6). This form of wonder implies a compromised subject who has not yet attained virtue, but who can nevertheless recognize it, and whose sense of enchantment will carry him closer to ethical behavior. This form of miratio will be discussed in in Chapter 4 of this dissertation; see pp. 138, 140-143 below. 98 experience of common miratio. In his description of nature as an artist, Seneca draws upon our experience of the unusual as beautiful in order to imagine a unifying aesthetic vision underlying even the most surprising celestial phenomena.

Seneca’s Double Miratio

The opening of Book 7 of the Natural Questions establishes two forms of miratio: one experienced by a subject fixated upon unusual and seemingly irregular phenomena, and another felt by those who understand and appreciate the universe’s predictable regularities. Seneca marks the latter, which I call elevated miratio, as superior, and the former, which I call common miratio, as ethically ambivalent: while it does spur compromised subjects towards scientific inquiry, it ultimately stems from a truncated and flawed vision of the cosmos, which fails to grasp its underlying order. Nevertheless, Seneca emphasizes that common miratio is an unavoidable byproduct of our epistemically compromised position as humans, and he characterizes himself as experiencing this flawed form of wonder. Book 7 begins:

Nemo usque eo tardus et hebes et demissus in terram est ut ad diuina non erigatur ac tota mente consurgat, utique ubi nouum aliquod e caelo miraculum fulsit. nam quamdiu solita decurrunt, magnitudinem rerum consuetudo subducit. ita enim compositi sumus ut nos cotidiana, etiamsi admiratione digna sunt, transeant, contra minimarum quoque rerum, si insolitae prodierunt, spectaculum dulce fiat.

“No one is so languid and stupid and bent down towards mundanities that he is not raised towards the divine, lifting himself with his whole mind, whenever some new marvel flashes from the sky. For, so long as things move along as usual, our experience with phenomena subtracts from their grandness: for we are made in such a way that daily things, even if they are worthy of wonder, pass us by, whereas the spectacle of the most trivial things, if they appear unusual, strikes us as charming.” (Nat. 7.1.1)

This passage deploys the language of miratio twice, referring to a miraculum and to admiratio.

In the first case, Seneca explicitly attributes the characteristic of wonder to what is novum, flashing forth and catching its viewers unawares. 206 The language characterizing this type of

206 The idea that unusual or sudden phenomena have a special appeal was fairly common in antiquity, as noted by Vottero (1989), 662; Schrijvers (1999), 177-179. E.g. see, Lucr. 1026-1039; Cic. N.D. 2.86; Plin. Nat. 7.6. 99 miratio is conflicted. On the one hand, the effects of viewing such a miraculum strongly recall the cosmic prefaces of Books 1 and 3, in which the wise man’s animus attains lofty heights and engages with god:207 miracles similarly cause their viewer to rise towards the divine (ad divina…erigatur ac… consurgat).208 The sage featured in the cosmic prefaces of the Natural

Questions associates with his animus as opposed to his body; the wonderstruck figure described here similarly associates with his mens.209 We might then read this line as a claim that miratio can spur some form of metaphysical and spiritual elevation. In this sense, shocking miracles can lead unsuspecting and ignorant viewers to a towering position akin to that of the sage.

Nevertheless, the effects of shocked miratio differ in marked ways from those of all- encompassing rational knowledge. The opening words of the book paint a far from idealized picture of the subject they introduce: though the spectator of marvels has not reached such an extreme level of obtuseness to be permanently fixated upon earthly matters, the heaping repetition of the derogatory adjectives tardus et hebes et demissus in terram emphasizes the low standards of intelligence that must be met by the subject of shocked miratio. These low standards are reinforced by the somewhat cynical double-negative nemo… non, which attributes the experience of this affect not to the exceptional sage, but to anyone, including those who exist somewhere on the spectrum of stupidity without reaching its most extreme limits.

In fact, Seneca explicitly sets this stunned form of common miratio against another, more elevated kind. He claims that our habituation to the regular state of things renders us

207 E.g. crescit animus (“the mind grows,” Nat. 3 Praef. 4); terrarum orbem superne despiciens (“looking down on the sphere of the earth from above,” Nat. 1.Praef. 8); sursum ingentia spatia sunt, in quorum possessionem animus admittitur (“On high there are immense spaces, which the mind is able to possess,” Nat. 1. Praef. 11). 208 This opening line also recalls the philosophical commonplace that humans were made to stand upright in order to contemplate the divine. Thorough lists of this trope’s many recurrences in ancient literature may be found at Dickerman (1909), 92-101; Pease (1958), 914; Vottero (1989), 662. For a few notable examples, see Pl. Smp. 190a- d, Ti. 90a; Arist. PA 3.662b 18, 4.686a. 33; Cic. Leg. 1.26, N.D. 2.140; Man. 4.905-908; Aetna 224. In Seneca’s corpus, the idea appears at Nat. 5.15.3, Ep. 92.30, 94.56; De otio 5.4. 209 Though Seneca uses the word mens instead of animus here, the two terms are sometimes used interchangeably in Seneca’s work—see Smith (2006), 347. 100 unable to perceive the magnitudo of nature’s predictable patterns (which are solita and cotidiana), rather than its flashiest instantiations. If we were able to appreciate the cosmos as a whole, we would recognize that even the most common phenomena are admiratione digna.210 In distinguishing a special form of wonder available only to the truly wise, Seneca reinforces what

Habinek calls an “aristocracy of virtue,” whereby Stoic wisdom, allegedly accessible to everyone, defines itself against a lower-status majority and draws its cachet from this cloistered exclusivity: ultimately, “virtue may create its own nobility, but it is a nobility that mimics the old aristocracy’s strategies of theatricality and disdain.”211 The truly wondrous aspects of regularly occurring phenomena are available only to the privileged few who are not susceptible to the cheap thrills of common miratio. Nevertheless, this type of elevated wonder emerges as an idealized state rather than a common reality. Seneca claims that “we are made” (constituti sumus) in such a way as to be able to appreciate only common wonder—not only does his use of the first person plural underline his own participation in this common form of awe, but the naturalistic and deterministic idea that humans are “made” to tend towards shocked miratio establishes the latter as an unavoidable reality. Our quasi-biological, and therefore inevitable, inclination towards common miratio contrasts with the hypothetical form of amazement which could, should, or might be directed at objects that are, in an abstract sense, admiratione digna.

In the sentences that follow, Seneca expresses a more explicit contempt for this natural tendency away from elevated miratio and towards common stupefaction. Immediately following the above passage, he laments:

Hic itaque coetus astrorum, quibus inmensi corporis pulchritudo distinguitur, populum non conuocat; at cum aliquid ex more mutatum est, omnium uultus in caelo est. sol

210 C.f. Lucr. 2.1027-9: itemque/ nil adeo magnum neque tam mirabile quicquam/ quod non paulatim mittant mirarier omnes (“likewise there is nothing so grand or so wonderful that, little by little, everyone does not cease to marvel at it”). Lucretius shares Seneca’s belief that, while regular phenomena are mirabile, humans eventually lose interest in them. As Gale (2000), 199 says of this passage, “The world both is and is not an object worthy of miratio.” 211 Habinek (1998), 142. 101 spectatorem, nisi deficit, non habet; nemo obseruat lunam, nisi laborantem. tunc urbes conclamant, tunc pro se quisque superstitione uana strepit.

“And so, this assemblage of stars, by which the beauty of the immense heavenly body is adorned, does not catch the attention of the crowd; but, when something is changed from its usual state, everyone’s eyes are on the sky. The sun has no spectator unless it disappears. No one notices the moon unless it is in eclipse; only then do cities cry out, only then does each person make noise out of empty superstition.” (Nat. 7.1.2)

Seneca again recalls the beauty (pulchritudo) of the fixed and regularly observable stars, which should garner the wonder of those able to perceive it, but which holds no fascination for the populus, incorrigibly hungry for the abnormal. In fact, populum conuocare can be used to refer to political assemblies of the masses;212 Seneca’s description thus further reinforces Habinek’s

“aristocracy of virtue,” in which those who have achieved wisdom are refashioned as a privileged social class. In this sense, this description bears some similarity to a passage from the preface to Book 1, where the universe’s invisible structure is deemed pulchrius (Nat. 1. Praef.

1) than what is visible ab hac parte… publica (Nat. 1. Praef. 3). Both passages attribute a certain type of vision to a denigrated and common rabble, as defined against a more privileged and ensconced beauty visible to the knowing few. However, whereas in the preface to Book 1 the narrator sets himself apart from public viewership and claims to have “entered into

[nature’s] more hidden aspects” (secretiora eius intraui, Nat. 1. Praef. 3), in this passage, the narrator has suggested that he himself partakes in shocked wonder rather than its knowing counterpart (constituti sumus), implicitly classifying himself among the populus rather than the elite few who have access to hidden beauty. Thus, Seneca emphasizes the inaccessibility of hidden beauty, while denigrating the form of wonder accessible to humanity.

Next, Seneca describes the reaction of individuals experiencing this form of common miratio: omnium uultus est in caelo. In many ways, this description mirrors the lines that opened the book, where ignorant miratio was said to cause viewers to erigere and consurgere towards

212 E.g. see Cic. Opt. Gen. 19.11; Cic. Red. Sen. 38.14; Ulp. Dig. 48.4.1.1. 102 the sky: both descriptions involve some sort of heightening towards the heavens. However, the heights attained by the marveling subject in the opening lines of Book 7 were ambiguously attributed to his mens, leaving open the possibility that common miratio could lead to spiritual progress. The second iteration of this image, however, is a banal literalization of the first— instead of his mens, the viewer’s physical vultus turns upwards. Thus, the elevation inherent to ignorant miratio is re-written as a mere somatic symptom, rather than as a form of mental or spiritual enlightenment, raising the question of whether observation of the skies bears any metaphysical importance when it occurs only in response to the dazzling and unusual.

Furthermore, the image of an upturned face, with the observers of comets literally viewing these phenomena from below, suggests a subject-position rooted in the phenomenal world rather than a lofty and sublime cosmic viewpoint.

Seneca’s ambivalence towards ignorant miratio is further reflected in the lines, sol spectatorem, nisi deficit, non habet; nemo obseruat lunam, nisi laborantem.213 The structure of this sentence, in emphasizing this stupefied spectatorship as an ethically-questionable form of titillated gawking, heavily echoes Senecan moralizing rhetoric. For an example of the type of rhetoric recalled by this passage, we might turn to the end of Book 7, where Seneca laments the relative lack of interest in philosophy among the general population, especially when compared to their zealous pursuit of vice.214 Seneca asks,

Ad sapientiam quis accedit? quis dignam iudicat, nisi quam in transitu nouerit? quis philosophum aut ullum liberale respicit studium, nisi cum ludi intercalantur, cum aliquis pluuius interuenit dies quem perdere libet?

“Who approaches wisdom? Who judges it to be worth knowing about except in passing? Who cares about a philosopher or any liberal study, except when the games are

213 As Oltramare (1961), 299 points out, the idea that the sun garners special attention during an eclipse is already found at Rhet. Her. 3.36 and Cic. N.D. 2.96. See also Nat. 6.3.2-3, where our fear at the sight of an eclipse is a symptom of the fact that naturam oculis non ratione comprehendimus (“we grasp nature with our eyes, not our reason”). 214 A close thematic connection between the introduction and conclusion to Book 7 justifies this verbal comparison—as Berno (2003), 308 points out, novitas emerges as a distraction from knowledge in both this final moralizing passage and the opening of the book. 103 postponed, when there comes some rainy day which he is happy to fritter away?” (Nat. 7. 32. 1)

This passage observes the tendency in most people not to pay attention to valuable objects of study unless some incidental circumstance should arise—this diagnosis parallels the sentiments expressed in sol spectatorem, nisi deficit…, and is expressed here in unequivocally derogatory terms. The repetition of quis… nisi, where quis rhetorically suggests either “no one” or “very few people,” echoes the structure of the lines in 7.1.2: nisi… non; nemo… nisi. Read through the lens of this ethical tirade, the eye-catching nature of marvels emerges as a testament to the thrill-seeking voyeurism of a corrupted humanity. This contempt is reinforced by the reaction to the lunar eclipse of the amazed masses, who are driven by vana superstitio to make noise in order to ward off whatever evil magic has apparently caused the moon to disappear. 215 The attention garnered by unexpected natural phenomena is closely linked to false beliefs

(superstitio) and the agitation that follows from them, indicated by the words conclamare and strepitare.

In his next paragraph, Seneca shifts towards a detailed description of the elevated type of miratio hinted at in the claim that cotidiana… admiratione digna sunt. He exclaims,

At quanto illa maiora sunt, quod sol totidem, ut ita dicam, gradus quot dies habet, et annum circuitu suo cludit, quod a solstitio ad minuendos dies uertitur, quod ab aequinoctio statim inclinat et dat noctibus spatium, quod sidera abscondit, quod terras, cum tanto maior sit illis, non urit sed calorem suum intensionibus ac remissionibus temperando fouet, quod lunam numquam nec implet nisi aduersam sibi nec obscurat

“But how much grander are the following facts: that the sun has, so to speak, as many steps as it has days, and that it closes the year by its own circuit; that it turns towards shortening the days after the solstice; that after the equinox it immediately lowers and gives room to the night; that it hides the stars; that it does not burn the lands, although it is so much bigger than them, but instead it nourishes them, controlling its heat by intensifying and abating; that it never either fully illuminates the moon except when facing it, or fully conceals it unless it is <***>.” (Nat. 7.1.3)

215 For this “superstitious” practice, see Liv. 26.5; Man. 1.227; Plin. Nat. 2.54; Tac. Ann. 1.28. 104 This form of miratio stems from a certain inherent beauty found in regularity and order: Seneca emphasizes the cyclical patterns of the sun and moon, which exhibit predictable behaviors at fixed temporal intervals, delineated by the solstice and equinox. This form of miratio is thus compatible with Stoic notions of the order and divine arrangement of the cosmos, and could plausibly coincide with the wonder pervading Book 2 of the De Natura Deorum. According to this Stoic interpretation, we might read the term cotidiana, which initially described the sorts of objects worthy of elevated miratio, as denoting not only our subjective experience of objects as normal or habitual, but also a precise temporal recurrence, in the sense of “daily,” or “every day.”216 This latter meaning of cotidiana would align with Balbus’ use of the term: nec vero eae stellae, quae inerrantes vocantur, non significant eandem mentem atque prudentiam, quarum est cotidiana conveniens constansque conversio (“Nor do the stars which are called ‘fixed’ fail to display that same intent and wisdom, for they have a daily and unchanging cycle,” N.D. 2.54).

Through the lens of the N.D., we might assume that the wonder to be found in the phenomena cited above stems from their predictable patterns. Furthermore, Seneca emphasizes that the sun never burns the earth, instead calibrating its heat to the perfect, most advantageous intensity so as to “nourish” it: he thus underlines the beneficent intentionality of this divine arrangement.217

Thus, though Seneca does not explicitly draw upon elevated miratio as proof of a divinely ordered cosmos, as Balbus does, his account of truly marvelous phenomena evokes such Stoic arguments from wonder.

In fact, Seneca explicitly refers to these cyclical patterns as an ordo, concluding this paragraph on the wonders of regularity with a wistful statement on our inability to appreciate this form of beauty, given our fixation upon the unusual. He notes,

216 The English word “regular” similarly denotes both what we perceive as normal and what occurs at fixed temporal intervals. 217 In this sense, too, elevated miratio seems to echo Balbus’ wonder: as Pease (1958), 586 notes in his commentary on N.D. 2, “The combination in the universe of utility and beauty is often mentioned.” See N.D. 2. 15, 2.49, 2.50. 105 Haec tamen non adnotamus quamdiu ordo seruatur; si quid turbatum est aut praeter consuetudinem emicuit, spectamus interrogamus ostendimus. adeo naturale est magis noua quam magna mirari.

“Nevertheless, we do not notice these things, so long as the regular order is preserved. If something is disturbed or flashes forth beyond what is normal, we observe it, probe it, point it out. So natural it is to wonder at new things more than at great things.” (Nat. 7.1.4)

For Seneca, elevated wonder is not accessible to most people, if to anyone at all. The narrator’s own voice is subsumed into the first-person plurals spectamus interrogamus ostendimus, emphasizing our widespread susceptibility to common miratio. Like the previous claim that we are “made” (constituti) not to appreciate the beauty of the regular cosmic order, the idea that “it is natural” (naturale est) to gawk at the unusual rather than to appreciate the wonder in the everyday reinforces the inevitable dominance of ignorant miratio over its knowledgeable counterpart. This use of naturale est recalls a number of Seneca’s just-so stories about the development of humankind, in which primordial humans live innocently and without vice, but do not attain virtue, which can arise only with the introduction of potentially problematic self- knowledge.218 Here, then, Seneca alludes to the persistent idea that, in order to make nature properly the object of one’s knowledge, a subject must separate himself from his natural state—

“living according to nature” in the case of the wise man entails a distancing from and voluntary return to nature which defines the subject as autonomous and dominant rather than blissfully ignorant and childlike. Here, our “natural” affective bursts of common miratio keep us from perceiving what is objectively magna in nature, fixating instead on what is merely nova.

The Relationship of Comets to Senecan Double Miratio

Seneca then turns to the main topic of Book 7, comets. He introduces them as a prime example of the stunning and out-of-the-ordinary phenomena that garner common miratio.

218 E.g. see Nat. 1. 17. 4 ff.; Ep. 90. 44: Non enim dat natura virtutem: ars est bonum fieri (“For Nature does not grant virtue; it is an art to become good”). See Habinek (1998), 149-50. 106 Seneca begins by claiming: idem in cometis fit: si rarus et insolitae figurae ignis apparuit, nemo non scire quid sit cupit, et oblitus aliorum de aduenticio quaerit, ignarus utrum debeat mirari an timere (“the same thing happens in the case of comets: if a rare fire of unusual shape appears, there is no one who does not want to know what it is and, having forgotten about other phenomena, he asks about this unusual occurrence, unsure whether he should be amazed or be afraid,” Nat. 7.1.5). The form of wonder described here garners a fixated and hungry desire for certain types of knowledge, at the expense of others. The forms of inquiry expressed by scire and quaerere depend upon the amazed subject’s distraction from other things (oblitus aliorum), the only object of his investigation being the unexpected (adventicio). The body of knowledge illuminated by common miratio is distorted and truncated.

Furthermore, this form of wonder is closely tied to and easily confused with fear—an amazed man is ignarus utrum debeat mirari an timere. As I pointed out in the second chapter of this dissertation, fear and stupefaction are linked affective experiences; here again they appear together as the indistinguishable responses to an unknown and unexpected phenomenon.219

Seneca locates the source of this fear in augury: non enim desunt qui terreant, qui significationes eius graues praedicent. sciscitantur itaque et cognoscere uolunt prodigium sit an sidus (“for there is no lack of men who strike fear into people, who predict their ominous content. And so they ask and want to know whether it is a portent or a star,” Nat. 7.1.5). Seneca explains the common view that comets portend disaster220 with reference to their ability to elicit common miratio: because comets are rare, unusual, and eye-catching, augurs may treat them as portents and thereby frighten us. This terror leads to a very specific and flawed form of inquiry:

219 See also Nat. 6.3.4: nihil horum sine timore miramur. et cum timendi sit causa nescire, non est tanti scire, ne timeas? (“we are not amazed at these things [i.e. earthquakes] without fearing. And since the cause of fear is not knowing, is it not worth knowing, so as not to fear?”). 220 See Vottero (1989), 666. A famous exception to this general trend is the comet that appeared in 44 BCE and was interpreted as a sign of the apotheosis of Julius Caesar—on the cultural and political significance of this comet, see Barton (1994b), 39-40; Gurval (1997); Pandey (2013). 107 the question shocked viewers of comets pose for themselves—prodigium sit an sidus—already betrays a misunderstanding of the workings of the cosmos. As Seneca will describe later in the

Natural Questions, “portents” are no different in nature than stars; all natural phenomena are a part of a shared system and laid out in such an order that certain events necessarily precede others (Nat. 2.32-51).221 If we could grasp this entire system, we would understand the connections between all phenomena—in this case, we could predict future events based upon all natural events, and everything in nature could thus be treated as a “portent” of sorts.222 In fact, later in Book 7, Seneca will briefly allude to this Stoic approach to divination when addressing

Aristotle’s claim that comets cannot be planetary bodies because they indicate the coming of a storm: quid ergo? non iudicas sidus esse quod futura denuniat? (“So what? Do you not think that what indicates the future can be a star?” Nat. 7.28.1). This rhetorical quip could easily be deployed in response to the question prodigium sit an sidus, revealing the myopic and faulty perspective that would conceive of natural phenomena and omens as mutually exclusive.223

Ultimately, then, a mindset driven by common miratio, which views extraordinary events as particularly notable, necessarily obscures the underlying connections between all phenomena and causes us to ask misguided questions. In the description of common miratio that opened this book, Seneca posed scientific inquiry as one of the potential benefits of the otherwise problematic common miratio. Here, we see our first example of one of the questions this

221 For a historical discussion of Seneca’s assessment of comets as portents, see Hine (2006), 66-67; Hine argues that other figures in the court of Nero, such as the Stoic Chaeremon and the Peripatetic Alexander of Aegae, espoused different views from Seneca’s on comets—for instance, the former believed that comets could be omens sent from god. Hine interprets this variety of views with reference to Wallace-Hadrill’s argument that the Roman Empire saw a shift away from the authority of traditional, elite knowledge-holders and the expansion of a new class of experts [see Wallace-Hadrill (1997)]; accordingly, Hine argues, traditional religious augurs gave way to a class of philosophers and astronomers exemplifying a variety of approaches to comets as portents. 222 A belief in the rational order of the cosmos and the interconnectedness of all phenomena caused the Stoics to be early defenders of divination and astrology—see Cic. Div. 1.82-84, 2.33, 2.41 (=SVF 2.1192, 2. 1211, 2.1193); Bouché-Leclercq (1879), 58-60; Long (1982a), 166-172 (though Long emphasizes that astrology did not become central to Stoic doctrine until the 2nd century BCE); Barton (1994b), 37-38. Manilius frequently defends his astrological practice by appealing to Stoic notions of an interconnected cosmos—see Man. 1.247-54, 2.60-81. 223See Limburg (2007), 346: “The comets are not prodigia in the normal sense of portents of evil, Seneca argues: as part of the universe, they form ‘signs’ in a different, less direct sense, signs that are enclosed in the leges mundi.” 108 stupefaction can elicit, and we find that it is misinformed, driven by fear, and unlikely to lead us to any causal or scientific knowledge.

In contrast to this misguided and stupefied line of inquiry surrounding comets, Seneca proposes the following research topic:

At mehercules non aliud quis aut magnificentius quaesierit aut didicerit utilius quam de stellarum siderumque natura, utrum flamma contracta… an non sint flammei orbes, sed solida quaedam terrenaque corpora.

“But, by Hercules, no one could investigate anything more magnificent or learn anything more useful than the nature of stars and planets, whether they are concentrated flame… or whether they are not fiery orbs, but solid and earthy sorts of bodies.”224 (Nat. 7.1.6)

Seneca’s preferred form of inquiry has changed in three ways in this description. First of all,

Seneca has shifted from a discussion of comets to a discussion of stars. Second, this line of inquiry, unlike the one rooted in the observation of comets, is productive of scientific knowledge rather than ignorant questions. Finally, by extolling the wondrousness of this line of inquiry over and above the one described in the previous paragraph, the comparative magnificentius hints towards elevated miratio. We can explain the confluence of these three factors with reference to the regular appearance and predictable orbits of stars, which emerge through implicit contrast with the flashy dazzle of comets described in the preceding paragraph.

Whereas comets are unusual and unpredictable, thus garnering common miratio and the warped forms of knowledge that follow from it, stars follow visible patterns and are therefore eligible for elevated miratio and open to precise scientific inquiry.

Seneca’s argument, as outlined in Nat 7.22.1-29.3, will be that comets, like stars, are planetary bodies with orbits. He sets forth this astronomical theory—which locates comets in the region designated caelestia, to use his own division of the cosmos at 2.1.1-2—against common

224 For an account of the various thinkers who held each of these positions, see Vottero (1989), 666-667. For example, Heraclitus (D.-K. 22 A 11), Plato (Ti. 12.40 a-b), and the Stoics (SVF 1.120, 2.593) held the former view, whereas Thales (D.-K. 11 A 17a), Anaxagoras (D.-K. 59 A 11), and Democritus (D.-K. 68 A 85) held the latter view. 109 meteorological explanations of the phenomenon, which situate comets in the sublimia.225 For example, at Nat. 7.15-20 he refutes the orthodox Stoic theory that comets are born, like lightning and other sky-fires, from friction in the air,226 and at 7.4-8 he departs from Epigenes’ position that comets are created by hot exhalations from the earth.227 When placed in the context of the miratio binary that introduced Book 7, this astronomical argument aligns perfectly with

Seneca’s stated preference for elevated miratio. Because they are unpredictable and irregular,228 meteorological phenomena do not possess the overt ordered regularity which would elicit the sort of enchanted pleasure described in the De Natura Deorum. By claiming that comets are permanent objects with regular orbits, he will expose them as cyclical phenomena worthy of elevated miratio rather than unusual phenomena garnering common miratio. He will thus exchange the petrifying shock described in 7.1.5 for the learned magnificence outlined at 7.1.6.

In fact, when Seneca rejects the Stoic meteorological theory of comets, he explicitly bypasses common miratio. In refuting the meteorological account of comets, Seneca briefly discusses the nature of sky-fires, the category to which Seneca’s predecessors attribute comets.

Some sky-fires last longer than most:

Hoc loco sunt illa a Posidonio scripta miracula, columnae clipeique flagrantes aliaeque insigni nouitate flammae, quae non aduerterent animos si ex consuetudine et lege decurrerent; ad haec stupent omnes quae repentinum ex alto ignem efferunt, siue emicuit aliquid et fugit, siue compresso aëre et in ardorem coacto loco miraculi stetit.

“To this group belong those marvels recorded by Posidonius, flaming columns and blazing shields, and other flames of outstanding novelty, which would not attract our attention if they progressed according to habit and law: in the face of these sights, which bring down a sudden fire from above, everyone is stupefied, whether something flashes and disappears, or whether the air is compressed and compelled to glow, it is considered a marvel.” (Nat. 7.20.2)

225 On caelestia and sublimia as they correspond to this passage, see Williams (2007), 99-100. 226 This theory originated with Posidonius—see Williams (2007), 101. 227 Epigenes’ theory is likely based on Aristotle’s—see Mete. 1.6 344a8-33; Williams (2007), 101. For ancient accounts of the rift between astronomical and meteorological explanations of comets, see Plin. Nat. 2.94; Man. 1.817-873; Aetius, Placita 3.1.1-11. For a modern overview of these two main positions, see Gross (1989), 278- 281. 228 See Aristotle’s description of meteorology at Mete. 1.1 338b20-24. 110

The affective reaction of witnesses to sky-fires heavily recalls the description of common miratio from the opening of Book 7. Both accounts involve a miraculum which is either novum

(Nat. 7.1.1) or distinguished by its nouitate (Nat. 7.20.2), and whose image arrives as a sudden flash: the emicuit of 7.20.2 echoes the fulsit of 7.1.1 and the emicuit of 7.1.4. Such miracles are conceived of as disturbances of the regular order, ruptures in consuetudo and lex, which would not garner our attention if they proceeded normally—these sentiments are expressed repeatedly in 7.1.1, 7.1.2, and 7.1.4. As Williams points out, in this passage, Seneca establishes meteorological phenomena as sites of surprise at the unexpected, a feeling contrary to the explicit mission of Book 7 of the Natural Questions.229 The philosophical significance of removing comets from this titillating and stunning category of phenomena, classifying them instead as predictable and regular astronomical bodies, will therefore appear obvious. Indeed, if achieved, this shift from common miratio to its elevated counterpart would constitute part of a larger project, which Williams identifies in Seneca’s astronomical theory:

“In contrast to the ephemeral and contingent nature of sublimia in the intermediate region of the atmosphere (inter caelum terrasque), the permanence and regularity that characterize caelestia suggestively symbolize a metaphysical level of fixity and sure knowledge.”230

When treated as astronomical phenomena, comets will become the objects not only of elevated miratio but also of intellectual certainty.

The straightforward success of this project, however, will be hindered by our intellectual blind spots. In his introduction to our two forms of miratio, Seneca emphasized that most of us, himself included, are rooted squarely in common forms of wonder, unable to appreciate the

229 Williams (2007), 108; see also Kidd (1988), vol. 1, 496: “[Seneca] uses [Posidonius] to deride the [meteorological] theory as pandering to the general love of the miraculous.” 230 Williams (2007), 100. Similarly treating this astronomical explanation as a metaphor, Gauly (2004), 155-157 argues that the caelestia are more heavily associated with the divine than the sublimia are, and that Seneca’s argument that comets are astronomical rather than meteorological instigates a sort of divine ascent. 111 beauty of regularities. We can account for this tendency towards common miratio by pointing to our epistemic limitations, which, as Inwood emphasizes, become a major theme throughout

Book 7.231 In fact, Seneca opens his scientific discussion of comets by emphasizing our lack of data on the topic:

Necessarium est autem ueteres ortus cometarum habere collectos. deprendi enim propter raritatem cursus eorum adhuc non potest, nec explorari an uices seruent et illos ad suum diem certus ordo producat.

“However, it is necessary to have all the risings of comets in the past listed. Because of their rarity, their orbit cannot be grasped as of now, nor can we test whether they keep to the same sequences, or whether a certain order draws them out each at their own time.” (Nat. 7.3.1)

The rarity of comets—that is, the very trait that renders them susceptible to common miratio— obscures our scientific knowledge of their regular sequences. By appealing to general principles about fire, Seneca will argue that comets are regular phenomena with cursus, or orbits— therefore, they are worthy of elevated miratio. Nevertheless, this theoretical argument does not change the fact that the particular orbits of comets have not and currently cannot be “grasped.”

The rarity of comets prevents us from subjectively and affectively experiencing the phenomenon as anything other than a sudden and unexpected fluke.

This tension persists throughout Book 7. Seneca introduces his own stance on comets by refuting the orthodox Stoic view that comets are fires created in the sky by the friction of condensed air: ego nostris non adsentior: non enim existimo cometen subitaneum ignem sed inter aeterna opera naturae (“I do not agree with our fellow Stoics: for I do not think that comets are a sudden fire, but rather that they are among the eternal works of nature,” Nat.

7.22.1).232 As we have seen, Seneca appeals to the eternal and intentional order underlying

231 Inwood (2005), 143-148. 232 Seneca disagrees with his fellow Stoics on numerous occasions—see Nat. 2.21.1, 4b.6.1. See Mazzoli (1970), 89-90. 112 comets, an order which should garner elevated miratio. As Williams puts it, in Seneca’s rejection of the Stoic meteorological interpretation,

“the atmosphere emerges as a region of provisionality and accident, of directionless display and short-lived spectacle, whereas the celestial region is a place of ordered motion and systematic regularity.”233

Nevertheless, the first potential objection raised by Seneca’s imagined interlocutor recalls the scarce data that posed a problem at the opening of the book: sideris proprium est scribere orbem. atqui hoc an cometae alii fecerint nescio: duo nostra aetate fecerunt (“it is characteristic of stars to create a curved path: whether other comets also do this, I do not know: the two in my lifetime did,” Nat. 7.23.1). Seneca’s assertion that the two comets observable to him234 did fulfil his own hypothesis, arching their course in the manner of a star, surely serves to bolster his position and imply that the answer to his rhetorical question is, “yes.” Nevertheless, his answer draws attention to the fact that we have not actually witnessed enough comets to get a sense of the patterns that govern their appearance, whether or not we believe, as Seneca wants us to, that these patterns exist. Thus, we cannot draw an elevated sense of amazement from their regular order.

In a passage following his scientific account of comets, Seneca emphasizes our epistemic lack and the concomitant disjuncture between our theoretical-objective knowledge of comets as astral bodies and our affective-subjective experience of them as random and surprising:

Si quis me hoc loco interrogauerit, ‘quare ergo non, quemadmodum quinque stellarum, ita harum obseruatus est cursus?’, huic ego respondebo: multa sunt quae esse concedimus, qualia sint ignoramus. habere nos animum, cuius imperio et impellimur et reuocamur, omnes fatebuntur. quid tamen sit animus ille rector dominusque nostri non magis quisquam tibi expediet quam ubi sit… adeo animo non potest liquere de ceteris rebus ut adhuc ipse se quaerat. Quid ergo miramur cometas, tam rarum mundi spectaculum, nondum teneri legibus certis, nec initia illorum finesque notescere, quorum ex ingentibus interuallis recursus est?

233 Williams (2007), 109. 234 These would have been the comets of 54 and 60 CE—see Vottero (1989), 706. 113

“At this point, if someone should ask me, ‘why is it that the orbits of comets have not been observed, in the same way that they have for the five planets?’ I would respond to him: there are many things which we know exist, but we do not know what they are like. Everyone admits that we have a soul, at whose command we are driven and restrained; but what the soul is, that governor and master of ourselves, no one can explain to you more than they can explain where it is… It is so difficult for the soul to be clear about all other things, that it is even still in search of itself. So why are we amazed that comets, such a rare spectacle of the universe, are not yet held to fixed laws, and neither their beginnings or their ends have become known, whose return comes at long intervals?” (Nat. 7.25.1-3)

Again, Seneca emphasizes the disjuncture between his theoretical knowledge that comets have regular orbits and his inability to bear witness to any sort of regular pattern, which remains non… observatus. Two possible meanings of the phrase nondum teneri legibus certis emphasize this epistemic gap and the anthropocentric viewpoint that follows therefrom. On one level, the phrase could mean that comets are “not yet comprehended with fixed laws,”235 pointing to our subjective ignorance of comets’ patterns. However, some scholars have understood the phrase to mean, “they are not yet governed by fixed laws,” suggesting that the ontological existence of these laws is contingent upon our ability to grasp them—comets will follow fixed laws when we can measure said laws.236 Our inability to subjectively experience comets bleeds into our objective understanding of nature. In fact, even the word leges, rooted in the human social sphere, betrays a certain myopia: the only way we can conceive of divine principles or patterns is through the lens of man-made laws.237 Whereas the rest of Seneca’s scientific discussion proceeds along objective academic lines, arguing for the external existence of something human individuals cannot perceive, here we suddenly slip into a distinctly subjective vantage-point,

235 This would be in line with definition 11 of comprehendo in the OLD: “to group mentally, apprehend, appreciate, learn.” 236 See Oltramare (1961), 326: “Sénèque s’exprime comme si les lois qui régissent les comètes n’existaient qu’autant que l’homme les connaît. Les Romains ont fait de l’homme le centre de l’univers et c’est en fonction de l’homme que toutes choses lui apparaissent;” Inwood (2005), 232: “Comets provoke wonder because they are not bound by fixed laws.” 237 See Inwood (2005), 226: “We should keep in mind that ‘law’ is properly speaking a creation of human social and intellectual activity… Natural law, then, is in its origins a metaphorical concept.” 114 whereby nothing exists unless we can understand it. Seneca thus draws out the tension between the world as we know it, which is ordered, and the world as we experience it, which has no laws—a tension caused by our own epistemic lack.

This intellectual deficiency follows directly from the infrequency of comets: tam rarum spectaculum mundi. Seneca’s use of this phrase succinctly elucidates the relationship between rarity, non-knowledge, and common miratio. Because comets are rare, we lack the data to compile their laws, hence we are ignorant of the phenomenon. But this very rarity necessarily also turns comets into a flashy spectaculum, a word used at 7.1.1 to characterize a sight garnering common miratio. Despite ourselves, then, we again find ourselves focalizing through the lens of common miratio. Though we know intellectually that fixed laws must govern comets, our compromised position, lacking the data necessary to pinpoint these regularities, forces us to experience the phenomenon affectively as a rarum spectaculum.

Furthermore, the above paragraph perverts a number of tropes common in the Natural

Questions in order to underline this jarring epistemological gap. As discussed in Chapter 1 of this dissertation, Seneca frequently draws parallels between the soul (animus) and the divine laws that govern the cosmos; indeed, this affinity is a central tenet of Stoic physics. In one striking example discussed in Chapter 1, the beauty and order of the human mind was evoked as proof of the inherence of these traits to the universe.238 Here, on the other hand, it is the obscurity and controversy surrounding the human mind that serves to reinforce our non- knowledge of certain rational laws. Similarly, as discussed above, many scholars have noted the recurrence of phrases such as nec mirum and quid miraris in Seneca’s scientific discussions.

These phrases normally feature as a prime example of “rationalizing” discourse, which replaces amazement with scientific knowledge by appealing to the general laws explaining a particular

238 See pp. 44-46 above. 115 phenomenon. Here, the phrase quid… miramur paradoxically appeals to the general law of our own ignorance. We do not know our own minds, just like we do not know the laws of comets— our ignorance is widespread and should therefore not surprise us. Ironically, comets surprise us as a direct result of this ignorance. The only fact that should not garner our surprise, then, is our tendency towards naive stupefaction. Seneca thus playfully subverts tropes often used to elevate our subjectivity and emphasize our rationality: here, instead, he underscores our affective stupor. In fact, Seneca manipulates the quid miraris motif in this exact manner several times throughout Book 7, using it to illuminate not some unsurprising fact about nature, but our unsurprising ignorance of nature.239 This particular subversion of the motif occurs only once in all the remaining books of the Natural Questions combined;240 its marked reappearance throughout Book 7 testifies to this book’s pervasive concern with our epistemic limits, and with our consequent inability to fully overcome our tendency towards common miratio.

Indeed, Seneca devotes numerous passages in this book to conjuring a history of scientific progress, in which we emerge as promising but flawed proficientes. In the paragraphs that follow the preceding quotation, Seneca points out that many phenomena, such as eclipses, have only recently been explained by the Romans and remain a mystery to other peoples (Nat.

7.25.3). Similarly, all other phenomena will eventually be explained, but ad inquisitionem tantorum aetas una non sufficit, ut tota caelo vacet (“a single lifetime is not enough for the study of such great things, even if it were entirely available to probe the heavens,” Nat. 7.25.4).

239 See Nat. 7. 25.5: ueniet tempus illud quo posteri nostri tam aperta nos nescisse mirentur (“there will come a time in which our descendants will be amazed that we did not know such obvious things”); Nat.7.30.2: nec miremur tam tarde erui quae tam alte iacent (“let us not be amazed that things which are buried so deep take so long to dig out”); Nat. 7.30.4: Quid sit hoc sine quo nihil est, scire non possumus: et miramur si quos igniculos parum nouimus, cum maxima pars mundi, deus, lateat! (“we cannot know what this thing is without which nothing exists; and yet we are amazed that we know too little about these miniscule fires, when the greatest part of the world, god, lies hidden!”); Nat. 7.32.1: Miraris si nondum sapientia omne opus suum implevit? (“are you are amazed that wisdom has not yet fulfilled all of its work?”). 240 Nat.1.3.10: Quid ergo miraris si oculi nostri imbrium stillicidia non separant, et ex ingenti spatio intuentibus minutarum imaginum discrimen interit? (“Why, then, are you amazed, if our eyes cannot distinguish between the droplets of a rainfall, and if from a distance the difference between tiny images eludes viewers?”). 116 Such arguments recur throughout the book; for instance, Seneca concludes his argument that comets are planetary bodies with the following statement:

Haec sunt quae aut alios mouere ad cometas pertinentia aut me: quae an uera sint, di sciunt, quibus ueri scientia est. nobis rimari illa et coniectura ire in occulta tantum licet, nec cum fiducia inueniendi nec sine spe.

“These are the ideas concerning comets which have persuaded either me or others: whether they are true or not, only the gods know—knowledge of the truth belongs to them. For us, it is possible only to examine them and to broach these hidden matters with hypothesis, not with confidence in discovering the truth, but not without hope.” (Nat. 7.29.3)

Again, Seneca emphasizes that, while certain knowledge of underlying truths does exist, it is the purview only of the gods; while we can make some attempt at progress towards scientific facts, our knowledge remains partial, uncertain, and hypothetical. Such passages serve two major purposes: first of all, they emphasize that the causes of all phenomena are known to a cloistered and elevated subject-position—namely, a divine one. Second, they foreground the epistemically compromised subject, underlining the limitations even of the narrator of the Natural Questions, who always discusses human ignorance in the first person plural.241 The recurrence of these passages in Book 7 in particular is hardly a coincidence; they serve to amplify the epistemological problem at the heart of Seneca’s discussion of comets: like so many features of the natural world, comets’ orbits do exist and could hypothetically be known, but they are not currently known. Most scholars characterize the tone in these passages as generally optimistic about the upwards, progressive trajectory of human scientific knowledge.242 I fully agree that, for Seneca, our intellectual future is bright. Our present position, on the other hand, is somewhat

241 Inwood (2005), 146: “There is an epistemic humility here of which Xenophanes might be proud.” 242 See Hine (2006), 57; Williams (2007), 111; Scott (1999), 59: Seneca is “honest and frustrated about uncertainty, but is confident in the conclusions that result from perception and logic.” See also Edelstein (1967), 169-178. Edelstein contextualizes this Senecan passage with reference to a Stoic, and particularly Posidonian, amenability towards the idea of endless human progress: “Stoicism by its very nature was rather more amenable to progressivism than was its rival [Epicureansim]. From the very beginning it looked at human phenomena and moral data from the point of view of progress and emphasized creativity and development even in the realm of nature, where like a craftsman god, the active principle, is supposed to fashion everything out of matter, the passive principle” (177). 117 awkward: we are lodged between the objective truths we espouse and the myopic scope of our perception.

The peculiar position of the subject who believes in an underlying order but cannot see it has strong implications for his experience of miratio. We are stuck in an ignorant subject position that prevents us from affectively experiencing comets as anything other than a rarum spectaculum, but our theoretical knowledge that these dazzling phenomena are regular and recurring renders us aware of the inadequacy of this perspective. I will argue that, towards the end of Book 7, Seneca presents us with a conception of nature that accommodates both our ignorant affective positioning and our penetrating theoretical knowledge. Seneca accounts for the existence of comets by describing nature as an artist, who fashions them with a specific aesthetic vision in mind:243

Non ad unam natura formam opus suum praestat, sed ipsa uarietate se iactat, alia maiora alia uelociora aliis fecit, alia ualidiora alia temperatiora, quaedam eduxit a turba, ut singula et conspicua procederent, quaedam in gregem misit. ignorat naturae potentiam qui illi non putat aliquando licere nisi quod saepius fecit. cometas non frequenter ostendit, attribuit illis alium locum, alia tempora, dissimiles ceteris motus: uoluit et his magnitudinem operis sui colere. quorum formosior facies est quam ut fortuitam putes, siue amplitudinem eorum consideres siue fulgorem, qui maior est ardentiorque quam ceteris. facies uero habet insigne quiddam et singulare, non in angustum coniecta et artata, sed dimissa liberius et multarum stellarum amplexa regionem.

“Nature does not present her work in one shape, but she flaunts herself with her dappled appearance. She has made some things larger than the rest, other things faster, some things stronger, others more mild; she has drawn some things from the crowd, so that they appear uniquely and conspicuously, and certain ones she blended into the rest. A person does not know the power of nature if he thinks that she cannot do something sometimes unless she does it frequently. She does not often display comets; she has assigned to each of them its own place, its own time, movements different than the rest: she wants to embellish the magnitude of her own work also through these phenomena. Their appearance is too beautiful for you to think it accidental, whether you consider their size, or their brightness, which is greater and more flaming than the rest. Indeed,

243 This notion of nature as artist of the universe is consistent with the Stoic idea that god is the ultimate cause, enacting his will on the passive matter of the universe—see Sedley (1999), 384-386. Seneca compares the relationship between cause and matter to that between an artist and his art at Ep. 65. 2-3; see also S. E. M 9. 75- 6(=SVF 2.311). See also D.L. 7.86 for Zeno on nature as a craftsman: τεχνίτης γὰρ οὗτος ἐπιγίνεται τῆς ὁρµῆς (“[logos] is the craftsman of appetition”). 118 their appearance has something outstanding and unique about it, not relegated and bound to a narrow region, but freely loosed and encompassing the area of many stars.” (Nat. 7. 27.5-6)

Two salient features emerge from this description. First of all, as Gunderson points out, by characterizing the wide array of seemingly disparate phenomena in the universe as elements of a single and intentional artistic design, Seneca conjures a unifying force underlying the cosmos, recasting apparent discordia as a concordia discors. Nature’s artistic vision serves the function of “some anterior and higher order that sutures the contradictions.”244 Seemingly contradictory phenomena (maiora… velociora… validiora… temperatiora) function as objects of one verb

(fecit), which underlines the singular logic driving this dappled and variegated vision. This coherent aesthetic project serves to emphasize both the intentionality and the power of nature

(naturae potentiam) in designing the universe. In this sense, nature’s aesthetic self-fashioning reinforces Stoic notions of a unified cosmos pervaded by rational divine intent.

At the same time, in the case of comets, Nature intends to appeal to those of us who experience ignorant miratio: she draws upon the flashy pizzazz of this unusual phenomenon in order to appear more eye-catching. We will recall that, at the beginning of Book 7, Seneca lamented that, although frequent phenomena are admiratione digna (“worthy of admiration”), magnitudinem rerum consuetudo subducit (“our experience with them subtracts from their grandness”). Nature seems to pander directly to this logic when she deploys comets non frequenter as a way of magnitudinem operis sui colere, explicitly drawing upon our myopic fascination with the unusual in order to exalt her own grandness. Similarly, the phrases singula et conspicua and insigne quiddam et singulare underscore the beauty to be found in rare and eye-catching phenomena.245

244 Gunderson (2015), 62. 245 Ep. 94 similarly addresses nature’s use of sudden or unusual phenomena: Nulli nos vitio natura conciliat: illa integros ac liberos genuit... Illa vultus nostros erexit ad caelum et quidquid magnificum mirumque fecerat videri a suspicientibus voluit: ortus occasusque et properantis mundi volubilem cursum, interdiu terrena aperientem, nocte 119 Furthermore, in justifying the existence of comets, Seneca perverts the traditional view of natural beauty as proof of divine intent, arguing that comets are formosior… quam ut fortuitam putes. The idea that beauty is a sign of divine intent is nothing new; in Chapter 1 I discussed its recurrence at Nat. 1. Praef. 15, and I opened this chapter with an overview of its prevalence in Stoic thought, particularly in Book 2 of Cicero’s De Natura Deorum. However, the beauty described in this passage stems from the aspects of comets that are maior… ardentiorque quam ceteris; that is, it appeals to the fascination with the unusual and outstanding.

Whereas the wondrous aesthetic featured prominently in Balbus’ speech was closely tied to consistency, regularity, and predictability, thus aligning closely with Seneca’s elevated miratio, in this passage it is a phenomenon’s rarity and irregularity that points to its divine deployment.

In this context, we might read a true ethical problem into the phrase natura… ipsa uarietate se iactat. The word iactare to denote boasting recurs in moralizing descriptions of vain and vaunting affectations246 and is generally problematic. More specifically, in numerous contexts, but especially in rhetorical ones, the word iactantia often indicates a narcissistically ostentatious style.247 Gunderson points out that nature’s self-styling in this passage recalls the

caelestia… alia deinceps digna miratu, sive per ordinem subeunt sive subitis causis mota prosiliunt, ut nocturnos ignium tractus et sine ullo ictu sonituque fulgores caeli patescentis columnasque ac trabes et varia simulacra flammarum (“Nature does not dispose us towards any vice: she bore us healthy and free… She lifted our gazes towards heaven, and, whatever she made beautiful and marvelous, she wanted to be witnessed admiringly: the rising and setting of the sun, the rushing course of the swift world, which exposes the earth during the day and the heavens at night… and other things worthy of wonder, either because they follow an order, or because they leap forth, spurred by sudden causes, like the tracks of nighttime fire, and the lightning in the open heaven without any blow or sound, and beams, and other visions of flames,” Ep. 94.56). Like the introduction to Book 7, this passage distinguishes between two types of miratio: one which stems from regularity and one which stems from sudden and unexpected phenomena. Furthermore, both Nat. 7.27.6 and Ep. 94.56 suggest that nature has purposefully deployed the latter form of wonder in order to catch our attention. However, this suggestion at Ep. 94.56 is not as overtly problematic as that at Nat. 7.27.6, which occurs in a chapter that began by explicitly condemning common miratio. See also Ep. 42.1, where Seneca applies the same logic to the sage’s rarity, a trait which apparently further exalts him: Nec est mirum ex intervallo magna generari; mediocria et in turbam nascentia saepe fortuna producit, eximia vero ipsa raritate commendat (“it is not surprising that greatness is created at long intervals; fortune often brings forth middling things, which are born among the crowd, but she designates extraordinary things by their very rarity”). 246 See the twelfth definition of iactare listed in the OLD: “To display, parade, show off. b (refl.) to flaunt oneself, show off.” 247 See the second definition of iactantia listed in the OLD: “showing off, ostentation, parade.” For the use of the word in rhetoric, see Quint. Inst. 1.6.21, 1.8.18, 6.3.75, 9.2.74, 12.8.3, 12.10.40. 120 rhetorical strategies of amplification and diminution;248 in this quasi-rhetorical context, then, the phrase se iactat evokes iactantia and attributes traces of self-centered parading to nature’s oratorical flair. We might otherwise treat a pejorative word such as iactare, especially in reference to such a revered figure as nature, as playful Senecan tongue-in-cheek. However, the accompanying description of nature’s style invites us to put more pressure on the idea that nature would “flaunt herself” by varying her appearance and, specifically, by deploying comets infrequently in order to maximize shock effect. If nature really were performing for the myopic gaze of gawking thrill-seekers, she would actually be engaging in an ethically questionable form of self-display, typical of overindulgent iactantia.

Seneca’s hierarchical classification of affects at the opening of this book should inject a degree of suspicion towards this characterization of nature: given that we have been primed to favor the beauty to be found in regularities, we should not readily accept the idea that nature would cater to ignorant peoples’ miratio. Instead, I propose that we should view this description as both a symptom of the narrator’s self-described epistemological limitations and an indication of the partial wisdom that can be found within the constraints of these limitations. The idea that nature’s beauty would stem primarily from her most unusual features betrays the narrator’s tendency towards common miratio. At the same time, the narrator imagines this problematic beauty as a part of a coherent artistic vision, interpreting this flashy attraction through a distinctly Stoic lens. Though a mere proficiens cannot grasp all the fundamental regularities that garner a sense of elevated miratio, he can build a sense of cosmic unity and intentionality from within his stunted affective realm. A compromised person’s experience of the unusual as especially beautiful is fundamentally faulty and myopic. However, because we are always and inevitably entrenched in this perspective, our only option is to imagine a fundamental unity and

248 Gunderson (2015), 62. 121 rationality underlying this dazzling beauty. This image of nature as a flashy stylist manages to hint at an underlying logic to the objects we marvel at, while also accounting for our low-brow affective experience in their wake. Though fundamentally flawed, this conception of nature allows us to believe in a latent order despite our limited body of knowledge.

We will end by re-reading the description of elevated miratio at the opening of Book 7 with this description of nature the dazzler in mind: the idealizing passage from the beginning of the book will reveal itself not as a straightforward appreciation of the beauty in regularity—as it appeared at first—but as our distinctly compromised narrator’s attempt to imagine this sort of noble affective experience. This compromised account of elevated miratio actually fails to attain

Stoic ideals more frequently than the affectively problematic but unifying account of nature as an artist does. This failed attempt at elevated miratio should indicate to us that, while a truly wise person’s elevated miratio would be ideal, a universal vision that works within our epistemological limitations will be more didactically effective than one that denies them. Let us take a second look at the description of elevated miratio that opened Book 7:

At quanto illa maiora sunt, quod sol totidem, ut ita dicam, gradus quot dies habet, et annum circuitu suo cludit, quod a solstitio ad minuendos dies uertitur, quod ab aequinoctio statim inclinat et dat noctibus spatium, quod sidera abscondit, quod terras, cum tanto maior sit illis, non urit sed calorem suum intensionibus ac remissionibus temperando fouet, quod lunam numquam nec implet nisi aduersam sibi nec obscurat . Haec tamen non adnotamus quamdiu ordo seruatur; si quid turbatum est aut praeter consuetudinem emicuit, spectamus interrogamus ostendimus. adeo naturale est magis noua quam magna mirari.

“But how much grander are the following facts: that the sun has, so to speak, as many steps as it has days, and that it closes the year by its own circuit; that it turns towards shortening the days after the solstice; that after the equinox it immediately lowers and gives room to the night; that it hides the stars; that it does not burn the lands, although it is so much bigger than they are, but instead it nourishes them by controlling its heat by intensifying and abating; that it never either fully illuminates the moon except when facing it, or fully conceals it unless it is <***>. Nevertheless, we do not notice these things, so long as the regular order is preserved. If something is disturbed or flashes forth beyond what is normal, we observe it, probe it, point it out; so natural it is to wonder at new things more than at great things.” (Nat. 7.1.3-4)

122 Though this passage constitutes an attempt to describe the beauty to be found in the underlying regularities of the cosmos—a commendable Stoic effort—it betrays some fundamental misunderstandings of Stoic doctrine. First of all, the narrator reveals his decidedly myopic conception of the “order” of the universe. Apparently, elevated miratio is only to be found quamdiu ordo servatur, whereas the unusual phenomena garnering common miratio occur when something from this order is turbatum. The ordo described here is based upon regularities as we perceive them; a true Stoic order, on the other hand, cannot be disrupted or disturbed, because it encompasses all phenomena. For further proof that even Seneca’s most “enlightened” narrative voice conflates perceived regularities with underlying order, we can recall Seneca’s claim that comets should not be classified in the same group as miracula, columnae clipeique flagrantes aliaeque insigni nouitate flammae, quae non aduerterent animos si ex consuetudine et lege decurrerent (“those marvels, flaming columns and blazing shields, and other flames of outstanding novelty, which would not attract our attention if they progressed according to habit and law,” Nat. 7.20.2). This passage makes an almost identical complaint to the one in 7.1.3-4 that most humans do not pay attention to natural phenomena quamdiu ordo servatur. However, in 7.20.2, Seneca uses the words consuetudo and lex to describe the “order” that is ruptured by dazzling phenomena— consuetudo explicitly refers to human habituation, and lex is a term taken from the man-made legal sphere. Thus, 7.20.2 makes explicit what 7.1.3-4 left implicit: the only “order” violated by unexpected phenomena is the skewed and incomplete order expected by compromised humans. By elevating the miratio one might feel towards visibly regular phenomena, Seneca elevates only the order perceived by humans.

Indeed, Seneca’s entire discussion of miratio at the opening of Book 7 relies upon the fundamental primacy of visibly regular phenomena, which are maiora when compared to sudden or new things. In my initial discussion of Seneca’s account of elevated miratio, I pointed out that Seneca’s use of cotidiana could either point towards our habituation to a phenomenon, 123 or to its regular temporal recurrence. Indeed, it is impossible to distinguish between these two meanings in Seneca’s description of elevated miratio, because his account of the beauty of regularity draws entirely upon phenomena whose order is visible and easily observed: the patterns of the moon and sun. These patterns can be grasped according to days and years, i.e. human units of time, and can be perceived from the vantage-point of an epistemically- compromised human gazing up at the sky—they do not require the penetrating vision of the cosmic perspective, which delves beyond the immediately visible.249 The habitual and the ordered bleed together in Seneca’s praise of cotidiana; the conflation of these two meanings obscures the fact that even unusual phenomena follow a certain ordo, according to Stoic doctrine. While the tendency to find beauty in regularity closely adheres to Stoic values, the idea that we should find these regularities especially in commonly observed phenomena does not— after all, comets and other unusual phenomena are also regularities, albeit rare ones. Seneca’s description of nature the stylist relies upon a more corrupt affective experience than the elevated wonder extolled at the opening of Book 7. However, unlike the opening of Book 7, the image of nature at the end of Book 7 does point towards a truly all-encompassing intentionality. The latter description accounts for both superficially outstanding phenomena and the more mundane phenomena which nature has chosen to keep in gregem—both contribute to nature’s dappled and eye-catching aesthetic.

In fact, Seneca’s entire project throughout this book is grounded in this myopic conception of a cosmic order. Seneca should not have to classify comets as astral bodies in order to prove that they are inter aeterna opera naturae (“among the eternal works of nature,” Nat.

7.22.1)—nature’s eternal order should govern all phenomena, including meteorological ones.

Indeed, Williams points out that, after establishing astronomy as the highest plane of

249 See pp. 18-19 above. 124 epistemological certainty and metaphysical order, Seneca returns to the sphere of meteorology for the remainder of the Natural Questions.250 In fact, Book 1 of the Natural Questions, the very next book after Book 7 (if we accept Codoñer and Hine’s ordering),251 treats the topic of sky- fires, phenomena which Seneca had pointedly circumvented at 7.20.2, claiming that comets should not be classified among such flashy and strange events. For Williams, although in Books

1 and 2 Seneca lowers his gaze to meteorological phenomena, he does so while maintaining the commitment to rationality, speculation, and inference developed in Book 7: Seneca attempts to unearth the order behind even meteorological occurrences.252 Such a methodology may pervade

Book 1, but it exists in tension with, not as an extension of, the rhetorical move at the center of

Book 7: in his discussion of comets, Seneca extols rationality precisely by contrasting it with the provisionality and uncertainty of the meteorological sphere. The clash between these perspectives emerges from Seneca’s simultaneous commitment to Stoic principles and interest in meteorological phenomena, which are notoriously unstable and constitute an “unpromising vehicle” for “the application of a critically rational approach to the understanding of the cosmos.”253 These epistemological difficulties cause Seneca to adopt a variety of imperfect and often contradictory scientific and affective postures with respect to his subject matter.

Ideally, the cosmic perspective would entail an affectively gentle sense of wonder towards the coherent order underlying all physical phenomena. As I emphasized in my discussion of Cicero’s De Natura Deorum, certain marvelous instances of overt order should serve as signs of a divine logic that subtends everything. The epistemically-compromised position of Seneca’s narrator, however, presents us with two imperfect options. In his description of the beauty of the sun and moon, Seneca appreciates individual instances of overt

250 Williams (2007), 112. 251 For the ordering of the books of the Natural Questions, see n. 47 above. 252 Williams (2007), 112. 253 Inwood (2002), 121. 125 order but not an all-encompassing, latent one, and in his depiction of nature as an artist he fixates upon what is unusual and strange on the surface but preserves a sense of order underneath. In other words, either we demonstrate the “proper” affective valence—a miratio directed at regularities— but an imperfect definition of the rational order, or we experience the

“wrong” type of feeling—a miratio directed at what is unusual—while nevertheless beginning to understand that a single logic governs every aspect of our world.

Conclusion

Many scholars of the Natural Questions have been quick to identify an endorsement on

Seneca’s part of flattened, emotional detachment, and a disavowal of affective investment.

However, in my reading of the Natural Questions, I hope to have shown that affective detachment and attachment do not correspond neatly to wisdom and ignorance, respectively. In

Chapter 1, I emphasized that, for the sage, wisdom entails an affectively-charged positioning vis-à-vis the universe and oneself. Conversely, in Chapters 2 and 3, I have argued that, in the case of compromised proficientes, intense and perverse affective experiences can provide some form of wisdom. Affect provides routes to ethical progress for proficientes, and endows sages with ways of engaging their very sagehood. In the next two chapters, I will turn away from the

Natural Questions, applying the ideas set forth in the first three chapters to the Seneca’s work from other genres, namely, his Epistulae Morales and his Troades. In these works, I will ask not only what we gain from harnessing our feelings, but also what we lose when we deny these feelings and commit ourselves to pure rationality. Together, the Epistulae Morales and the

Troades will show that logos without affect is hollow and ethically meaningless at its best, and voyeuristic and cruel at its worst.

126 Chapter 4: Wonder and Exemplarity in the Epistulae Morales

Introduction: Conceptualizing the Good

Throughout this dissertation, I have argued that affect often functions as a stand-in for rational knowledge: where reason fails us, our feelings can teach us something important about our relationship to ethics or physics. For this reason, my discussion of affect has been closely tied to the Senecan distinction between proficiens and sapiens: the latter may be able to rely entirely on reason in order to live out Stoic ideals, whereas the former sometimes finds himself turning to affect for moral lessons. The disjuncture between these two subject-positions motivates much of Seneca’s Epistulae Morales: both Seneca and Lucilius are proficientes with significant epistemic gaps and moral flaws, who strive to imitate the exalted but effectively nonexistent character of the sapiens.

The rarity of the sage is not only a symptom of our ethical and epistemic flaws. Rather, this very rarity itself poses an epistemic problem. Specifically, our inability to witness the actions of the sapiens raises the question of how we might comprehend the good.254 According to the Stoics, all human understanding comes from sense-perception—objects in the world create “impressions” (known as phantasiai in Greek and species in Latin) in our mind, which may or may not be true. We must rationally decide whether or not to assent to these impressions

(that is, deem them veridical).255 One of the most important concepts we must grasp in order to live ethical lives is the concept of the good: we cannot pursue virtue without rationally understanding it.256 The good, however, is manifested only in the conduct of the sapiens, whom

254 Inwood (2005), 271-274; Wildberger (2006), 100. 255 See Long and Sedley (1987), 253-259 for a compilation and discussion of the Stoic sources on sense-perception. See also Inwood (1985), 42-101; Long (1996), 266-285; Sandbach (1971), 9-21; Lefebvre (1997); Hankinson (2003). The notion of phantasia as a vivid appearance before the eyes was important for a variety of ancient thinkers besides the Stoics: see Watson (1998) for a full survey. 256 Inwood (2005), 284-285. 127 the vast majority of individuals will never encounter in the phenomenal world. How, then, can we attain knowledge of goodness without ever coming into contact with it?

In his De Finibus, Cicero’s Stoic spokesman Cato answers this question with an appeal to reason.257 According to Cato, we witness the order and concord of things in the natural world, and then conclude that orderly and harmonious actions constitute the highest good. This conclusion is reached cognitione et ratione (“through intelligence and reason,” Fin. 3.21); it involves a rational extrapolation of a concept from orderly phenomena we have witnessed in the world. Seneca, on the other hand, pointedly does not appeal to such rational processes and instead finds an affective solution to this epistemological problem. As we will see, in letter 120,

Seneca posits that our conception of the good stems from an experience of miratio in the face of brave but flawed deeds: our wonder causes us to experience these deeds as if they were perfect, and so we are able to glean an understanding of the good from this misapprehension of flawed actions. Thus, as happened in the Natural Questions, affect steps in to provide insight that we cannot grasp in more traditional ways.

In the bulk of this chapter, I argue that this reliance upon miratio for our knowledge of the good constitutes an inversion of Seneca’s usual rationalistic stance.258 Seneca generally treats wonderstruck misapprehension as the antithesis of an ethical understanding. In letter 120, however, this misapprehension is central to our concept-formation of the good. Furthermore, I will flag two argumentative byproducts of Seneca’s account of miratio-induced concept- formation. First of all, Seneca contrasts wonderstruck misapprehension, which allows us to subjectively grasp the good, with Stoic technical discourse, which is objectively correct but subjectively incomprehensible. In doing so, he exposes such discourse as overly abstract, almost

257 Cic. Fin. 3.20-25. See Inwood (2005b), 275-279; Frede (1999); Striker (1996), 229-230 for further discussion of this Ciceronian idea. 258 As Henderson (2004), 1 says of Seneca’s approach in the Epistles as a whole, “This is critical writing, it puts itself under pressure.” It is therefore not surprising that Seneca would invert and critique his own approach. 128 to the point of being meaningless and ethically hollow. Thus, affect emerges as a crucial vehicle for meaning—while technical discussions might reflect the truths of Stoic logos, imperfect humans need a more compelling and affectively charged way of relating to these truths.

Secondly, twice over the course of letter 120, Seneca’s prose enacts a certain slip: Seneca affirms the centrality of affect and subjectivity in our apprehension of philosophical ideals, only to pivot towards a more typical form of Senecan discourse that privileges objectivity and rationality. I suggest that this slip exposes the way in which Senecan language often denies its reliance on affect and subjectivity for meaning.

The Problem with Objectivity

Letter 120 arises as a response to a number of issues and questions raised in letter 118, the first letter of Book 20 of the Epistles.259 Thus, before turning to letter 120, I will argue that letter 118 aligns nature, ethics, and knowledge with objectivity as opposed to subjectivity and affect. This alignment is typical of Seneca’s work. However, I argue that letter 118 also hints at the epistemological problems that arise when we attempt to expel subjectivity and affect entirely. The unconventional solutions posed in letter 120 arise as a response to these problems.

Book 20 of Seneca’s Epistles begins with a turn away from political concerns. Whereas

Cicero, in his correspondence with Atticus, devotes letter after letter to the twists and turns of public affairs, Seneca prefers self-scrutiny to gossip about others.260 For Seneca, this self- examination will reveal the futility of ambitiously striving after earthy benefits. He claims:

Omnes autem male habet ignorantia ueri. Tamquam ad bona feruntur decepti rumoribus, deinde mala esse aut inania aut minora quam sperauerint adepti ac multa passi uident; maiorque pars miratur ex intervallo fallentia, et uulgo bona pro magnis sunt. Hoc ne nobis quoque eueniat, quaeramus quid sit bonum.

259 In general, the books of Seneca’s Epistles tend to have narrative arcs, and the letters that comprise them are often in dialogue with one another—see Cancik (1967); Gunderson (2015), 14. 260 For more on Seneca’s critique of Cicero, see Inwood (2007), ad loc. For the opening of this letter as a reflection on the epistolary genre, see Ker (2006), 35ff; Edwards (1997), 24ff. 129 “Ignorance of the truth leads all men astray. Deceived by rumors, they proceed towards these things as if they were good, and then finally, once they have attained them by great suffering, they see that they are bad, or empty, or more trivial than they had hoped. Most people admire things that deceive them from a distance, and, in the eyes of the masses, large things are confused for good things. Lest this happen to us, let us ask what is the good.” (Ep. 118.7-8)

Seneca thus opens Book 20 of the Epistles with the straightforward equation of ethical progress with the apprehension of objective truths. For Seneca, greedy and unsatisfied men are led astray by an ignorantia ueri.261 This ignorance is enabled in part by a misplaced feeling of wonder

(miratur) towards things that may appear to be good (bona) but are ultimately deceptive

(fallentia). This subjective affect stems from an errant relationship to the objective.

Furthermore, much like the common miratio of Chapter 3 of this dissertation, this deceptive wonder is contemptuously associated with the lower classes.262 A philosophical inquiry into the true good will correct this vulgar and unethical behavior and form the foundation for ethical action.263 Thus, Seneca poses his philosophical project as an uncovering of objective truths, which are often muddied by excessive subjectivity.

In rejecting existing definitions of the good and proposing his own, Seneca reaffirms this belief in objectivity as a source of truth. He argues:

'bonum est quod inuitat animos, quod ad se uocat'. Huic statim opponitur: quid si inuitat quidem sed in perniciem? scis quam multa mala blanda sint. Uerum et ueri simile inter se differunt. Ita quod bonum est uero iungitur; non est enim bonum nisi uerum est. At quod inuitat ad se et adlicefacit ueri simile est: subrepit, sollicitat, adtrahit.

“‘The good is what summons the soul, what calls it to itself.’ To this one can instantly object: what if it does summon the soul, but towards calamity? You know how many evils are alluring. What is true and what seems true differ among themselves; and so what is good is joined to the truth; nothing is good unless it is true. But what summons things to itself and entices us seems like the truth; it creeps up on us, it incites us, it attracts us.” (Ep. 118. 8)

261 As Inwood (2007), 309 points out, erroneous opinions constitute one of the two potential causes of unethical behavior identified by the Stoics (the other being the persuasiveness of external things). See D.L. 7.89. 262 See pp. 100-102 above. 263 See Inwood (2007), 309: “This is an unusually explicit statement of the motivation for a quaestio… Avoidance of moral harm is the goal of learning what the good truly is.” 130 Seneca’s imagined interlocutor has suggested that “the good” might be defined with respect to the effect an external object has on the subject: the good entices, attracts, and summons an individual’s soul. This attraction has a decidedly affective pull, as suggested by the term blandus and the verb subrepere, which implies that the good might affect us unwittingly, despite ourselves. Seneca’s problem with this affective, subjective definition of the good is that it obscures the objective truth. Things that feel pleasant might allure us deceptively. Our affects muddle the distinction between what is good, and what merely seems good.

Seneca prefers an alternative definition of the good, which draws upon the concept of nature:

Melius illi qui ita finierunt: 'bonum est quod ad se impetum animi secundum naturam mouet et ita demum petendum est cum coepit esse expetendum'. Iam et honestum est; hoc enim est perfecte petendum.

“Some have defined it better, thus: ‘the good is what moves the impulse of the soul towards itself according to nature, and it ought to be sought only when it begins to be something worth choosing.’264 By then it is also honorable; for that is what is completely worth choosing.” (Ep. 118.9)

Here, Seneca introduces the concept of nature into a previously faulty definition of the good in order to render this definition more objective.265 A conception of the good that appeals to the concept of nature cannot entail a warping of the truth because it does not rely solely upon a person’s subjective response to a certain object. At the same time, I should note that even in this definition the subjective and the affective loom large. The true good remains defined by the way it “moves” us—nature functions as a supplement to, rather than a replacement for, the overly affective definition that Seneca rejected at Ep. 118.8.

264 My translation of expetendum as “worth choosing” is based on Inwood’s “choiceworthy;” according to Inwood (2007), ad loc., expetendum is likely a Latin translation of the Greek haireton, which, in Stoic contexts, denotes a true good, as opposed to a preferred indifferent. See Stobaeus 2.97.15-2.98.6 (=SVF 3.91); D.L. 7.101 (=SVF 3.92). The term haireton is used by other philosophical schools as well; for instance, the Epicureans call “choiceworthy” things which bring about more pleasure than discomfort. See Epicur. Ep. Men. 129. 265 For a comprehensive treatment of the Stoic position on nature as an ethical guide, see Striker (1996), Ch. 12. 131 Next, Seneca proceeds to outline the difference between the good (bonum) and the honorable (honestum). In this discussion, Seneca seems to evade the perils of subjective affect, established at the opening of the letter as an obscurer of truth, by resorting to extreme abstraction. According to him,

Aliquid inter se mixtum habent et inseparabile: nec potest bonum esse nisi cui aliquid honesti inest, et honestum utique bonum est. Quid ergo inter duo interest? Honestum est perfectum bonum, quo beata vita completur, cuius contactu alia quoque bona fiunt. Quod dico talest: sunt quaedam neque bona neque mala, tamquam militia, legatio, iurisdictio. Haec cum honeste administrata sunt, bona esse incipiunt et ex dubio in bonum transeunt. Bonum societate honesti fit, honestum per se bonum est; bonum ex honesto fluit, honestum ex se est. Quod bonum est malum esse potuit; quod honestum est nisi bonum esse non potuit.

“They share a certain quality among themselves, intermingled and inseparable: something cannot be good without an element of the honorable, and the honorable is necessarily good. So what is the difference between them? The honorable is the perfect good, by which the happy life is fulfilled; other things are also rendered good by contact with it. Here is what I mean: certain things are neither good nor bad, such as military service, diplomacy, or the administration of justice. When these things are conducted honorably, they begin to be good, and they move out of the category of ‘indifferent’ and into the category of ‘good.’ The good comes out of association with the honorable, whereas the honorable is a good in itself; the good springs from the honorable, but the honorable springs from itself. What is good could have been bad; what is honorable could not have been anything but good.” (Ep. 118.10-11)

Technically speaking, Seneca’s claim in this passage is that the good and the honorable are extensionally equivalent—everything good is honorable, and vice-versa—but that the honorable plays a causal role in defining the good—good things are good because they are honorable.266

Seneca’s formulation of this distinction is dizzyingly abstract. He makes no reference to our own relationship to the good and the honorable, or to any aspect of phenomenal human experience. His only mentions of the human sphere (militia, legatio, iurisdictio) are attributed precisely to things that sunt… neque bona neque mala—the specific type of honorable conduct that would turn these indifferent entities into goods is left out. Whereas morally neutral aspects

266 See Cic. Fin. 3.27 and D.L. 7.100 for the good and honourable as extensionally equivalent. See Inwood (2007), 311-12 for a careful explication of Seneca’s articulation of this idea. 132 of life are given a vivid and clear grounding in the human world, ethically loaded terms remain abstract and detached.

Instead of defining the good and the honorable with reference to human experience,

Seneca defines the two terms exclusively against each other. To a certain extent, such interlocking definitions are unavoidable, given that the good and the honorable are extensionally equivalent. However, Seneca’s language pointedly emphasizes the circularity and mutual definition of these two terms. Numerous sentences link together mirrored clauses in which the good is described with reference to the honorable, and vice-versa (e.g. bonum societate honesti fit, honestum per se bonum est). The bonum and the honestum comprise a closed linguistic circuit, in which each term constitutes the other without any connection to the phenomenal, human world. These signifiers are linked primarily to each other rather than to identifiable signified entities.

Indeed, the status of bonum and honestum as elements of linguistic structure and form, rather than as effective vehicles for meaningful content, is foregrounded here.267 At the beginning of letter 118, Seneca claimed that common understandings of the good obscured truth and obstructed ethical action. Here, he presents an abstract, formal discussion of the good as an alternative to these common impressions. However, we might ask how this technical discussion, in its extreme abstraction, can both convey understanding and stymie meaningful ethical action.268

In fact, Seneca has phrased this delineation of the bonum and the honestum in such a way that we must read it from a subjective perspective in order to glean any meaning from it

267 As Armisen-Marchetti (1996), 77 puts it, Seneca is trapped between “l’exigence de technicité, afin de restituer de façon précise la difficile terminologie stoïcienne; et l’exigence de simplicité, simplicité qui, usant des mots de tous les jours, saura se frayer un chemin dans les profondeurs des consciences et éveiller l’élan vers les valeurs.” 268 Seneca articulates this very critique of formal definitions explicitly elsewhere in his letters. E.g. see Ep. 71.6, 117. See also Bartsch (2009), 192-194 on the inadequacy of excessively theoretical thought in Seneca: Bartsch argues that Seneca’s prose requires upon metaphor for “its ability to ‘bring home’ to us the lived meaning of an abstract idea” (193). 133 whatsoever. As Inwood points out, some of the confusion garnered by this passage stems from the fact that bonum seems to waffle between two possible meanings here: at times, it must denote a technical, Stoic good, and at others, it cannot have this meaning, and it should be translated simply as “good” in the generic Latin sense. In particular, the phrase quod bonum est malum esse potuit cannot be interpreted to refer to a true Stoic good—it must indicate what a

Stoic would call a “preferred indifferent,” or something which is fundamentally neutral but becomes preferable in a given set of circumstances.269 On the other hand, in the second half of this sentence, quod honestum est nisi bonum esse non potuit, does deploy the word bonum in a technical sense, referring to the idea that the honorable is the defining causal factor of the Stoic good. The confusion inherent to this passage, then, stems from the overdetermined nature of the terms used:270 because each word has multiple meanings, it is difficult to untangle the precise qualities to which Seneca refers.

With this double meaning of bonum in mind, we might posit that the text is only comprehensible if we introduce an element of subjectivity to it. In order to glean meaning from the passage, we must ask, does Seneca mean bonum as an average person on the street would mean it, or does he mean it as a Stoic would mean it? Thus, the imagined subject-position of the narrator transforms each iteration of bonum from a multivalent and ambiguous symbol to an effective signifier. In his reading of Ep. 108, Gunderson discusses a passage in which the word res is used twice in one sentence, with two different meanings—one instance refers to the object

269 Inwood (2007), 312-313. 270 Polysemy and ambiguity were a common topic of discussion for the Stoics; Chrysippus believed that all words could contain multiple meanings (see SVF 2.152, 2.153; Quint. Inst. 7.9.1). In fact, many Stoic syllogisms were based upon words that had multiple meanings. For example, one of Zeno’s syllogisms posits that, because drunk men cannot be trusted with secrets and wise men can, no wise men will ever be drunk (see Ep. 83.9); this syllogism rests on the fact that “drunk” can refer to either a temporarily drunk person or an alcoholic [on this Senecan passage see Armisen-Marchetti (1996), 77]. Seneca found these sorts of syllogisms tedious, meaningless, and irrelevant to our moral development [see Ep. 45.5, 83.11, 90.29, 108.12; for a critique of Seneca’s dismissal of Stoic formal logic, see Hijmans (1991), 33-35]—we can intuitively distinguish between the different meanings of “drunk” in the above syllogism. As I will suggest below, our ability to evade the perils of polysemy requires that we adopt a variety of often problematic subject-positions. 134 of one’s study, and the other to the abstract meaning gleaned from study. Gunderson argues that sublimity and wisdom lie in the ability to unify these two meanings of res, turning written material into an abstract concept.271 Here, on the other hand, we must preserve two distinct, limited meanings of the word bonum in order to untangle the sentence. If we were to understand both instantiations of bonum in the same way, we would need to read honestum as somehow more truly or frequently bonum than the bonum itself. Thus, whereas words themselves can attain a sort of unifying sublimity, holding within themselves multiple meanings at once, this sublimity is ultimately a source of confusion for us. In order to parse this definition of the good and honorable, we must pivot between myopic subject positions rather than unifying or transcending them.

Furthermore, one of the myopic subject-positions we must adopt is precisely the one

Seneca has already flagged as faulty, excessively subjective, and short-sighted. At the beginning of letter 118, Seneca had presented popular conceptions of the good as an ethically treacherous problem, to be corrected by Seneca’s true definition of the good. However, here, Seneca’s language refers to both the true Stoic good and the false good of the misinformed masses: we must recognize and understand the “wrong” meaning of bonum in order to grasp its true definition. Thus, although the letters constantly push us towards an enlightened and all-knowing perspective, our compromised subject-position remains inescapable. Seneca cannot define the objectively true good without appealing to our limited subject-positions, even when these subject-positions entail false conceptions of the good. We might connect this resurfacing of the subjective to the constant repetition inherent to Seneca’s letters. Seneca frequently returns to the same questions again and again; letter 118 is by no means the first in the collection to define the

271 Gunderson (2015), 27-28. 135 true good or distinguish it from false goods.272 Based upon the above example, we might posit one reason why Seneca cannot simply lay out his definition of the good once and for all: even as

Seneca tries to point us forwards towards objectivity and pure rationality, his language constantly slips backwards, into the subjective and affective.

Seneca opened his letter with a clear articulation of the problems inherent to excessively subjective and affective definitions of the good. However, in articulating alternatives to these wonderstruck notions of the good, Seneca shows us that these problems cannot be solved with recourse to purely formal definitions: even in these definitions, meaning is conveyed only through appeals to the subjective. If we cannot entirely eradicate this affective, subjective remainder that lingers in philosophical discussions, can we instead harness it for philosophical and ethical progress?

Understanding through Affect

The beginning of letter 118 sets out a straightforward project for Book 20 of the Epistles: to shake us out of our myopic subject-position, provide a true definition of the good, and thereby teach ethical action. By the end of letter 118, however, Seneca has shown us that the process is not so simple, and that our subjectivity (along with all the affects with which it is imbued) must be retained to some degree in order to convey meaning. Letter 120 picks up on the importance of the affective and the subjective, and elaborates ways in which our feelings can be useful vehicles for understanding, even when they bend the truth. Indeed, in letter 120, Seneca presents subjective wonder as a vehicle for meaning and ethical understanding, outlining a theory of what I will call miratio-induced concept formation. I will begin by arguing that miratio-induced concept-formation is both a crucial step in philosophical understanding and an inversion of

Seneca’s usual treatment of the relationship between affect and ontology.

272 For some examples of previous discussions of this topic, see Ep. 9.15ff, 44.6, 45.9-11, 59.14, 65.10, 66, 67.3-5, 71.32-33, 85.36, 92.11ff, 102.8-9, 104.9. For the repetition of the same themes in the letters, see e.g. Griffin (2007). 136 Seneca begins letter 120 by drawing out the epistemological difficulties hinted at in letter 118. Letter 120 is framed as a follow-up to the questions raised in letter 118: Epistula tua per plures quaestiunculas uagata est sed in una constitit et hanc expediri desiderat, quomodo ad nos boni honestique notitia peruenerit (“your letter roamed over a number of smaller questions, but settled on one and asked that this be explained: how the knowledge of the good and the honorable has come to us,” Ep. 120.1). Lucilius, then, has been left with the same questions we have. Formal definitions might explain the good and honorable as objectively as possible. But how are we able, from our compromised positions, to subjectively apprehend these crucial ideas?

Seneca’s answer to this epistemological question presupposes a starkly different relationship between ethics, affect, and objectivity than the one posited at the beginning of letter

118. Seneca revises and recalibrates the simple dichotomy presented at the opening of the book, where nature, truth, and ethical action were aligned and set against feelings, falsehoods, and unethical action. In doing so, he speaks to the importance of subjectivity and affect as vehicles for understanding. First, Seneca clarifies that we needed to come to learn these concepts ourselves, because nature did not grant us ingrained knowledge of them at birth: hoc nos natura docere non potuit: semina nobis scientiae dedit, scientiam non dedit (“Nature was not able to teach us these things: she gave us the seeds of knowledge, but not knowledge itself,” Ep. 120.4).

This initial statement is terse and not fully explicit, but it seems to hint towards the notion, elaborated elsewhere in the letters, that virtue requires both a certain natural predisposition and philosophical training.273 As Seneca claims at Ep. 90.46, et in optimis quoque, antequam

273 See Ep. 90.44-6, 108.8, 124.7ff. This idea has its roots in orthodox Stoic theory: see D.L. 7.89; Gel. 12.7. Sandbach cites Ep. 120.4 as evidence that the Stoics did not believe moral preconceptions are inborn [Sandbach (1971), 29]; see also Inwood (2005), 284: “natural acquisition is ruled out.” By contrast, Hadot (2014), 35 emphasizes that Nature does provide us with a predisposition for virtue: “the seeds given by nature are nothing other than the innate starting points for wisdom.” Regardless of whether we emphasize nature’s granting of “seeds” or the importance of philosophical training, both aspects are clearly necessary conditions for grasping the good. 137 erudias, uirtutis materia, non uirtus est (“even in the best of men, before you train them, there is the stuff of virtue, but not virtue itself”). The phrase semina… scientiae274 seems to evoke this same notion—knowledge of the good requires both philosophical training and an inborn

“material.” When Seneca explicates the nature of these seeds, we will see that this “material” for knowledge is rooted in affect.275

According to Seneca, our understanding of virtue stems from analogical inference based upon our observations of the physical world. Seneca claims, noueramus corporis sanitatem; ex hac cogitauimus esse aliquam et animi (“we grasped the health of the body; from this we understood that there existed also a sort of health of the soul,” Ep. 120.5). Next, Seneca describes,

Aliqua benigna facta, aliqua humana, aliqua fortia nos obstupefecerant: haec coepimus tamquam perfecta mirari. Suberant illis multa uitia quae species conspicui alicuius facti fulgorque celabat: haec dissimulauimus. Natura iubet augere laudanda, nemo non gloriam ultra uerum tulit: ex his ergo speciem ingentis boni traximus.

“Certain kind deeds, humane deeds, brave deeds stunned us: we began to admire these deeds as if they were perfect. Many faults lay hidden underneath them, which the appearance and sheen of some egregious noble act kept hidden: we ignored these faults. Nature orders us to augment praiseworthy things; there is no one who does not exaggerate renown beyond the truth: therefore, from these acts we drew out the image of a great good.” (Ep. 120.5)

As Wildberger points out, this passage presents an answer to the epistemological problem posed at the beginning of this chapter: how can we form a conception of the good and honorable without ever having witnessed these traits?276 Seneca’s answer to this question inverts the relationship of ontology, affect, ethics, and nature outlined at the opening of letter 118. Seneca’s definitions of the good and the honorable were posed as antidotes to objectively false beliefs,

274 For more on the prevalence and significance of metaphors about the “seeds” and “sparks” of knowledge in ancient philosophy in general as well as Stoic philosophy in particular, see Graver (2002), 77; Dyck (2004), 156- 157. 275 See pp. 139 below. 276 Wildberger (2006), 99ff. 138 which led ignorant people to experience misplaced affects and behave unethically. However, these false ideas of the good lingered, despite our efforts to suppress them through purely formal and technical Stoic definitions of the good. Here, on the other hand, misplaced affects, still rooted in objectively false beliefs, are harnessed rather than denied, and they ultimately allow for the development of ethical understanding. Seneca repeatedly emphasizes the rootedness of these beliefs in a wonder (obstupefecerant, mirari) that perverts the truth (ultra uerum). He describes the alluring species and fulgor of these good deeds. This sort of language is typical of

Seneca’s descriptions of objectively false but affectively enticing notions;277 these flashy images are usually characterized as the root of unethical behavior. Here, however, these alluring images form the foundation of ethical knowledge.

Furthermore, Nature is aligned with this misguided exaggeration—she iubet augere laudanda. As indicated above, Seneca has briefly mentioned that Nature grants us the semina scientiae of the good and honorable. Here we see that these seeds of knowledge are nourished by an affect-driven tendency to pervert ontological truths.278 As we will recall, in letter 118,

Seneca claimed that we should not identify what is good by its pull on us—rather, in order to identify the uerum bonum as opposed to its deceptive counterparts, we must define the good as what attracts us in accordance with Nature. Thus, in letter 118, Nature derives its ethical force from its connection to objective truths: what attracts us according to nature is not subject to our affective perversions of the truth, and therefore it is a true good. In letter 120, on the other hand,

Nature maintains its ethical force—our miratio-driven exaggerations are ethically justifiable because they are impelled by Nature. However, Nature carries this ethical force without any

277 E.g. see Ep. 21.1, 21.2, 94.57; Polyb. 11.12.3. 278 See Hadot (2014), 35: “the verb obstupefecerant designates the salutary shock that awakens or reinforces our natural predispositions.” For Nature as central in our apprehension of the good, see also Stob. 2.7.5b3; D.L. 7.53 (=SVF II.87): φυσικῶς δὲ νοεῖται δίκαιόν τι καὶ αγαθόν (“the just and good are known naturally”). However, in Diogenes, “the ‘natural’ contribution to this process… is left indefinite but probably corresponds to the natural evaluative quality of human consciousness” [Pembroke (1971), 142 n.14]. Seneca appears to be unique in invoking Nature as the cause for affect-driven exaggeration, rather than rational evaluation. 139 appeal to ontology—she actively encourages us to pervert the truth. Indeed, for Inwood,

Seneca’s invocation of Nature here emerges as a way of coping with Seneca’s “weak empirical foundation for a concept as important as [the good]” and the Stoics’ “wish to claim a naturalistic origin for the concept of the good, based on actual experience which (alas) has few or no virtuous agents.”279 For this reason, Inwood is skeptical of Seneca’s invocation of Nature here:

“this seems a contentious (indeed, a dubious) claim.”280 Whether or not his claim is valid,

Seneca has decoupled Nature-as-ethical-guide from Nature-as-purveyor-of-truths. Overall, then,

Ep. 120.5 uncomfortably fuses the objectively false, the affective, the natural, and the ethical.

In addition to unsettling the relationship of nature to truth, this passage inverts the standard role of exempla in Seneca’s discourse. Senecan exempla, like Roman exempla more broadly,281 are frequently characterized as arousing miratio among viewers, who are then spurred towards ethical progress. For instance, in letter 104, Seneca draws upon the exemplum of Cato the Younger, detailing his unwavering steadfastness in the face of political crises and changing fortunes. Seneca punctuates his account with the statement, miraberis, inquam, cum animaduertis (“you will marvel, I tell you, when you see [it],” Ep. 104.31). Of animals capable of performing amazing physical feats, Seneca remarks, quanto hic mirabilior uir, qui per ferrum et ruinas et ignes inlaesus et indemnis euasit! (“how much more amazing is that man who has emerged unharmed and unscathed through swords and catastrophes and conflagrations!” Ep.

9.19). These sorts of descriptions presuppose that the exemplary figure at hand exists of his own accord, and that our wonder arises from his virtuous qualities.282 In fact, in letter 111, Seneca

279 Inwood (2007), 325. 280 Inwood (2007), 325. See also Inwood (2005), 286: “It is not at all clear that anyone who does not share a Stoic confidence in the providential care of Nature for our species should be reassured of the reliability of this process.” 281 Langlands (2018), 88ff identifies miratio as a very common intended effect of exemplary stories. 282 As Newman (1988), 149-151 points out, Seneca also encourages those who have achieved Stoic virtue to outwardly display their goodness in order to serve as exempla to others; e.g. see Ep. 95.72-73; Prov. 6.3. This form of exhortation similarly presumes that virtue and goodness exist within exempla, who need only display this virtue to passive viewers. However, given the rarity of the sage and the fact that Seneca’s works are not generally geared towards sapientes, we might read this incitement towards self-display not as straightforward practical advice to 140 explicitly characterizes the type of miratio garnered by wise and virtuous figures as rooted in an ontological truth: talis est, mi Lucili, uerus et rebus, non artificiis philosophus. In edito stat, admirabilis, celsus, magnitudinis uerae (“such, my Lucilius, is the true philosopher—and true in his deeds, not by artifice. He stands on high, wonderful, lofty, of a true elevation,” Ep.111.3).

Here, a wise figure stands as an ontologically stable core (emphasized by the repeated forms of uerum), eliciting wonder (admirabilis).

In its most standard iteration, then, the wonderful example might be considered ethically and ontologically unproblematic.283 Exempla exist as virtuous agents independently of our subjective perception, elicit our wonder because of their true virtue, and therefore ultimately constitute a straightforward vehicle for moral progress.284 In letter 120, however, the mirabile exemplum is perverted. Usually treated as an ontologically stable being who elicits wonder in passive viewers, the exemplum becomes a chimerical construct, created by miratio rather than arousing it. At the same time, this type of mirabile exemplum cannot easily be written off as an inversion or perversion of an ethically unproblematic counterpart: as Seneca says, it is this very chimera that forms the root of our knowledge of the good and honorable. In fact, as Mayer points out, in Ep. 120, Seneca distinguished himself from his philosophical predecessors by

“creat[ing] a basic function for exempla within a moral system.”285 Seneca has foregrounded the importance of exempla while also drawing attention to their ontologically slippery core.

sages but rather as a hint to proficientes as to how we should understand the purpose of exempla. We must understand them as outward displays of a wise individual’s inner virtue, whether or not such an individual actually exists. 283 See Dressler (2012), 159: in his discourse on exemplarity, “Seneca emphasizes the connection between theory and practice and between language and reality.” 284 This usual Senecan understanding of exempla corresponds to Roller’s template for Roman exempla in general. According to Roller (2016), 216-217, exempla are generated through the following steps: “1) Someone performs an action in the public eye… 2) Upon witnessing the action, the audience evaluates its consequence for the community, judging it ‘good’ or ‘bad’… 3) This deed, its performer, and the judgment(s) passed upon it are commemorated… 4) People who encounter such monuments… are enjoined to accept the deed as normative.” For Seneca’s use of exempla as typical of Roman exemplum discourse in general, see Mayer (1991), 146-147. 285 Mayer (1991), 165. 141 According to Aristotle, exempla exist as a way of mediating between the concrete and the abstract: we witness a concrete instance, extract from this instance a general, abstract category, and then apply this category to another concrete instance.286 Ideally, then, exempla function as sites in which the intellectual, abstract, and sublime collide with the phenomenal world. At the same time, in his discussion of philosophical attitudes towards exemplarity,

Goldhill identifies a “necessary gap, a necessary interplay of difference, between examples and general cases.”287 This gap is especially true in the case of the good, as outlined in the introduction to this chapter, since the general concept of the good cannot be found in specific cases. In Seneca’s account in letter 120, wonder copes with this “necessary gap” by doing away with phenomenal reality entirely—miratio causes us to perceive exempla in a way that is already stylized and idealized.288 Exempla are able to convey abstract truths only by eliding the raw material of lived experience.

Indeed, by replacing the concrete with the abstract, miratio facilitates a perverted version of Senecan sublimity. Seneca emphasizes that wonder instigates a form of exaggeration and increase—it pushes us ultra uerum and ensures that we “augment” (augere) the truth. The perception of a “beyond” is typical of Senecan sublimity. However, in standard Senecan descriptions of sublimity, the vision we attain generally involves pushing beyond outward appearances in order to grasp a privileged truth.289 In letter 120, this type of exaggeration is

286 Arist. Rh. A2 1357b 25-30. See also Goldhill (1994), 54; Garver (1994), 156-162; Demoen (1997), 133ff. In this sense, exemplarity can be considered a form of metaphor—see Dressler (2012). Metaphor has been established as crucial for metaphysical ascent. See Armisen-Marchetti (1991), 101: “l’abstraction métaphysique n’existe point sans la métaphore.” And so it is not surprising that exempla, too, are able to mediate between the concrete and the sublime. 287 Goldhill (1994), 53. 288 We might elucidate this process, again, by appealing to the connection between exemplarity and metaphor—see n. 286 above. Gunderson (2015), 84 sees metaphor as a process whereby the metaphysical erases and takes the place of the literal: “the idos fashioned by this painter of philosophical truth proceeds from a specific idea, namely that the sublime other world is more real than our vulgar version of reality.” This primacy of the metaphysical over the literal is exactly what takes place in the case of miratio-induced concept-formation: the phenomenal world is misperceived in the service of an abstract concept. 289 See pp. 18-19 above. 142 spurred by outward appearances (species) and causes us to grasp something inherently false.

The phrase ultra uerum implies that the vision of goodness we attain through miratio does not fall under the realm of uerum, and Seneca emphasizes this perversion of the truth when he draws our attention to the uitia that our wonder causes us to overlook. Furthermore, Senecan sublimity involves an escape from human earthly subjectivity.290 This miratio-induced process, on the other hand, is aimed at the subjective appreciation of good deeds, at the expense of objective truths. The result of this process, then, is a sort of internal and subjective sublimity. On the one hand, the subject is able to conceptualize something he would not have been able to conceptualize before, and this new mental state is formulated as the attainment of a sort of

“beyond.” However, this mental expansion is unequivocally grounded in the perversion of truths, rather than in some greater truth outside the subject’s realm of comprehension.

Miratio is a vehicle whereby the messy particularities of problematic individuals are converted into idealized exempla who teach us about goodness only insofar as they no longer reflect phenomenal reality.291 This disjuncture of phenomenal truths and ethics is unusual for

Seneca, as is the idea that exempla are the products of wonderstruck fantasy. However, Seneca presents such fantasy as an exclusive source for our understanding of the good, and as a vehicle for a form of quasi-sublimity.

What sort of relationship can we posit between the sort of Senecan ideas expressed in letter 118, which puts a premium on objectivity, reason, and ontological truth, and those conveyed in letter 120, which offers a path to enlightenment through subjectivity, miratio, and misperception? Seneca does not explicitly theorize this relationship. However, the next section

290 See pp. 20-21 above. 291 In this sense, my argument about Seneca is similar to Gale’s argument about Vergil. According to Gale (2000), 215-219, in the Georgics, Vergil responds to Lucretius’ purely rationalistic worldview by providing exaggerated descriptions of phenomena, which pervert literal truths, in order to convey a more deeply true “sense of wonder before the marvels of nature” (216). 143 of letter 120 suggests that Seneca’s standard treatment of exempla requires a suppression or denial of their shaky ontological core. Seneca paints a picture of two virtuous exempla: the third-century ambassador and consul Quintus Fabricius Luscinus and the early Republican hero

Publius Horatius Cocles.292 These descriptions immediately follow the passage cited above, and they embody precisely the sort of rosy admiration Seneca has just outlined. Seneca describes the way Fabricius refused to be bribed by the Molossian king Pyrrhus, and even saved the latter from an attempted poisoning. Seneca then notes,

Admirati sumus ingentem uirum quem non regis, non contra regem promissa flexissent, boni exempli tenacem, quod difficillimum est, in bello innocentem, qui aliquod esse crederet etiam in hostes nefas, qui in summa paupertate quam sibi decus fecerat non aliter refugit divitias quam uenenum.

“We admired that great man, whom neither the promises of a king nor the promises against the king had led astray, who clung to a virtuous example, and who—the most difficult thing of all—remained innocent in war, who believed that some things were off- limits even against an enemy, who, in the heights of poverty, which he had turned into an honor, rejected riches as vehemently as he rejected poison.” (Ep. 120.6)

In this passage, Fabricius is painted as a wondrously virtuous exemplum. Fabricius’ decency in the most dire of circumstances is punctuated by superlatives (difficillimum, in summa paupertate) and the adverbial et meaning “even.” He is described as ingens, and his equally summary rejection of riches and poison is presented as almost paradoxical. In other words, the content of the subordinate clauses expresses the admiration described in the main clause

(admirati sumus). The ontological grounding of this admiration is ambiguous, as reflected in the respective moods of the verbs flexissent, crederet, and refugit. Each of these verbs is part of a relative clause explaining the source of our admiration; such explanatory clauses can contain either subjunctive or indicative verbs.293 The use of the subjunctive in the case of the first two

292 According to Roller (2018), 277-278, Horatius Cocles “may be considered the exemplary exemplum in the canon of Roman republican heroes; Fabricius is almost equally hoary. By appending these exempla directly to a general, theoretical discussion of the process of analogizing, Seneca once again – via the standard rhetoric of exemplarity – invites his reader to suppose that these exempla will illustrate that process.” 293 See Woodcock (1959) §156 for the subjunctive and §159 for the indicative. 144 verbs reinforces the idea that Fabricius’ supposed actions caused our admiration, without endorsing the veracity of these actions—we admired Fabricius on the grounds that he was not led astray by bribes or threats, but Seneca does not confirm that Fabricius actually acted in this marvelously virtuous way.294 The syntactical focus of the sentence remains on our past wonder, expressed in the indicative (admirati sumus).295 In the first section of the description, then,

Seneca maintains a level of prudent narrative detachment, demonstrating an awareness of the fact that our admiration often entails exaggeration. However, the main verb of the last relative clause, refugit, is in the indicative: Fabricius’ moral perfection is treated as a fact and syntactically emphasized. We therefore begin with a sense of critical self-awareness concerning our perhaps exaggerated admiration for exempla. This self-awareness is reflected in a distancing of Seneca’s narrative voice from past “us,” the subject of admiration, but these two subject positions collide by the end of the sentence, with Seneca’s narrative voice taking full part in unchecked admiration for Fabricius’ character.

Next, Seneca extols the acts of Horatius Cocles. Seneca’s description exudes the same level of admiration for the exemplum at hand, but this time it is narrated entirely in the indicative and focalized through the viewpoint of the narrator, rather than a past “us.” Horatius’ actions are granted the status of objective facts, scrubbed clean of the wonderstruck admiration that generated them: Horatius Cocles solus impleuit pontis angustias (“Horatius Cocles blocked the narrow passage of the bridge by himself…” Ep. 120.7). Through this shift in focalization,

Seneca instantiates a turn away from critical self-awareness and towards unchecked epistemic faith in idealized exempla. In this sense, he enacts the reverse of what some scholars have

294 See Woodcock (1959) §159: “the indicative remained possible, whenever it was desired to emphasize the fact rather than the causal connection.” 295 Some translators take flexissent as a potential subjunctive, e.g. “he could not be moved” [Gummere (1925), 385]. However, at the very least, crederet cannot be sensibly translated as a potential subjunctive and must be translated as explanatory. 145 identified as his characteristic argumentative style: Seneca often vividly describes an affectively charged sight (either a wonderful image or a frightening one), only to “rationalize” away these affects by revealing the underlying truth about these images.296 Here, we begin with rational detachment and end with a naïve trust in false images. Nor is this absorption an aberration: as discussed above, Seneca usually treats exempla as ontologically stable, external sources of miratio. Thus, it is the most trusting, rather than the most critical, aspect of this passage that resonates with the rest of Seneca’s work. Seneca enacts a suppression of the admiration that created these idealizing narratives, treating them instead as straightforward facts. By making this suppression explicit, revealing both the affective origins of exempla and the sheen of objectivity that they eventually take on, Seneca shows us how exemplarity is made. In its most standard iterations, Senecan discourse demands that we sanitize and excise the affective origins of exempla.

Once these exempla, born from subjective wonder, have been granted credence as objective facts, they enter into circulation within the historical and philosophical tradition, where they are further distanced from their shaky ontological foundation. According to Inwood,

“As exemplars of virtue they fail not just in being imperfect (and so not really virtuous) but also in being historical characters, known to Seneca’s audience through tradition rather than through direct experience… [Seneca] may be suggesting that the uniform narrative tradition of a culture has a special role to play in providing the raw material for the kind of analogical reasoning which generates our conception of virtue. How, we might ask, could it possibly be veridical?”297

296 For example, Bartsch (2007), 83-85 notes the way in which, in Marc. 17.2ff, Seneca pivots from a miratio- infused description of Sicily to a more rationalistic account of its history, tainted by the actions of the immoral ruler Dionysus II. For Bartsch, “we find we were mistaken to be seduced by this description, and we are made aware of the shallowness of our initial impression, our inattention to history, our failure to look beyond the surface” (85). Similarly, Edwards (1999), 258 argues that Seneca frequently presents us with vivid images of grisly torture, only to guide us towards a rational detachment from this sort of pain. 297 Inwood (2007), 325. On exempla as literary exaggerations, see also Roller (2018), 279; Mayer (1991), 151; Maso (1999), 75. On the tension between literary exaggeration and reality in cases of self-exemplification, see Lowrie (2007), 98-100. According to Langlands (2018), 92, exempla are indeed exaggerated, but we must believe them to be true in order to learn anything from them: “If they were fictional, such extraordinary tales would lose their epistemological bite, and no longer provide us with information about the realities of the human condition.” 146 Inwood does not answer this question, drawing out the problematic ontological and epistemological status of exemplarity in this letter. He highlights the fact that the exempla

Seneca frequently uses are part of a calcified historical and cultural discourse298 that is disconnected from phenomenal reality—these imperfect exempla have been reframed as perfect by the narrative tradition. Thus, what we might draw upon as “raw” material for analogical abstraction has in fact already been shaped by idealizing miratio and exaggeration.299 Again, these narrative traditions are a crucial element of Seneca’s own discourse,300 and Seneca’s suggestion that they may not be veridical calls into question the ontological status of his own exempla. Finally, I wish to underline that, although the context of this passage certainly

“suggest[s]” that our conception of the good is based upon such fictitious stories, this suggestion is implicit. As discussed above, Seneca’s prose instead enacts a slippage away from self- awareness—by the end of his description of Horatius Cocles, he has fully immersed himself in his exemplary stories and states them as if they are facts. Thus, we are reminded of the inauthentic origins of our conception of the good, while also witnessing the reversion of

Senecan discourse to the assumption that exempla are true reflections of an ontologically stable good.

Despite the misrecognition that forms the basis of our conception of the good, the true good and honorable do exist: they are reflected in the conduct of the sage. After describing miratio-induced concept-formation, Seneca outlines the intellectual processes whereby we

298 For a survey of the various uses of exempla in the Roman literary tradition, see Litchfield (1914). Mayer (1991), 143-4 emphasizes that exemplarity was not only a literary trope or philosophical strategy, but that its logic also undergirded a number of Roman cultural practices, such as contubernium and tirocinium fori. 299 This dizzying chain of exemplary abstractions emerges saliently from Seneca’s description of Fabricius as boni exempli tenax. From our perspective, Fabricius himself is an exemplum, and we derive our conception of the good from his actions. At the same time, in deeming him good, one of the reasons we invoke is his own adherence to a bonum exemplum. Fabricius is a bonum exemplum because he adhered to a bonum exemplum. 300 On Seneca’s mining of the historical tradition for exempla, see Mayer (1991), 149-150. More specifically, for his extraction of exempla from the works of Herodotus, see Setaioli (1981), and for his use of Valerius Maximus as a source see Helm (1939). 147 might analytically distinguish between cases of the true good and false appearances of the good.

Some scholars shift the emphasis away from Seneca’s account of miratio-induced concept- formation and onto his description of the refinement of this process; this refinement leads to our correct identification of the true good and is ultimately epistemically and ontologically reassuring. However, I will argue that miratio-induced concept-formation cannot be separated from the identification of the true good—for Seneca, there is no way of apprehending true virtue until we have misapprehended false virtue.

According to Seneca, once we have formed a concept of the good, we begin to realize that many individuals we had perceived to be perfect in fact contain many flaws. Ultimately, only the consistently moral actions of the sage can constitute true goodness:

Praeterea idem erat semper et in omni actu par sibi, iam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus ut non tantum recte facere posset, sed nisi recte facere non posset. Intelleximus in illo perfectam esse uirtutem.

“Besides, he has always been the same, and consistent with himself in all his actions, not only good in his judgement, but trained by habit in such a way that not only could he act correctly, but he could not act in any way other than correctly. We understood that perfect virtue existed in him.” (Ep. 120.10-11)

This ability to identify the true good constitutes the end of a teleological process that began with our problematic and wonder-driven understanding of the good and honorable. A number of scholars have therefore concluded that we only fully understand virtue when we have learned to distinguish between deceptive and true iterations of the good.301 Thus, according to these scholars, when we witness consistent virtue, we grasp a fundamentally different understanding of the good than we do when we misrecognize faulty deeds. As Roller puts it,

“This is no longer the mere ‘as though’ perfection available to the analogizer (tamquam

301 See Roller (2018), 276: “In the first stage, we gained a rough sense of the concepts by observing or otherwise learning about the actions of others, and by judging those actions...The second stage involves revision of the impressions gained in the first stage, based on a recognition of certain inadequacies;” Langlands (2018), 104: “Thus the understanding of virtue that we have arrived at through contemplation of these exempla is, it turns out, imperfect, since it was gained through flawed examples, and reason was enhanced by emotion.” 148 perfecta, §5), nor the ‘likeness’ of virtue that the exempla of Fabricius and Horatius provide (imago virtutis, §8), but the real thing, legitimately known (intelleximus … perfectam … virtutem). This is virtus in full Stoic raiment as ‘consistency of character,’ a broad overall quality extending far beyond the narrow, traditional concept of virtus as ‘valor in battle’ with which we began in our analogizing stage.”302

Of course, I agree with Roller that Seneca understands these instantiations of virtue to be real, unlike the previous deeds and men that garnered our miratio. However, Roller also understands the very concept of virtue to have been changed here—“consistency in character” has replaced

“the narrow, traditional concept of uirtus as ‘valor in battle.’” The result of this interpretation is that affect maintains an inverse relationship to our understanding of the good: at first, wonder causes us to comprehend a faulty understanding of the good, but then our analytical faculties allow us to grasp a truer good.

On the other hand, I am suggesting that our experience of miratio leads us to an accurate mental conception of the good, though the phenomena that this mental conception is based upon are not truly good. Our analytical faculties empower us not to update our conception of the good, but to apply it more accurately. At the beginning of the learning process, we marveled at good deeds tamquam perfecta (“as if they were good”), whereas at the end intelleximus in illo perfectam esse uirtutem (“we understood that perfect virtue existed in him”). The concept of moral perfection has remained the same (perfectus is used in both cases); we have modified only our understanding of to whom we can attribute this quality. The predication in the latter phrase also implies that our updated “understanding” (intellegere) has to do not with the nature of perfect virtue itself, but with its existence in specific people (in illo… esse). Roller’s distinction between the two conceptions of virtue is that the first consists only in “a few showy deeds,”303 whereas the second involves consistency. However, by Seneca’s account, we do perceive perfect virtue to be consistent even in the first case—though faults exist, we overlook them in

302 Roller (2018), 282. 303 Roller (2018), 281. 149 our state of wonder. Thus, even from the beginning, we have a mental conception of virtue as consistent, though the external phenomena that elicited this mental conception were not actually consistent.304

This understanding of Seneca’s argument falls more in line with the structure of analogy than Roller’s does. At the beginning of his letter, Seneca explicated analogy with reference to the health of the body, which gave us an understanding of the health of the soul. As in the former case, according to my reading of miratio-induced concept-formation, we extract an abstract conception of the good from physical phenomena (potentially problematic actions), and then apply this abstract idea to an intangible entity (the sage). Roller’s account, on the other hand, repeats the first step of analogy twice, extracting two distinct concepts (“the good” as valor in battle and “the good” as consistency in character) from two distinct types of physical phenomena (sporadic showy deeds and perfect comportment, respectively). Thus, I understand

Seneca to be positing a single understanding of the good, consistent throughout this unified analogic process.

The first payoff of this interpretation is that affect, even problematic affect, has a positive relationship to knowledge of the good: our exaggerated and misplaced sense of wonder leads to our correct understanding of the good. The second payoff to this reading of Seneca’s account is that our exaggerated and ontologically unstable sense of wonder forms a necessary part of the learning process, which cannot be replaced by the analytical operations of reason. For

Roller, the problem with our first analogic attempt at understanding the good is that we lack sufficient evidence to discern whether the acts in question are truly virtuous; our second, more successful attempt involves observing a person for an extended period of time and accumulating

304 Wildberger’s reading of the passage seems to be in line with mine, suggesting that even our miratio-driven misperceptions help us to form a “concept of perfect virtue” [Wildberger (2006), 101]. In this way, affect answers the question posed by Lowrie (2007): “how could an example exemplify anything without actually being it?” (97). 150 enough evidence so at to judge whether they are truly, consistently virtuous.305 Thus, he points to two distinct epistemic processes: an affect-driven one and a rational one. However, Seneca does not quite point towards a lack of evidence in his initial description of analogical thought.

He claims, Suberant illis multa uitia quae species conspicui alicuius facti fulgorque celabat: haec dissimulauimus (“Many faults lay hidden underneath [these deeds], which the appearance and sheen of some egregious good deed kept hidden: we ignored these things,” Ep. 120.5). In this description, vices lurk within the supposedly good deeds we wonder at, but we simply do not appreciate or pay attention to them. Thus, we do not garner a conception of the good for circumstantial reasons (lack of evidence that the actors we observe are imperfect), but through a very specific affect-driven process involving the elision of vices and the exaggeration of positive deeds. This wonderstruck process is necessary for our understanding of the good; without it, we would not have a mental image which we could then rationally test and apply to sages. Thus, in my reading, the rational epistemic process depends upon its affective counterpart in order to function.

Finally, the idealized vision generated by miratio is crucial not only to our identifying the sage as an example of true virtue, but in being able to conceive of the sage in the first place.

Seneca’s language implies that direct empirical experience of the sage is fundamental to our understanding of the good—he claims that uidimus (“we have seen”, Ep. 120.10) a person of perfect moral consistency. However, as suggested at the beginning of this chapter, this “sight” cannot be interpreted literally, since Stoic sages are rare if not nonexistent.306 Perhaps we can interpret “seeing” as imagining, and surmise that our notion of the sage comes from a combination of the concept of the good, which derives from miratio, and the concept of consistency. In this case, miratio would be indispensable to our creation of the abstract notion of

305 Roller (2018), 275-283. 306 Inwood (2005), 295-6. 151 the sage—in fact, this sort of psychic and abstract “vision” is an improved extension of miratio- induced concept-formation, in that it involves seeing something that is not there. Alternatively,

Inwood suggests that the narratives created around historical sages, such as Socrates, “show” us the image of a sage which we then “see.”307 Still, this sage constitutes “a merely literary ideal which is not subject to direct observation and therefore not in itself veridical about the notion of the good.”308 If this is the case, the character of the sage does not solve the problems posed by miratio-induced concept-formation; rather, he seems to be constituted by the same idealizing literary processes that created figures like Quintus Fabricius or Horatius Cocles. Either way, our notion of the sage owes itself to a wonderstruck exaggeration rather than rational discernment.

Thus, the Senecan sage exists in our imaginations as the product of a wonder-inspired process that guides us from flawed phenomena to a conception of the good and finally, to an imagined vision of a sage who consistently embodies this good.

In the next paragraphs, Seneca launches into a description of the sage that neutralizes his account of miratio-induced concept-formation. Seneca’s rhetorical description preserves our feeling of wonder at the sage, but changes so as to attribute this feeling of wonder to an external, objective source rather than a subjective one. Seneca asks, ex quo ergo uirtutem intelleximus? ostendit illam nobis ordo eius et decor et constantia et omnium inter se actionum concordia et magnitudo super omnia efferens sese (“based on what, therefore, did we understand virtue? [The sage’s] order, his propriety, his persistence, the harmony of all his actions amongst themselves, and his loftiness, lifting itself above all things, has shown it to us,” Ep. 120.11).309 Seneca’s

307 Inwood (2005), 296. See also Wildberger (2006), 101-102: “As I can form a concept of Socrates by similarity from a picture of Socrates, I can form a concept of perfect virtue and the perfect man by similarity from a verbal picture of an idealized, perfect Socrates, and this concept will be as clear and present in my mind as is the verbal picture the author has painted for me to read.” Maso (1999), 61-2 makes a similar argument about Senecan exempla in general (though he does not discuss letter 120 specifically), claiming that exemplarity provides us with a way of understanding virtue, despite our lack of contact with it in the phenomenal world. 308 Inwood (2005), 296. 309 As Inwood points out, the language of this passage recalls Cic. Fin. 3.21. As discussed in the introduction to this chapter, Cicero points to orderly actions in the world as a source for our understanding of virtue. According to 152 description strongly evokes a sense of wonder, painting a picture of a beautifully composed virtue. In fact, the terms ordo and magnitudo recur frequently in Seneca’s descriptions of the order of the universe; as we discussed in Chapter 1 and Chapter 3 of this dissertation, such descriptions are often tinged with wonder. The accumulation of five laudatory nouns, linked by the emphatic repetition of et…et, serves to underscore this sense of wonder. In light of Seneca’s usual deployment of such language to designate the rational order of the cosmos, we might assume that the wonder garnered by the sage is an elevated form of miratio, as described in

Chapter 3.310 Notably, though, we have already been told that our conception of the sage has its roots in a version of miratio that fixates upon a few standout deeds and distorts the truth—that is, a version of miratio akin to the common miratio of Chapter 3.311 Therefore, Seneca has sanitized the common miratio that constituted our understanding of the sage, and papered over it with an elevated miratio that recalls rationality and order.

Seneca further erases the problematic origins of our conception of the sage by implying that this wonderful figure has an existence external to us, revealing itself (ostendit) to us, who are mere passive recipients of this vision. We are shown virtue instead of actively creating an image of it through our subjective wonder. Of course, the actions of the sage cannot serve as our source for a conception of the good, since, as discussed in the introduction to this paper, in all likelihood we have not witnessed any sages.312 Nevertheless, later in the section, Seneca remarks,

Inwood, Seneca “has given us more to work with” than Cicero in that “[Seneca] has addressed the problem left by conventional Stoic moral epistemology by pointing out some features of our moral life which contribute to our ability to make the qualitative leap to a conception of virtue on the basis of merely partial experience of good action” [Inwood (2005), 289-290]. I agree with Inwood that Seneca’s theory of miratio-induced concept formation accounts more effectively for the faults in our daily world. However, in this specific passage, Seneca ignores his more practical account, recalling an idealized Ciceronian model. We can therefore take the Ciceronian echoes in this passage at face value. 310 See pp. 104-105 above. 311 See pp. 99-104 above. 312 See Inwood (2005), 295-6: “The sage is a whetstone for our analysis of moral experience, not something we are expected to grasp and use directly in a veridical manner.” 153 Necessario itaque magnus apparuit qui numquam malis ingemuit, numquam de fato suo questus est; fecit multis intellectum sui et non aliter quam in tenebris lumen effulsit aduertitque in se omnium animos, cum esset placidus et lenis, humanis diuinisque rebus pariter aequus.

“And so, necessarily, a man appears great who never groans at his sufferings, who never complains about his fate; he has granted an understanding of himself to many; he has shone forth, like a light among the shadows, and he turns the souls of all men onto him, since he is placid and calm, and since he is equally levelheaded in human and divine matters.” (Ep. 120.13)

Again, Seneca presents the wise man here as actively displaying himself to a passive audience— an idea encapsulated explicitly in the phrase fecit multis intellectum sui. He is the subject of all the verbs, acting upon the passive animos of men. This description evokes not the account of the creation of exempla we have just received, but the far more common understanding of exempla as independent ontological entities that act upon passive learners.

In this passage, Seneca manipulates some of the language he had used in his original description of exempla generated by miratio. For instance, the idea that the wise man fecit multis intellectum sui evokes the verb intellegere recently used at 120.10: intelleximus in illo perfectam esse uirtutem. However, the latter instantiation described wise men as the conceptual creations of analogical thought, whereas here they are external beings who display themselves to us. Our process of understanding (intellegere) has been relegated to the sidelines as an accusative noun, intellectum—the mental process that actively created the wise man through miratio-induced concept formation becomes the object of the whims of the wise man, who allows us to passively perceive him. Similarly, earlier in letter 120, Seneca remarked that, in our wonderstruck state, the fulgor of certain eminent deeds causes us to overlook certain vices (Ep. 120.5). Thus, fulgor served a crucial role in the creation of exempla via affect. Here, fulgor seems to emanate from the wise man, who is the subject of the verb effulsit rather than an object created by it. Overall, then, the language of miratio-induced exempla is distorted and massaged until it accords with

Seneca’s more traditional conceptions of exemplarity.

154 Furthermore, the metaphor of the wise man as a lumen in tenebris is standard for

Seneca—it featured prominently in the most idealizing descriptions of the sage in the Natural

Questions, and it recurs elsewhere in the Senecan corpus.313 We might be primed to associate the light of wisdom with something akin to the elevated miratio of the previous chapter: a beautiful and enchanting vessel of truth. However, this “light” of wisdom occurs in proximity to the verb effulgere, which evokes the fulgor of the truth-distorting miratio presented to us at the beginning of Ep. 120. Seneca’s notions of light-as-truth and light-as-dazzling-deception compete over the term lumen in this passage, causing us to question the nature of this lumen and the wonder we feel in its wake. Can we distinguish between these two forms of light here, given that our notion of the shining sage has its roots in the deceptive glisten of valorous deeds?

Seneca has therefore raised the potentially disruptive possibility of moral goods as the creation of miratio, only to paper over this possibility and reinscribe a far more conventional understanding of concept-formation onto the good and the honorable, claiming that we simply apprehend the good by witnessing the sage. I would thus like to suggest that Seneca has enacted and exposed a denial of miratio-induced concept-format. Just as he did in his description of

Quintus Fabricius and Horatius Cocles, Seneca invites us to reify the products of our own miratio and believe that they have their roots in an objective and external truth. The linguistic parallels between his two competing accounts could on the one hand be read as a neutralization and erasure of the first account, a repurposing of the language of miratio-induced exemplarity in order to modify and replace this account. On the other hand, these linguistic echoes also serve to remind us of this first account of miratio-induced exemplarity, even as Seneca works to rewrite

313 E.g. see Nat. 1. Praef. 2; Ep. 21.2, 48.8; Ben. 4.17.4, 4.22.2; Vit. Beat. 7.2.2. This phrase lumen in tenebris also echoes the description of Epicurus at Lucr. 3.1-2: O tenebris tantis tam clarum extollere lumen/ qui primus potuisti, inlustrans commoda uitae/ te sequor (“I follow you, who were first able to raise up a shining light from the shadows, illuminating the best parts of life”). 155 it. The result is a disorienting denial of an account of miratio-induced exemplarity that nevertheless remains fresh in our memory.

Inwood identifies, as I do, two distinct accounts of concept-formation. Yet unlike me, he sees these two conceptions as functioning unproblematically alongside one another:

“Not only does Nature urge us to exaggerate the good and neglect the bad; Seneca is also suggesting here that our experience of one great man can have such impact that he communicates a grasp of what he is and stands for… to a significant number of people.”314

It is possible that this description is meant to refer to the process of literally witnessing a historical wise man, whose presence has the potential to teach us more effectively than miratio- induced concept-formation can. If this is the case, however, Seneca devotes an extensive amount of wonder-steeped prose to a source of knowledge that will exist every 500 years and to which very few of his readers will have access. At the very least, then, this passage is overstated and overdetermined with respect to its actual relevance to the question, ex quo ergo uirtutem intelleximus? Furthermore, as stated above, the word fulgor reminds us of the process, articulated in Seneca’s account of miratio-induced concept-formation, whereby we forget flaws in the face of something dazzling. Seneca’s account of the sage in this passage is wonder-addled and wonder-inducing. For this reason, I view this description as a case of “meta-miratio.” First, our awe in the face of valorous deeds causes us to overlook imperfections and conceive of sagehood. Next, in light of the dazzling mental vision we have conjured of the sage, we forget the flawed and problematic process which generated this vision.

This denial of a miratio-induced comprehension of the good transitions seamlessly into a typical Senecan description of the sage. Seneca reminds us that this exalted figure carries within him a share of divine rationality, that he has contempt for the trivialities of the mundane world,

314 Inwood (2005), 291. 156 and that he recognizes the fragility of his body and the fleeting nature of human life.315 This recitation of Senecan archetypes immediately after a dizzying denial of miratio-induced understanding implies that Senecan discourse involves our forgetting this alternative account of concept-formation.

Overall, then, a miratio-induced process of concept-formation, which entails the misperception of physical phenomena, is necessary for the apprehension of the metaphysical truth of the virtue of the sage. We then paper over the active role miratio has taken in the learning process, reimagining Senecan discourse as founded upon the passive apprehension of external ontological truths. In the final pages of this chapter, I will address the question of consistency. Seneca has framed consistency of character as the distinguishing feature of the true virtue of the sage, which sets this wondrous figure apart from the flawed individuals who catalyzed the process of miratio-induced concept-formation. I have argued that Seneca describes the sage in a way that ignores or papers over the origins of our conception of the sage, which lie in truth-distorting wonder. This sharp denial of the sage’s connection to truth-distorting wonder is motivated in part by the issue of consistency: if consistency of virtuous action can point us towards true virtue rather than deceptive, false goods, then we can correct for the most problematic aspects of miratio-induced concept-formation. However, towards the end of the letter, a description of the sage points towards the ways in which the wonder-driven origins of our understanding of the good linger even in the concept of consistency. Our attempts to neutralize these origins by invoking consistency will prove to be just as self-referential and epistemologically inaccessible as our definitions of the good and honorable were in letter 118.

315 As Inwood (2005), 291-293 notes, this description of the sage evokes Plato’s emphasis on the separation of body and soul. This “platonizing” imagery abounds in Seneca’s descriptions of the soul, most notably at Nat. 1. Praef. On Seneca’s use of Platonic imagery, see Reydams-Schils (2010); Beniston (2017), 21-24. 157 Seneca describes the figure of the sage, remarking that a magnus animus (“lofty soul”) conducts itself honeste (“honorably”) in its responsibilities while also recognizing the ultimate mundanity of earthly concerns (Ep. 120.18). He then asks rhetorically,

Cum aliquem huius uideremus constantiae, quidni subiret nos species non usitatae indolis? utique si hanc, ut dixi, magnitudinem ueram esse ostendebat aequalitas. Vero tenor permanet, falsa non durant.

“When we see someone of such consistency, how could an image of such an unusual nature not sneak up on us? Especially if, as I said, steadfastness demonstrates that this was the true kind of greatness. Yes, consistency abides; false things do not last.” (Ep. 120.19)

On the one hand, elements of miratio-induced concept-formation emerge in this description.

Seneca takes note of the wonderful aspects of the sage, his magnitudo and his non usitata indolis. Furthermore, this wonder holds the potential to distort the truth: Seneca points out that a species of sagehood appears to us, recalling the deceptive species (Ep.120.5) and imago (Ep.

120.8) of virtue garnered even by imperfect deeds. He then confirms this possibility in the next sentence, remarking that such an image strikes us “especially if” (utique si) it is true, implying that it might be false. Furthermore, Seneca uses the verb subire to describe the way we are overcome by this beautiful and potentially deceptive image. This word is not necessarily affective, but it is often used to describe affect, since it points towards states of being that steal upon us, often unwittingly—in fact, Seneca frequently uses the same verb to describe ethically treacherous affective impulses.316 In sum, Seneca imagines our apprehension of a potentially deceptive, wonderful image of sagehood that sneaks up on us unawares. In this sense, this description of our perception of the sage evokes Seneca’s account of miratio-induced concept- formation.

316 In the OLD, see definition 11 of subeo: “(of ideas, emotions, sensations, etc.) To steal in on, come over (a person, his mind, etc.).” For Seneca’s “bad” uses of the term, see Ep. 74.3; De Ira 2.36.6; Tranq. 9.1.9. Interestingly, he also frequently uses the term to describe ethically productive insights that strike us unexpectedly, e.g. see Ep. 41.4, 86.5; Ben. 1.11.3, 4.11.5. In light of the fact that Ep. 120 tells a paradoxical and affective origin- story for our knowledge of the good, future research might examine these instances of subire. Do they suggest an affective origin for Stoic progress and understanding? If so, does affect fulfil a role that reason cannot? 158 At the same time, Seneca neutralizes the problematic aspects of miratio-induced concept-formation by pointing out consistency of virtue, which can verify or falsify these potentially deceptive images. Aequalitas will ultimately point us towards true sagehood; after all, falsa non durant. This is, in miniature, a version of the account Seneca has given us thus far: we may originally grasp a conception of the good through the misapprehension of faulty actions, but we can rationally extract from this affective misapprehension an understanding of true sagehood by imagining consistent goodness over time. However, I will argue that even the criteria through which we might verify “real” sagehood must be perceived through the lens of miratio. Ultimately, we require affect in order to conceive of the good, which we cannot grasp by objective means alone.

This description of the sage draws out an epistemological problem baked into the use of consistency as the criterion for discerning true virtue. First of all, the words constantia and aequalitas refer to roughly the same notion, namely, consistent virtue over time. Thus, the above-quoted passage is fundamentally circular, essentially claiming: “consistency provides us with the image of virtue. We can evaluate the ontological status of this image of virtue by testing whether or not it is consistent.” This poses an epistemological problem: how can we evaluate the images we see, when consistency is both the potentially deceptive raw material generating our mental images and the criterion for testing these images? In fact, this problem has existed throughout letter 120: as I pointed out as a part of my argument that miratio creates a mental image of perfect virtue, the wonder-addled individual perceives consistency even where none exists, ignoring the vices of exulted exempla. Overall, then, Seneca’s ontological claims and his epistemic ones clash with one another: on a purely factual level, consistency may be what defines true virtue and distinguishes it from its potentially deceptive counterparts. On an epistemological level, however, this criterion will not be particularly useful, since we cannot guarantee that the consistency we perceive is itself true. 159 Immediately following the previous quotation, Seneca asserts, uero tenor permanet, falsa non durant (“yes, consistency abides; false things do not last,” Ep. 120.19). These two clauses are presented in parallel. Given that permanere and non durare are opposites, we might expect the subjects of these verbs to be opposites as well: in this case, the sentence would read, uero uera permanent, falsa non durant. This latter version of the sentence would be more epistemologically reassuring, indicating a relationship of discernible evidence to underlying facts: if something remains, then it is true, and if something does not last, then it is false.

Instead, Seneca has substituted tenor for uera. This substitution is logically sound. If truth and permanence are equivalent, then we may substitute one for the other and maintain the same meaning. Indeed, the sentence is obviously true: by definition, consistency must abide.

However, this version of the sentence denies us the explicit epistemic reassurance of uera permanent. We are not told that the permanence of a person’s virtue is a sign that points towards true things; rather, we are faced with the technically correct but uninformative tenor permanet.

Thus, both the repetition of aequalitas… constantia and the tautological tenor permanet maintain logical and ontological soundness but do not provide meaningful guidance to readers as to how we might learn to identify the true good in the world around us and thus mitigate the problems raised by miratio-induced concept formation. Thus, terms such as constantia and tenor function here as elements of a self-affirming linguistic circuit rather than meaningful signifiers—in this sense, we are reminded of the circularity of Seneca’s discussion of the bonum and honestum in Ep. 118. Technically correct statements fail to convey understanding.

Ostensibly, then, Seneca invokes consistency as tools whereby we can test for the veracity of a wonderful image. On an ontological level, this test holds—consistency distinguishes true virtue from shifting and momentary displays of valor. However, given our epistemic limits, it would be difficult to actually implement this test: in our wonderstruck state, we might perceive consistency even when there is none. Therefore, consistency cannot function 160 as a rational tool whereby we might accurately distinguish between instances of true and false virtue in the real world. Rather, it is implicated in the same affective processes that drove miratio-induced concept-formation. Thus, we cannot escape, rationalize, or correct for the central role played by affect in our understanding of both the good and the sage.

Conclusion

Despite the many ways in which it upends and inverts the usual privileged position of objectivity in Senecan discourse, miratio-induced concept-formation plays an integral part in ensuring that we grasp the good. Furthermore, both the sage himself, whom we would not be able to imagine without wonderstruck miratio, and the consistency that defines and distinguishes him, are perceived through the lens of wonder. In fact, purely objective rationality fails both to convey meaning without recourse to subjectivity and affect, and to correct for the distortions of the truth that follow therefrom. By centralizing miratio as an inescapable part of the epistemological process, Seneca implicates his own rationalizing discourse: he shows us the ways in which this discourse relies upon affect in order to convey meaning.

Affect’s unique ability to effectively convey subjective truths has been a running theme in this dissertation. We might draw a parallel between the role of wonder in this passage and the function of joy in Chapter 1: while human rationality objectively is identical to the cosmos, the sage’s joy allows him to subjectively identify with this vast unity.317 Similarly, in Chapter 3, our objective knowledge that comets are regular clashes with our subjective-affective experience of them as shocking aberrations.318 In the end, our subjective wonder, rather than our objective knowledge, is able to effectively convey the unity and intentional design of the cosmos.319

Logos might drive the workings of the cosmos, but we cannot grasp these workings without

317 See pp. 29-30 above. 318 See pp. 111-115 above. 319 See pp. 119-124 above. 161 affect. The understanding of the cosmos which affect conveys may be somewhat perverse—for instance, it may be a deeply fearful world designed for our destruction, as discussed in Chapter

2,320 or it may be a world designed to thrill and titillate us, as described in Chapter 3.321

Nevertheless, this perverse knowledge is all we imperfect humans have.

320 See pp. 70-76 above. 321 See p. 119 above. 162 Chapter 5: Hope, Fear, and the Future in Seneca’s Troades

Introduction: Troubling Futures in Tragedy and Philosophy

The relationship between Seneca’s tragedies and his philosophical works has been the subject of extensive debate, particularly with reference to the role of emotion in each corpus.322

Seneca’s philosophical works aim to overcome the very same passions his literary works portray with such gusto and intensity. This tension between Seneca’s philosophy and his tragedies cannot be resolved with a simple claim about differences in genre. The plays themselves abound with Stoic maxims and buzzwords—each set of texts is effectively aware of and in dialogue with the other. How should we interpret the coexistence in the tragedies of these explicitly Stoic elements with the overabundant passions of flawed characters? Some scholars have posited that the emotional and irrational characters in the tragedies serve as negative exempla showcasing the disastrous consequences of the passions; these passionate figures are sometimes contrasted with characters who embody Stoic ideals and provide positive counter-exempla.323 According to this formulation, the tragedies fulfil a Stoic didactic function—scholars who argue along these lines tend to appeal to Stoic poetics, whereby poetry can serve as a vehicle for moral content.324

Other scholars, however, argue that the tragedies expose various inconsistencies within and failures of Stoicism. Such approaches emphasize explicit parallels, especially linguistic ones, between Seneca’s philosophical prose and his passionate poetry,325 while also underlining the ways in which these unlikely and sometimes unsettling parallels force us to interrogate the

322 For concise summaries of the main issues at stake in this debate, see Rosenmeyer (1989), 6-18; Trinacty (2015), 36-38; Bartsch et al. (2017), XXI-XXIV. 323 This school of thought began with Ackermann (1907), who argues that Hercules Oetaeus is compatible with Stoic beliefs, and the idea has had many iterations since: e.g. see Egermann (1940); Marti (1945); Lefèvre (1969); Pratt (1983), 73-131; Nussbaum (1993); Wray (2009); Staley (2010). See Ker (2009), 128 for a concise summary of such positions. 324 E.g. see Seneca, Polyb. 11.5. For a summary of Stoic views on poetry, see De Lacy (1948). 325 See Schiesaro (2009), 222: “The connections between prose and poetry in Seneca must be evaluated afresh, taking as a starting point not ethical norms and their presumed subversion, but the startling similarities of forms of expression and stylistic nuances which connect the two sides of Seneca’s production.” 163 ostensible superiority and primacy of Stoic values. Some critics in this category point out that many of the aforementioned passionate characters, whom the former group of scholars would treat as negative exempla, in fact exhibit certain markedly Stoic tendencies, thus drawing out perilous contradictions within the philosophy. For instance, Star points out the commitment of many tragic villains to the Stoic ideal of constantia; Littlewood highlights their autonomous, isolationist defiance of social mores, evocative of the withdrawal of the Stoic pupil; and

Gunderson argues that many doomed protagonists begin the play committed to a rational position, which eventually spirals into un-reason.326 Such scholars thus expose the traces of vice to be found in Stoic virtue, as presented in the tragedies. Still other scholars draw out the wisdom to be found in Stoic vice. For example, Schiesaro argues that, whereas a commitment to reason often amounts to overly literal narrow-mindedness in the tragedies, tragic passion tends to provide access to fundamental truths; this triumph of the passions showcases the special forms of knowledge available in poetry and not in prose.327 In general, these approaches treat

Stoicism as a salient voice within the tragedies, but not the only voice or even an unequivocally positive one—Stoic ideals are recalled, only to be disrupted, interrogated, or put in dialogue with alternative systems of thought.328 Stoicism thus functions as a character within the tragedies—an entity that acts, is acted upon, and does not always prevail—rather than as the ideological underpinning of Seneca’s literary project.

In light of the previous chapters of this dissertation, I would like to highlight another philosophical “character” present in Senecan tragedy, existing alongside and between traditional

Stoic philosophy and histrionic passion: the idea that solace, wisdom, and some form of virtue can be found even in intense affect. Tragic characters frequently express rough approximations

326 Star (2006); Littlewood (2004), 16; Gunderson (2015), 107-108. See also Boyle (1997), 32-33. 327 Schiesaro (1997); Schiesaro (2003); Schiesaro (2009). 328 See Hine (2004); Busch (2009), 270; Gunderson (2015), 105-106. 164 of this sentiment; as Boyle points out, “the Senecan tragic paradox that freedom comes from the loss of fear (and hope) consequent upon extreme suffering” is articulated by such doomed figures as Oedipus, Antigone, Cassandra, Medea, and Andromache.329 At the very least, then, the Natural Questions shares with the tragedies the recurring view that extreme affects can be a perverse source of solace. However, in my reading of the Natural Questions, I argued that affect constitutes a part of a sustained ethical and didactic system, and that the solace to be found therein is (perversely) analogous to Stoic sagehood. Within the tragedies, do we find a similarly sustained and developed quasi-wisdom emerging out of hopelessness?

In this chapter, I will argue that we do, explicating the progression of Andromache’s affects in relation to her son, Astyanax, as portrayed in the third and fifth acts of Seneca’s

Troades. In the wake of the sack of Troy, and facing the prospect of slavery to Greek masters,

Andromache and her fellow Trojan women must grapple with a central concern of Hellenistic philosophy: how do we cope with the imminence of a bleak and uncertain future? Like the narrator of many of Seneca’s philosophical works, Andromache seeks in her dire situation to eliminate fear of what is to come and to learn to embrace death.330 However, she aims to reach this fearless state not by resorting to rational philosophical tools such as consolations and exempla, but by embracing totalizing loss and grief. Andromache’s commitment to this method of therapy emerges most clearly through her relationship with Astyanax, who, in an almost entirely destroyed Troy, represents the last shred of “reproductive futurism,” to borrow the language of queer theorist Lee Edelman.331 The hope for the future embodied by Astyanax holds

Andromache back from attaining this oversaturated state of maximum grief. Andromache

329 Boyle (2011), 301. See Oed. 834, Phoen. 198-199, Ag. 695-698, Med. 163, Tro. 422-423. 330 For personal and social dissolution as the central theme of the Troades, see Pratt (1963), 212-214; Lawall (1982); Pipitone (2014), 619-622; Petrone (2013). Bishop (1972), 336-337 argues that the play is structured around dissolution and subsequent renewal, but, as Motto and Clark (1987), 221 point out, the play ends on a grim note that does not point towards renewal or redemption. 331 Edelman (2004). 165 emerges as almost resentful of her future-oriented compulsion to keep her son alive and to remain alive on his behalf, repeatedly constructing hypothetical scenarios in which he has died or never existed and in which she is consequently able to act fearlessly and embrace her own death.

As in the Natural Questions, an alternative, affectively-charged physics serves to bolster this emotional form of consolation. Like their underlying ethical thrust, the tragedies’ implicit cosmology has been much debated. Some scholars have read the conception of the cosmos in the tragedies as fundamentally Stoic: for instance, Rosenmeyer argues that the interconnectedness of the physical and ethical worlds of the tragedies reflect the Stoic idea of sympatheia.332 Others, however, see this interconnectedness as a,

“disquieting manifestation of sympatheia: the idea that the wickedness of one or a few could disrupt the rational and harmonic logos of the cosmos represents a reversal of the more orthodox Stoic viewpoint that the world is accessible to understanding and to reason.”333

Furthermore, unlike Seneca’s philosophical works, which make claims to a rationally-ordered cosmos, the tragedies seem to reflect a meaningless, cruel, and random universe.334 I will argue that, just as affectively-saturated hopelessness provides Andromache with a quasi-Stoic fearlessness in the face of death, it also allows her to grasp some consolatory physical principles. Thus, the intertwining of the subjective and the objective worlds—a problematic aspect of the tragedies, from a Stoic perspective—works to Andromache’s favor as she harnesses her intense subjective affects in order to understand the soul’s dissolution and reincorporation after death.

332 Rosenmeyer (1989), Ch. 4. 333 Bartsch et al. (2017), XXIII. Similarly, Boyle (1997), 29 claims that the tragedies are composed of “imagery that annexes the cosmos to suggest the accents of psychological and moral rage,” and Littlewood (2004), 15 views the tragedies as a venue in which “human criminality is translated to the cosmos.” See also Dingel (1974), 99ff; Curley (1986), 168ff. 334 See Busch (2007); Ginsberg (2015). 166 For the most part, the preceding ideas are a renewal of the argument I have made elsewhere in this dissertation—affective extremes paradoxically serve functions analogous to reason and wisdom. In my discussion of the Natural Questions, I treated affective oversaturation as a secondary ethical system to that of idealized wisdom; this secondary system served didactic purposes for individuals incapable of rational mastery, an ultimately superior method. In my discussion of the Epistulae Morales, however, I challenged the primacy of affectively-detached rationality, arguing instead that emotion is a necessary aspect of ethical thought. In the Troades,

I carry this critique of sterile rationality further. I read affective oversaturation as a consolatory mode that ultimately parodies rationalizing Stoic approaches to grief. In this sense, I align myself with scholars such as Schiesaro, Littlewood, and Gunderson, cited above,335 who maintain that tragedy undermines the primacy of Stoic value systems. Specifically, I argue that affective oversaturation exposes the ways in which strictly rational consolations gloss over and stylize human suffering. The play culminates in the deaths of Astyanax and Polyxena, and

Seneca’s description of these episodes heavily evokes the logic of moralizing exemplarity. To a certain extent, we are invited to read these episodes through an orthodox Stoic lens, taking comfort in the stylized and beautiful virtue of the youths’ deaths. However, Andromache’s affectively oversaturated approach undercuts the validity of this rationalizing method, proving to be the only form of solace that allows her to cope with the brutal reality of Astyanax’s mangled corporeal form. The messenger’s account of Polyxena’s death further underscores the inadequacy of the rational approach: in glorifying the young woman’s bravery, viewers of her death perversely idealize her for their own erotic enjoyment.

In order to theorize the way in which Andromache’s methods outdo and parody rational ones, I will briefly outline the argument central to Lee Edelman’s book No Future: Queer

335 See p. 164 above. 167 Theory and the Death Drive. Edelman mounts a Lacanian critique against our political and ethical value system, structured around the hope for redemption in future generations.

According to Edelman, contemporary American political discourse affirms the implicit notion that our energies in the present moment should be geared towards the future survival and flourishing of our children. These hopeful and future-oriented efforts do not benefit literal children so much as they elevate the idea of children, who symbolize the continuation of civilization; reproductive futurism “perpetuates as reality a fantasy frame intended to secure the survival of the social in the Imaginary form of the Child.”336

Edelman’s conception of the “Imaginary form of the Child” is based on a Lacanian distinction between the realms of the Real, the Symbolic, and the Imaginary. The Real is

Lacan’s term for a state of being that has not been subjected to socialization or language; it completely lacks all the forms of differentiation and categorization that allow us to process, understand, and find meaning in the world. Our experience of phenomena, however, does not generally provide us with access to the Real. In order to exist as social beings, we must filter our experiences through the realms of the Imaginary (composed of fantasy, dreams, and images) and the Symbolic (consisting in language, structure, and meaning).337 The Imaginary and the

Symbolic allow us to process our thoughts, communicate with each other, and build and conform to social structures—that is, to exist as identifiable and functioning social subjects.

Thus, while “the Real” refers to a more primal state than the other categories and might be thought to carry more ontological weight than they do, ultimately our experience of identity, reality, and existence depends entirely upon the imaginary and the symbolic order. And so

“lived human reality” is in fact cut off from the Real.

336 Edelman (2004), 14. 337 See Lacan (1956/1968), Lacan (1958/2004), Lacan (1958/2006). For a clear and concise explanation of these categories, see Fink (1995), 24-26. 168 Edelman associates the futurism he critiques with the realms of the Symbolic and the

Imaginary, in which a subject must invest in order to function in the social world. According to

Edelman, a hopeful belief in what is to come requires us to overlook the fact that the future necessitates our own death. In order to view the future as a source of hope rather than the site of our destruction, we must invest ourselves fully in the Symbolic order, which “alone endows reality with fictional coherence and stability, which seem to guarantee that such reality, the social world in which we take our place, will still survive when we do not.”338 This sense of fixity and wholeness stems from symbolic structures: narrative, meaning, social and family institutions, or simply a coherent sense of self. While an individual knows that she will eventually die, she takes solace in the fact that her name, her lineage, her stories, or her image will live on. For Edelman, as for Lacan, an investment in these fantasy-driven forms of meaning necessitates a distancing of the subject from his experience of the Real:

“His name, that is, his surrogate, must take the subject’s place; it must survive, if only in fantasy, because fantasy names the only place where desiring subjects can live. The sheltering office of fantasy, in concert with desire, absorbs us into scenic space until we seem to become it.”339

In other words, in order to believe in the future optimistically, a subject must replace himself with a symbolic fantasy of himself, which will exist after death. This replacement involves a distancing from the Real--we may “seem” to become a part of the scenery of our fantasy, namely, the fantasy of an enduring social order, in which we play a meaningful role; but this version of ourselves is ultimately a mere “surrogate.”

Edelman formulates queerness as a form of resistance to futurity. Like most modern queer theorists, Edelman does not use the word “queer” solely as a term to describe individuals

338 Edelman (2004), 33-34. 339 Edelman (2004), 34. 169 who are not heterosexual; rather, for Edelman, “queer” means non-normative, unwilling to participate in the perpetuation of the social order. Queerness entails,

“refusing the promise of futurity that mends each tear, however mean, in reality’s dress with threads of meaning… [it] offers us fantasy turned inside out, the seams of its costume exposing reality’s seamlessness as mere seeming, the fraying knots that hold each sequin in place now usurping that place.”340

While meaning, narrative, and order attempt to patch up the “tears" in reality—such as our own imminent death—queer no-futurism exposes the emptiness of this fantasy and revels in “the force of negation, the derealizing insistence of jouissance.”341 Jouissance is a term for the extreme pleasure mixed with pain that stems from a refusal of being, meaning, and futurity:

“To the extent that it tears the fabric of Symbolic reality as we know it, unraveling the solidity of every object, including the object as which the subject necessarily takes itself, jouissance evokes the death drive that always insists as the void in and of the subject, beyond its fantasy of self-realization, beyond the pleasure principle.”342

Contrasted with hope, which points towards the future by investing in the symbolic order, jouissance denies the symbolic order and with it all forms of survival and identity, hurtling towards the subject’s dissolution as a sort of death drive.

In rejecting a fixation upon the future, Seneca’s philosophical works overlap with

Edelman’s queer theory. A passage from the end of Seneca’s fifth epistle nicely encapsulates the

Stoic critique of future-leaning affects:

apud Hecatonem nostrum inueni cupiditatium finem etiam ad timoris remedia proficere. " Desines," inquit, "timere, si sperare desieris." Dices: "Quomodo ista tam diuersa pariter eunt?" Ita est, mi Lucili: cum uideantur dissidere, coniuncta sunt… utrumque pendentis animi est, utrumque futuri exspectatione solliciti. Maxima autem utriusque causa est, quod non ad praesentia aptamur, sed cogitationes in longinqua praemittimus.

“I found in the words of our [Stoic] Hecato the claim that an end to desires functions as a remedy to fear. ‘You will stop fearing,’ he says, ‘if you stop hoping.’ You will say, ‘How is it that such different things go hand in hand?’ It is like this, my Lucilius:

340 Edelman (2004), 35. 341 Edelman (2004), 70. 342 Edelman (2004), 25. 170 although they seem to differ, they are joined together… each belongs to a soul in suspense, disturbed by an expectation of what is to come. The primary cause of both is the fact that we do not root ourselves in the present, but we cast our thoughts into the distant future.” (Ep. 5.7-8)

Both fear and hope are symptoms of a deep investment in the future, which causes us to live in agitation, whether we experience this agitation as a negative affect (fear) or a positive one

(hope).343 Furthermore, Seneca critiques our obsession not only with future outcomes in general, but with our own physical survival—his prose is full of passages guiding us towards accepting death, preparing for death, and understanding that we have begun to die every day.344 Death is brought into the here and now as an imminent feature of the philosophical project: we should internalize and learn to appreciate the fact that our existence as subjects, and our entire consciousness, will eventually end.

Seneca even reaches beyond the bounds of orthodox Stoic philosophy in order to affirm the total destruction of our existence as subjects after death: Stoic thinkers generally argue either that the soul lingers briefly after death before being reabsorbed into the cosmos as matter, or (as per Chrysippus) that the souls of wise men live on in a beatific afterlife until the universe’s conflagration,345 but Seneca often appeals to the Epicurean idea that the soul dissipates after death, ending all consciousness.346 As Busch points out, this Epicurean idea serves Seneca’s overall project to eliminate a fearful fixation upon the future and focus instead upon the present.347

In fact, Seneca sometimes claims that we should accept or even freely choose death precisely because it entails the end of all future-oriented desires, hopes, and fears.348 Like

343 For more examples of Seneca’s rejecting forward-oriented affects, see Ep. 24.1, 101.10; Ben. 7.2.4-6; Const. Sap. 9.2. For scholarly discussions of this topic, see Sorabji (2000), 235-239; Citti (2004). 344 See e.g. Ep. 12.9, 30, 101.10. 345 See SVF 2.809; D.L. 7.156; S.E. M. 9.73-74; Hoven (1971); Ju (2009), 113-119. 346 For a catalogue of the times Seneca appeals in turn to Stoic and Epicurean ideas concerning death, see Motto (1970), 59-62. 347 Busch (2009), 265. 348 On suicide as an end to desire and fear, see Ep. 24.17, 30.6, 36.9-10. 171 Edelman’s thesis, this argument relies upon the underlying idea that our existence as subjects is to a certain extent defined by forward-moving tendencies, and that the dissolution of our subjectivity brings about a sort of relief. Although Seneca does not posit this destruction as an active source of unbridled jouissance, as Edelman does, he discusses death so often and at such length that scholars have frequently characterized him as obsessed with or fixated upon it.349

While Seneca’s “proper” philosophy shares with queer no-futurism a rejection of hope and an acceptance of finality and death, the two approaches differ starkly in their proposed methods for achieving this end. Seneca’s letters abound in rational methods for learning to live in the present moment and accept our inevitable death: Stoic exempla and consolations appeal to narrative and logic in order to help us overcome fear. For Edelman, on the other hand, these rational approaches, embedded in language, are in fact major perpetuators of futurism rather than appropriate therapies for its eradication. By contrast, intense affective experiences, which, throughout this dissertation, I have argued constitute a secondary ethical system with analogous ends to Stoic practice, are compatible with Edelman’s no-futurism. First of all, as we will see, like traditional Senecan philosophy, these intense emotions push the subject towards an acceptance of death and destruction. However, they do so without recourse to logic or reason; in fact, they do so by suspending these faculties.350 I will argue that Andromache’s affectively oversaturated no-futurism exposes the fact that the Stoic approach is rooted in a symbolic system that is itself ultimately a fantasmatic projection; Stoic rationality therefore glosses over the disorder, suffering, and chaos of the phenomenal world, as evidenced in the messenger’s

349 E.g. see Rist (1969), 249-50; Hill (2004), 146: “It is no exaggeration, however, to assert that Seneca is obsessed with suicide;” Romm (2014), 20 calls suicide a “fixation” of Seneca’s. Other scholars have countered these accusations of obsession or fetishism: e.g. Griffin (1992), Ch.11 argues that Seneca’s views on suicide are more moderate than they appear and are in fact largely in line with Stoic orthodox views. 350 In their rejection of the symbolic order, intense affective experiences are a part of a more general tragic project: as a number of scholars have argued, Seneca’s tragedies often destabilize language, demonstrating that terms we normally take for granted do not have fixed meanings: see Boyle (1997), 33; Busch (2007), 250; Trinacty (2015), 31. 172 account of Astyanax’s and Polyxena’s deaths. Andromache’s no-futurism, on the other hand, makes consolatory use of this formless pain, finding in its utter finality a sense of tranquility and even joy.

Andromache’s Resentful Optimism

I will begin by outlining Andromache’s grief-stricken, “stuplime” logic (to use the language established in Chapter 2 of this dissertation),351 whereby she strives to find paradoxical solace in total hopeless devastation. These attempts to attain affectively-glutted solace are thwarted only by the existence of her son Astyanax, an embodiment of social and familial futurity who compels Andromache to experience pointed hope and fear on his behalf. During her compulsory and reluctant stint in the realm of optimism and futurity, Andromache exposes the distress that stems therefrom and repeatedly imagines hypothetical scenarios in which she has lost all hope and is able to act virtuously as a result. She identifies the upsetting experiences of hope and fear as rooted in an investment in the temporal future, as the rational Stoic model does. But she goes further and also locates her distress in the realm of meaning and abstraction that serves as the basis of this same rational model.

Andromache’s first appearance onstage is immediately preceded by a choral ode dwelling upon the finality of death. This ode provides a rational method of consolation in the face of death, which will prove both an analogy for and a foil to Andromache’s alternative forms of solace. The thesis of this ode is that death entails the soul’s total destruction and dissolution. Appealing to physics and natural principles, the Trojan women emphasize that the soul physically dissipates, and that its parts are reabsorbed into the natural world. They open their ode by asking the question, an toti morimur nullaque pars manet/ nostri, cum profugo

351 See pp. 61-64 above. 173 spiritus halitu/ immixtus nebulis cessit in aera? (“or do we die completely, and does no part of us remain, when our soul with fleeting breath is mixed with the clouds and recedes into the air?”

Tro. 378-380); eventually they answer in the affirmative: hic, quo regimur, spiritus effluet (“this soul, by which we are ruled, will flow away,” Tro. 396). Not only does the soul physically become a part of nature after death, but it is governed by the same principles as natural phenomena: the Trojan women compare the dissolution of the soul to swift movements in nature, such as the rising and setting of the sun, or the evanescence of smoke after a fire (Tro.

382-396). They apply the rational method of analogy to argue for the subject’s destruction and reincorporation into the natural world. An understanding of our complete non-existence after death serves a distinctly consolatory purpose for the chorus: spem ponant auidi, solliciti metum:/ tempus nos auidum deuorat et chaos (“let the greedy relinquish their hopes, and the apprehensive their fears: greedy time and chaos consume us,” Tro. 399-400). This rational argument for total destruction after death assuages the troubling affects that come with an orientation towards the future.

Strictly speaking, the ideas expressed in this chorus reflect Epicurean conceptions of the soul’s dissolution after death, as many critics have noted.352 Though these sentiments are not technically Stoic, they are typically Senecan—as mentioned above, Seneca frequently appeals to the idea that our soul ceases to exist after death in order to rationally extirpate our fear of death.353 Thus, at this moment in the play, Seneca recalls a strand of rational consolation present in his philosophical works— the chorus embraces the finality of death by appealing to scientific and philosophical principles. However, as numerous commentators have pointed out, this

352 Motto and Clark (1987), 229; Castagna (2006), 186; Schiesaro (2003), 194; Penwill (2005); Littlewood (2015), 168. In fact, the chorus contains intertextual echoes of Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura: e.g. Tro. 392=Lucr. 1.647; Tro. 397= Lucr. 3.830. 353 On the compatibility of this choral ode with Seneca’s usual philosophical project, see Petrone (2013), 87-88; Fantham (1982), 78. Keulen (2001), 269 refers to the thoughts expressed here as a generally “philosophical rational view;” Fantham (1982), 263 calls the chorus a “philosophical antidote to archaic superstition.” 174 rationalistic notion cannot be read as straightforwardly “true” within the context of this play, since it directly contradicts the first choral ode, which paints a picture of Priam wandering in

Elysium, as well as Talthybius’ report of the return of Achilles’ ghost from the underworld.354

Thus, we are already primed to view this rationalistic extirpation of fear as one approach among many; Andromache will soon provide us with an affectively oversaturated alternative to this rationalizing method.

Andromache makes her first entrance in the Troades at the opening of Act 3. Her arrival immediately follows the rationalistic chorus, which has characterized death as a painless nothingness, not to be mourned or feared. Andromache’s opening address to the chorus does not mention, or even recognize, the philosophical conclusions of the Trojan women. In fact, it begins with a censure of the chorus’ allegedly excessive affective display: 355

Quid, maesta Phrygiae turba, laceratis comas miserumque tunsae pectus effuso genas fletu rigatis? leuia perpessae sumus, si flenda patimur. Ilium uobis modo, mihi cecidit olim, cum ferus curru incito mea membra raperet et graui gemeret sono Peliacus axis pondere Hectoreo tremens. tunc obruta atque euersa quodcumque accidit torpens malis rigensque sine sensu fero.

“Mournful crowd of Troy, why do you tear your hair and, beating your miserable

354 Owen (1970), 118; Motto and Clark (1987), 229; Takahashi (1994); Busch (2009), 272; Petrone (2013), 84; Trinacty (2014), 151. For this reason, Littlewood (2015) reads this ode as a metatheatrical break in the literary illusion of the play (168). Trinacty (2014), 153-154 observes a number of intertexts in this choral ode with Hor. Carm. 3.30, which extols the immortality of poetry. He argues that this Horatian artistic immortality undermines the finality of death expressed in Seneca’s ode, and points towards mythological characters’ endless repetition of mistakes in their many poetic incarnations. 355 A number of commentators have noted the disjuncture between the hyperrational and nihilistic tone of the choral ode and Andromache’s designation of the Trojan women as a maesta… turba—e.g. see Zwierlein (1966), 89 and Owen (1970), 122. Indeed, Fantham (1982), 263 claims, partially on the basis of this disjuncture, that the previous ode was spoken not by the Trojan women but from “outside the dramatic action;” similarly, Keulen (2001), 268 argues that it is spoken by a group of Greek soldiers. For Boyle (1994), ad loc., on the other hand, Andromache’s address to the chorus does not entail any misrecognition or irregularity whatsoever, since the Trojan women may have burst into tears after uttering their consolation: “Philosophical nihilism does not remove the facts of loss or imperatives of grief, ever present to captive women… Such ‘inconsistencies’ disappear when the play is staged and Sen.’s implied directions followed.” Whether or not Andromache’s appellation of the chorus as maesta is “inaccurate” or “inconsistent,” Andromache’s entrance marks a jarring shift in tone from rational detachment to grief and mourning. 175 breasts, wet your cheeks with tears pouring down? Our sufferings have been trivial, if what we endure now deserves tears. For you, Ilium has just fallen, but for me it fell long ago, when that cruel man dragged my limbs on his headlong chariot, and the Peliacan axle groaned with a deep sound, wavering with Hector’s weight. Then, I was overwhelmed and overturned; now, I bear whatever happens without feeling, stricken and numb in the face of misfortunes.” (Tro. 409-417)

Andromache exhibits a markedly stuplime logic in the face of Troy’s destruction. As discussed in Chapter 2 of this dissertation, “stuplimity” refers to a state of numbness stemming from overwhelming stupefaction, which paralyzes us and renders us aware of our limits and incapacities. Accordingly, Andromache rebukes her fellow women for their pointed grief, which puts excessive emphasis on Troy’s fall without recognizing that suffering has suffused all aspects of their lives for quite some time. Unlike the chorus, Andromache does not experience grief, substituting pointed pain in response to one calamity with a stuplime numbness stemming from her excessive misfortunes (torpens, rigens, sine sensu). Andromache’s numbness is the result of her own diminution (obruta atque euersa) and near-demolition as a subject at the death of Hector: she refers to the limbs of Hector’s corpse as mea membra, suggesting an identification on her part with Hector’s corpse in the wake of his death. Stunted, incapacitated, and practically dead herself, she is unable to feel any pointed grief.356 In a certain way, this process parallels the acceptance of death espoused in Seneca’s philosophical works:

Andromache bears witness to and internalizes death, and she is subsequently able to face the tribulations of life without pointed distress. However, this process is effected entirely by the affects which infuse the horrifying sight of Hector’s death, rather than by philosophical maxims.

As a result, Andromache emerges not as a wise and self-controlled subject, but as an undead quasi-corpse. An unforgiving reader of Seneca’s philosophical works might suggest that even

Seneca’s rational methods, in their obsession with embracing death, turn life into a perpetually

356 Petrone (2013), 88 refers to the feeling expressed here as “quell’ossimorico ottimismo della disperazione” and notes that, throughout the play, “torna con cadenzata regolarità, il motivo della chance offerta per assurdo dall’estremità del dolore.” 176 “undead” state, and that Andromache’s words parody this philosophical fixation upon death; for now, however, I will simply emphasize that Andromache’s corpse-like existence allows her to bear misfortunes with flattened indifference.

The one disruption to this numb indifference, however, seems to be Andromache’s anxiety on behalf of her son, Astyanax. As she declares:

Iam erepta Danais coniugem sequerer meum, nisi hic teneret: hic meos animos domat morique prohibet; cogit hic aliquid deos adhuc rogare, tempus aerumnae addidit. hic mihi malorum maximum fructum abstulit, nihil timere: prosperis rebus locus ereptus omnis, dura qua ueniant habent. miserrimum est timere, cum speres nihil.

“I would have followed my husband by now, rescuing myself from the Danaans, if this one [Astyanax] were not holding me back: he subdues my spirits and keeps me from dying; he still compels me to ask something of the gods—he adds time to my misery; this boy has robbed me of the greatest fruit of misfortune, to fear nothing: every space has been snatched away from my heart’s desire, yet hardships have free approach. It is the pinnacle of misery to fear despite hoping for nothing.” (Tro. 418-425)

First of all, Andromache’s dazed state has provided her with a quasi-Stoic courage. In its affective intensity, Andromache’s perspective starkly contrasts the chorus’ most recent philosophical argument about the destruction of the soul at the end of life, but Andromache comes to a similar conclusion to theirs: death is not to be feared.357 In fact, she claims that she would have gone the way of many a Stoic exemplum:358 facing the prospect of a life of bondage, she would choose to commit suicide. This conclusion, however, stems not from an appeal to

357 We cannot know whether the play was staged in such a way that Andromache could hear the chorus’ philosophical musings, or whether the chorus was detached from the main actions of the play— Davis (1989), 422- 424 makes the case that the chorus of a Senecan tragedy was sometimes but not always present for the play’s actions, whereas Sutton (1986), 37-40 argues that the chorus would have been onstage for the entire play, as in Greek tragedy. Regardless of whether Andromache herself has heard and ignored the chorus’ rationalizing perspective, Seneca’s readers are faced with these two disjointed but analogous methods for coping with the immanence of death. 358 For virtuous exempla of suicides, see e.g. Ep. 66.13, 104.21; De Providentia 2.10. On suicide as a form of liberation from social or political bondage, see e.g. De Ira 3.15.3-4; Marc. 20.3; De Providentia 6.7; Ep. 12.10, 26.10, 51.9, 70, 77, 91.21. For general discussions of suicide in Seneca, see Rist (1969), 247-255; Hill (2004), Ch. 7; Romm (2014), 19-23; Sorabji (2000), 214; Inwood (2005), 305-312. 177 natural law and philosophical doctrine, as the chorus’ did; rather, it emerges directly from the dazed stuplime state outlined in the first half of her monologue.359 Andromache’s affectively oversaturated state thus places her in a position analogous to that of the rationalizing chorus, viewing death as a form of peace rather than an object of fear. In his philosophical works,

Seneca is at pains to distinguish between suicides driven by the passions and those driven by reason.360 The former stem from an excessive attachment to worldly concerns, an attachment which drives a person to experience a piercing libido moriendi when these worldly concerns prove themselves unstable or evanescent; the latter are the result of an indifferent and affectively dull detachment to life. Andromache falls somewhere between these two categories: she is propelled to suicidal thoughts by the extreme sadness that characterizes suicides of passion, but her depiction as sine sensu and her potential to nihil timere point towards the flattened feelings of her grief-stricken state, rather than an acutely painful libido moriendi. I would thus classify this paradoxical state in the same category as the perverse serenity achieved by the affectively- glutted subjects discussed in Chapter 2 of this dissertation.361

Andromache’s instantiation of this quasi-Stoic fearlessness in the face of death, however, is blocked by a persistent source of pointed fear in Andromache’s life: her son,

Astyanax.362 The child’s existence motivates Andromache to continue living and compels her to invest in the future (cogit… aliquid deos adhuc rogare). Rather than serving as a source of joy and hope (speres nihil), this futurity is rewritten as a grim and mechanical forward propulsion

359 Because of its embrace of death, Petrone (2013) views this passage as a continuation of the logic in the preceding choral ode (88-89). I agree that the end conclusions of the two passages are shared. However, the choral ode appeals to abstract principles and laws, whereas Andromache refers only to her own affective state. 360 Ep. 24.25, 30.12, 70.17. For a discussion of the starkly morally divergent possible motivations for suicide and the quandaries which emerge therefrom for Seneca, see Hill (2004), 148-149. 361 In fact, Keulen (2001), ad loc identifies an explicit parallel between line 423 of the above speech and Nat. 3.27.12 (non uacabat timere mirantibus), a passage which was central to my claims in Chapter 2; see pp. 68-69 above. 362According to Owen (1970), 129, “The existence of Astyanax has forced her displacement from her natural society and condition. Thus she cannot afford the luxury of retreat into lament which characterizes her mother-in- law.” Fantham (1982), 18 refers to “Andromache’s futile hope that gives vitality to the long central act of the Troades.” See also Corsaro (1991), 64. 178 (tempus aerumnae addidit). In No Future, Edelman describes our investment in futurity as:

“a stop-gap identification with the empty place of the gaze in a gesture of hopeless optimism for which we’re always compelled to opt: an optimism hung on the slender thread of a future for which we would lay down our lives in order to flesh out the fatal blank, the impossible Real, of that gaze.”363

Andromache enacts precisely this “gesture of hopeless optimism,” explicitly “compelled” and

“subdued” into joylessly investing in the future by praying for her son and remaining alive on his behalf. Strikingly, Andromache is fully aware of the futility of her futurism. She knows that prosperis rebus locus ereptus omnis, and that all that await her are aerumnae—she understands that her actions on behalf of Astyanax are merely a “stop-gap identification with the empty place,” “the slender thread of a future.” Despite her canniness, however, she is unable to disinvest from futurity, which she recognizes as affectively taxing and ultimately damaging. 364

We might map the affects of hope and fear onto Hector and Astyanax, respectively—Hector has died, and with him properis rebus locus ereptus omnis; we can speculate that his death is at least part of the reason why Andromache has no hope (speres nihil). Astyanax, on the other hand represents a point of weakness whereby dura… ueniant, and he is the reason for her timere. As we will see, like hope and fear in Seneca’s philosophical works, Astyanax and Hector are linked throughout the play, both by way of their shared futurism (the two figures are both associated with the survival of Troy), and through constant comparisons between father and son made by various Greek and Trojan characters. Nevertheless, the hope associated with Hector at the very least seems to have held a pleasant affective sheen, which has now been lost. Astyanax, emblematic of fear, seems only to point towards the possibility of future suffering. Astyanax’s

363 Edelman (2004), 34-35. 364 Mader (2014), 126 notes that characters in Senecan tragedies are often painfully aware of two conflicting desires within themselves, and that they often capitulate to the more damaging desire, knowing full well its toxic outcomes—verbs like iubere and cogere often describe the forces that push them towards such a capitulation. Andromache is similarly “compelled” (cogere) to choose a toxic and damaging path. However, this path is not the path of excessive passion, as it is for Medea or Phaedra—she is “compelled” not to cave to her grief, much to her own detriment. 179 futurism thus emerges almost as an object of resentment in the eyes of a mother who grasps the toxic affective processes she experiences without being able to stop them.

In fact, Andromache claims that, by existing, hic mihi malorum maximum fructum abstulit, nihil timere. The word fructus heavily recalls reproductive futurism; however, it paradoxically refers not to Andromache’s child, but to the possibility of his death or non- existence, which would have afforded her a stuplime and dulled peace (nihil timere). This potential state of absolute grief and hopelessness is unequivocally negative, linked to mali, yet it receives a vividly hopeful and positive attribute, maximus fructus. Whereas her son, a source of investment in the future and a concrete raison d’être for Andromache, generates only resentful and mechanical forward-motion on the part of our heroine, the extremes of misery are described in terms connoting affective plenitude. Of course, the chorus has just pointed us towards a different source of solace in the face of Astyanax’s fear-inducing futurism: Andromache could reason her way out fearing his death by understanding that he will not experience pain or suffering. However, the only way out Andromache can perceive is through being driven to utter hopelessness and, therefore, fearlessness, by way of extreme mali.

The futurity represented by Astyanax and the emotional distress this futurity entails for his mother recur as motifs throughout Act 3 of the Troades, which centers on Andromache’s attempts to keep Astyanax alive.365 As many critics have noted, Astyanax functions throughout the Troades as Hector’s successor and, consequently, as the only remaining hope for Troy—he embodies the fantasy of a continued social order.366 For Andromache, this fantasy serves solely as a source of anxiety and distress. For example, when asked about the reason for her fears,

365 The centrality of an extended attempt to save Astyanax likely has its roots in Accius’ Astyanax—see Pipitone (2014), 626; Scafoglio (2006). Euripides’ Troades, on the other hand, presents Astyanax’s case as utterly hopeless from the start: see 720ff. 366 Owen (1970), 129; Fantham (1982), 87; Corsaro (1991), 64; Phillippo (2007), 322. Colakis (1985), 149-155 argues that Astyanax’s affinity to Hector reflects the Stoic concept of oikeiosis, whereby a person’s family members are conceived of as an extension of themselves. 180 Andromache recounts a vision that appeared to her on the previous evening. She had just fallen into a momentarily peaceful sleep: as she describes it, ignota tandem uenit afflictae quies/ breuisque fessis somnus obrepsit genis,/ si somnus ille est mentis attonitae stupor (“finally, an unfamiliar peace came to me in my broken state, and a brief sleep crept over my tired eyes, if that stupor of a stricken mind is sleep,” Tro. 440-442). According to both Fantham and Keulen, the phrase mentis attonitae stupor hearkens back to Andromache’s explicitly stuplime self- description in line 417. If we accept this reading, the sleep-like state that provides her with brief solace (quies) stems directly from her affective oversaturation.367 However, this moment of respite is disrupted by an image of Hector, who rouses her from her slumber and encourages her to seek a hiding place for Astyanax:

'dispelle somnos' inquit ‘et natum eripe, o fida coniunx: lateat, haec una est salus. omitte fletus— Troia quod cecidit gemis? utinam iaceret tota. festina, amoue quocumque nostrae paruulam stirpem domus.'

“‘Shake off your sleep,’ he said, ‘and save our son, my faithful wife: he must hide; this is our one chance at salvation. Stop your tears—are you mourning that Troy has fallen? If only it had fallen entirely. Hurry up, take that tiny offspring of our home away somewhere.’” (Tro. 452-6)

Astyanax represents the future of his lineage: Hector refers to him as nostrae paruula stirps domus. Furthermore, as I alluded to earlier, Hector embodies a hopeful futurism in a number of ways. As many characters throughout the play repeatedly note, Hector was the greatest threat to the Greeks during the war, and Astyanax’s potential to protect Troy stems from his resemblance to his father.368 Secondly, as a ghost returning from the underworld, Hector suggests the possibility of a continued existence after death, in contrast to the Epicurean chorus that preceded

367 Fantham (1982), ad loc.; Keulen (2001), ad loc. Pasiani (1967), 200 reads stupor as a sign of “fissità interiore e un rapimento psichico,” similar to our “stuplimity,” but understands attonitae as referring to Andromache’s liminal state between sleep and wakefulness. 368 E.g. Tro. 461ff., 535, 551. 181 Act 3 of the Troades. In keeping with this futurism, then, he reminds Andromache to prioritize the salus of her child and her city. Some commentators have even suggested that Hector’s ghost is a projection of Andromache’s imagination.369 If this is the case, his appearance quite literally encapsulates Edelman’s idea that futurity entails obedience to a fleeting fantasy; either way, as

Andromache has always known, the hope Hector elicits is futile.

This orientation towards the future drives Andromache to distress. First of all, for the sake of maintaining his future line, Hector interpellates Andromache as a vehicle for futurity herself, referring to her as a member of a reproductive family unit (o fida coniunx). In doing so, he goads his wife from her stunned but peaceful sleep into a state of motion and agitation, emphasized by the imperatives dispelle, festina, and amoue. A number of scholars claim that the phrase haec una est salus intertextually echoes Aeneas’ exhortation to his fellow Trojans when their city is under attack: una salus uictis nullam sperare salute (“the one salvation of the conquered is not to hope for salvation,” A. 2.354).370 The Vergilian line alluded to in Hector’s speech points towards a stuplime model of consolation—in fact, we may remember that Seneca cites this same line from the Aeneid at Nat. 6.2.2, as part of a larger argument about the paradoxical solace to be found in stupefied anxiety.371 The Vergilian “nothing-to-lose” model alluded to in Hector’s speech directly opposes and undermines the future-oriented one that

Seneca’s Hector proposes. Next, with a slightly paradoxical twist, Hector asks his wife, Troia quod cecidit gemis? utinam iaceret tota. He alludes to the fact that, while almost all of Troy has been razed to the ground, one tower has survived intact. The unexpectedness of his quip stems from the idea that Andromache is rightfully invested in Troy and grieves its fall; we would expect both her and Hector to find hope and comfort in its remaining tower. However, as we

369 Owen (1970), 125; Colakis (1985), 151-152. 370 Fantham (1982), ad loc.; Boyle (1994), ad loc.; Keulen (2001), ad loc. 371 See pp. 80-81 above. 182 know, Astyanax will be flung from this tower. The tower, an embodiment of survival and hope, is ultimately a source of suspense and fear372—this line thus nicely encapsulates the interconnectedness of hope, fear, and futurity. Andromache’s reaction to Hector’s apparition further underscores the distress to be found in Astyanax’s futurism. She recounts, mihi gelidus horror ac tremor somnum excutit (“a frigid terror and trembling shook me from my sleep,” Tro.

457).

Next, Andromache addresses Astyanax in such a way as to highlight both his symbolic value and the affective cost of this symbolism. Turning to Astyanax, she cries out:

O nate, magni certa progenies patris, spes una Phrygibus, unica afflictae domus, ueterisque suboles sanguinis nimium inclita nimiumque patri similis. hos uultus meus habebat Hector, talis incessu fuit habituque talis, sic tulit fortes manus, sic celsus umeris, fronte sic torua minax ceruice fusam dissipans iacta comam— o nate sero Phrygibus, o matri cito, eritne tempus illud ac felix dies quo Troici defensor et uindex soli recidiua ponas Pergama et sparsos fuga ciues reducas, nomen et patriae suum Phrygibusque reddas?

“My son, genuine descendant of a great father, the only hope for the Trojans and for our stricken house, all too famous an offshoot of an ancient line, and all too like your father! My Hector had that very face, he was like you in gait and disposition, he had strong hands like you, and he was similarly towering with his shoulders, similarly threatening in his savage face when he shook out his flowing locks, flinging his neck—my son, you were born too late for the Phrygians, but too early for your mother. Will that time come, that happy day when, as a protector and champion of Trojan soil you restore Pergamum anew and bring back its people, scattered in flight, bestowing to our homeland and the Phrygians their own name?” (Tro. 461-477)

Astyanax’s similarity to Hector endows him with the unique potential to restore Troy: as the

372 See Mazzoli (2011), 360: “l’unico bastione ancora non distrutto della superba città rimane in piedi solo per potersi trasformare in strumento di morte.” Pipitone (2014), 634 makes a similar point, arguing that this irony serves as a symbol for the precarity of fortune. 183 spes unica Phrygibus, he holds the potential to put back the shattered pieces of his society, laying its foundations and collecting its sparsos…ciues. Astyanax thus represents the promise of a whole, intact, and unified social structure, validated and fixed firmly in the symbolic order by its possession of a renewed nomen.373 Of course, Astyanax himself is elided in this passage.

Though Andromache begins by addressing him (o nate), she rapidly slips into an idealized description of Hector (Tro. 464-468)—Astyanax exists only as a symbol of the continuation of his family line. The futurism he embodies is associated with happy affects (spes, felix)—this newly-found spes contradicts Andromache’s previous statement that, after Hector’s death, speres nihil, and Astyanax’s suddenly positive affective valence seems to coincide with his identification with Hector.

At the same time, Andromache herself recognizes that this hope is built upon an empty fantasy. Ultimately, Astyanax was born sero Phrygibus, suggesting that the answer to

Andromache’s rhetorical question posed at Tro. 470-474 is, “no,” and that her hope for a restored social order is futile. Furthermore, the hope linked to Astyanax’s symbolic value comes at great cost to Andromache’s present reality. First of all, hope is inextricable from fear: what

Andromache initially expresses as a spes is reformulated as a timor twice at the end of the speech (Tro. 475, 477). An investment in the social order necessitates both the hope that this order will survive and the fear that it will not. Secondly, by experiencing hope and fear on behalf of the survival of the social order, Andromache is prevented from devolving into the stuplime destruction that would be available to her if she were entirely hopeless and miserable: her description of Astyanax as nate… matri cito refers to the idea that she could have committed

373 According to Zissos (2008), 194, this line echoes the language of Verg. A. 12.828, in which Jupiter agrees to a racial fusion of Trojans and Italians that will destroy the name of Troy—thus, “with both her dynastic and national aspirations, Seneca’s tragic heroine unwittingly sets herself on the wrong side of historical fate.” Schiesaro (2003), 195 points out that this ultimately useless and futile appearance of Hector’s ghost recalls and contrasts his crucial and effective apparition in A. Book 2. Overall, then, the intertextual nods towards the Aeneid only serve to highlight the futility of Andromache’s hopeful futurism in this scene. 184 suicide had Astyanax not existed.374 Thus, emotions such as hope and fear, invested in the symbolic realm of teleology, wholeness, and futurism, are ultimately empty and affectively taxing, blocking Andromache’s access to the paradoxical salvation to be found in totalizing grief. The timeline of the Troades seems suspended between the timeline of successful reproductive futurism (sero Phrygibus) and that of stuplime wisdom (nate… matri cito). The incompatibility of these three hypothetical timelines drives the plot of Act 3, which is structured around Andromache’s inability to experience fully either unequivocal hope or total desolation; the resolution of this antinomy will come only with the end of the play, after Astyanax’s death.

Andromache’s suspended state between hope and totalizing distress is reflected in her pointed fear on behalf of Astyanax, which propels almost all the major actions of Act 3.

Andromache refers to her own fear constantly as she searches for a hiding place for her son,375 ultimately hiding him in Hector’s tomb. When Ulysses arrives and begins to question

Andromache on the whereabouts of her son, he justifies his hunt for Astyanax by appealing to the Greeks’ fear (timor) of the destruction he might bring upon them (Tro. 530), declaring that

[Hectoris] et stirpem horreo (“I fear even Hector’s progeny,” Tro. 535). He adds that miles timet/ alias clades rursus ac numquam bene/ Troiam iacentem. magna res Danaos mouet,/ futurus Hector (“the army fears more destruction and a not-fully-destroyed Troy. A great thing disturbs the Danaans, a future Hector,” Tro. 548-551). Both the Greeks and the Trojans recognize Astyanax as a symbol of Trojan futurity—he is Hector’s son and the only potential vindicator of the Troy. As such, Astyanax emerges as an object of fear on the part of both the

Trojans, who fear his death, and the Greeks, who fear his existence.

Despite the existence of this distressing fear, Andromache cannot forget or let go of the possibility of freedom through affective oversaturation. In response to Ulysses’ prodding, she

374 See Fitch (2018), 183; Fantham (1982), ad loc. 375 E.g. Tro. 477, 487-488, 496, 499. 185 claims to have been separated from Astyanax, and feigns hopeless bereavement on his behalf

(Tro. 556-557). This deception serves as a counterfactual space in which Andromache can imagine the stuplime forms of wisdom which would be available to her if she had already lost her son. When pressed by the Greek hero to reveal her son’s location, Andromache responds, ubi Hector? ubi cuncti Phryges?/ ubi Priamus? unum quaeris: ego quaero omnia (“Where is

Hector? Where are all the Phrygians? Where is Priam? You are searching for one boy. I am searching for my entire world,” Tro. 571-2). Andromache envisions and deceptively performs an experience of totalizing loss rather than pointed fear and hope—Ulysses’ fixation on unus is contrasted with Andromache’s feigned grief over omnia. In this imagined scenario,

Andromache’s lack of hope allows her to act bravely, even Stoically: when Ulysses threatens to compel her to reveal her son’s location if she will not do so freely, Andromache responds, tuta est, perire quae potest debet cupit (“she is safe who can, should, wants to die,” Tro. 574). As she articulated in her opening monologue, Andromache cannot and should not die so long as her son is alive; in the scenario of her deception, however, she has already lost Astyanax, and she is able to feel “safe” (tuta), laughing in the face of Ulysses’ threats. To feel no fear in the face of the threats of an earthly enemy constitutes unequivocally Stoic behavior.376 However, the slightly perverse asyndetic linking of potest debet cupit reminds us of the stuplime origins of this bravery: whereas to be able to die (potest) and to recognize the appropriateness of death in some cases (debet) are central tenets of Seneca’s philosophical works, to actively desire death (cupit) evokes a libido moriendi antithetical to Seneca’s Stoicism, according to which lust for death is essentially equivalent to lust for life. The word cupit therefore reminds us that Andromache’s imagined fearlessness in the face of death stems not from her rational engagement with Stoic tenets, but from extreme grief.

376 See Ep. 70.7, 77.15; Fantham (1982), ad loc: “[Andromache] answers the threat of torture with the Senecan argument that death makes safe the man who has the power, obligation, and will to die.” 186 In her extended exchange with Ulysses, Andromache continues to insist that Astyanax has already died (Tro. 594-597), and that she consequently feels no fear in the face of the threats of the Greeks (Tro. 576-577, 582-588, 599-601). Her show of grief-driven bravery proves somewhat convincing: Ulysses wavers at her words, unsure whether to trust her. Finally, however, Andromache’s somatic symptoms of fear reveal that Astyanax is still alive. Ulysses addresses himself thus:

scrutare matrem: maeret, illacrimat, gemit; sed huc et illuc anxios gressus refert missasque uoces aure sollicita excipit: magis haec timet, quam maeret. ingenio est opus.

“Observe the mother: she laments, she cries, she groans; but she moves her nervous steps this way and that, and she anxiously grasps at each and every word that is spoken: she fears more than she mourns. This situation calls for my cleverness.” (Tro. 615-618)

In her monologue at the opening of Act 3, Andromache asserted that her grief has stunned her almost to the point of Stoic fearlessness and suicide—the existence of her son is her only link to futurism and, consequently, fear. In her deception of Ulysses, she theatrically and deceptively embodies the counterfactual possibility raised in the opening speech: if Astyanax were not alive,

Andromache would be mournful, but ready for death. This illusion of stuplimity is shattered, however, by Andromache’s evident fear. Ulysses notes each physical symptom of fear before concluding, magis haec timet, quam maeret.377

Ulysses then launches into his characteristic deception, testing the extent and conditions of Andromache’s fear, which will reveal itself to stem from her engagement of her son qua abstract signifier of futurism. Ulysses tells Andromache that, because Astyanax has already died and cannot serve as a sacrifice, the Greeks will raze Hector’s tomb and scatter his ashes into the sea in order to ritually cleanse their ships. At this point, Astyanax is hidden in Hector’s tomb

377 Fabre-Serris (2015) reads this scene in light of Seneca’s consolations to Marcia and Helvia, in which Seneca portrays women as especially prone to distress. 187 and will surely be crushed if Ulysses and his men pursue this plan, as Andromache herself will eventually realize (Tro. 688-689). Practically, then, Andromache’s only two choices are to allow

Ulysses to raze the tomb, thus killing Astyanax and destroying the tomb, or to produce

Astyanax, also resulting in the boy’s death but preserving the tomb. As far as her son is concerned, Andromache has no recourse—he will die either way.

Andromache, however, does not yet grasp this hopeless fact. She spirals into a state of distress, which in two major ways stems from her treatment of Astyanax as a vehicle of futurism. On the most basic level, Andromache retains an empty hope that Astyanax will survive, and experiences fear as a direct consequence of this hope. Secondly, in viewing

Astyanax primarily as a continuation of Hector’s legacy, she cannot distinguish between her son and her husband and feels frantically indecisive at the prospect of choosing one over the other.

Andromache begins her soliloquy by asking herself, quid agimus? animum distrahit geminus timor:/ hinc natus, illinc coniugis cari cinis (“What do I do? A twin fear tears my soul in two: on this side is my son, on that side the ashes of my dear husband,” Tro. 642-643).378 Not recognizing that her son will die no matter what, Andromache perceives that she must choose between her husband and her son.379 She feels fear (timor) on each of their behalf, and this fear causes her distress, pulling her in multiple directions. Much of her indecision stems from the fact that she views Astyanax first and foremost as a symbol for Hector, and, in her mind, the two are almost indistinguishable: she debates with herself, Hector est illinc tuus—/ erras: utrimque est Hector (“on this side is your Hector—you are wrong, Hector is on both sides,” Tro. 658-

378 Andromache’s deliberative aside is one example of a type of soliloquy common in Senecan tragedy, whose suasive language is heavily influenced by Roman rhetorical culture and which serves to dramatize characters’ interior life—see Boyle (1997), 15-31. 379 The idea that Andromache simply does not yet realize the chimerical nature of this “choice” is shared by most commentators—see Owen (1970), 119; Fantham (1982), 302; Keulen (2001), 382. On the other hand, Busch (2009), 276 argues that Andromache believes Ulysses is bluffing and attempts to keep Astyanax hidden in the hopes that the Greeks will not actually tear down the tomb. 188 659).380 Her confusion thus has its root in Astyanax’s futurism, whereby his primary function is as an embodiment of the future of Hector’s legacy: non aliud, Hector, in meo nato mihi placere/ quam te. uiuat, ut possit tuos/ referre uultus (“nothing pleases me about my son, Hector, except you. Let him live, so that he may revive your face,” Tro. 646-647). Owen deems Andromache’s hesitancy during this scene “psychologically absurd by any canon of maternal instinct;”381 to a certain degree, the idea that a person might even consider saving a tomb over a living child does appear implausibly callous. However, the language characterizing this decision (utrimque est

Hector) highlights the fact that this absurd choice is actually the logical conclusion of reproductive futurism (a much less evidently “absurd” value, both in Seneca’s society and our own), which treats children primarily as a symbolic conduit for the posthumous survival of their parents. In a society dominated by the logic of futurity, there is no difference between a child and his father’s tomb: both constitute attempts to revive the dead by associating them with a symbol of their legacy.382

Indeed, Andromache’s eventual decision to save Astyanax constitutes a wager on his future potential: Astyanax exists as a conduit for Hector’s legacy, but, unlike his father, he possesses the ability to bring back this glorious past and to manifest it as a future reality

(referre). Whereas Hector already consists of cinis (Tro. 643, 648) and ossa (Tro. 649),

Astyanax can still be saved; he is quem poenae extrahas (“the one whom you can save from punishment,” Tro. 657). Andromache does make the alternative argument on behalf of saving her son that he can still feel pain, whereas Hector cannot (Tro. 657-666); however, her ultimate

380 See Fantham (1982), 303: much of Andromache’s confusion rides on the idea “that her son is both competing with Hector to be saved, and Hector’s counterpart.” 381 Owen (1970), 119. 382 For this reason, Schiesaro (2003), 225 locates as the source of Andromache’s confusion a Stoic symbolic order that is so pervasive and overdetermined as to invalidate itself: “Gone is the illusion that the world is ordained in a logical sequence of discrete events, of clearly defined ethical and aesthetical alternatives. Andromache’s desperate monologue in Troades offers a sequence of thoughts that can be extrapolated as a more general epistemic protocol: the categories she carefully defines (living and dead, husband and son, honour and safety) turn out to be so intertwined as to be useless.” 189 reason for choosing him is based upon his futurism—his potential to avenge the Trojans: serua e duobus, anime, quem Danai timent (“Out of the two, my soul, save the one whom the Greeks fear,” Tro. 662). Andromache’s fear on behalf of Astyanax translates into a hope that the Greeks will fear him—the forward-leaning futurism inherent to his character allows for this slippage between positive and negative future-oriented affects.

The fear and distress attached to this choice, however, were built upon the false notion that Astyanax might survive. However, as Andromache suddenly realizes, Astyanax is not simply a symbol of his father’s continued lineage—he is a body whose vulnerability in the world renders this abstract, hopeful, and deluded choice irrelevant: conditum elidet statim/ immane busti pondus (“the immense weight of the tomb will instantly strike him out where he is hidden,” Tro. 688-689). Up to this point, Andromache has viewed Astyanax simply as an abstraction, one half of the theoretical conundrum, “husband or son?” On this abstract level,

“son” wins out on the grounds of futurism: Astyanax possesses both traces of his father and the ability prolong his lineage into the future. However, when Andromache considers the position of her son’s literal body in the phenomenal world, she realizes that this lineage is prone to death and destruction: the word pondus evokes material weight and physicality, a density that renders possible the violent destruction expressed by elidere. This threat of physical destruction puts an end to the idea that Andromache might save her son by allowing Hector’s tomb to be destroyed.

For the moment, Andromache merely switches the grounds for her forward-thinking, staking her hopes on the idea that perhaps, if she extracts Astyanax from the tomb, she might save him by begging for mercy—Astyanax is not dead yet, and neither is Andromache’s futurism. However, as we will see, this episode foreshadows the play’s eventual shift from hopeful abstract signification to a physical abjection that dashes these hopes.383

383 In fact, the parallels between this description of Astyanax’s potential death and the report of his actual death are made explicit by the use in both episodes of the verb elidere (Tro. 688 and 1112); see Fantham (1982), 307. 190 No Future: Astyanax’s Death Scene

After his capture by Ulysses at the end of Act Three, Astyanax’s storyline recedes into the background for the duration of Act 4 of the Troades, reemerging in Act 5, when the Trojan women receive news of his death. Astyanax’s forced suicide constitutes an end to hope and fear, the emotions which both Stoicism’s rationalist approach and Andromache’s affectively saturated no-futurism seek to eradicate. Strikingly, the scene of the boy’s death evokes both of these approaches: the messenger seeks to interpret the episode through a Stoic lens by painting

Astyanax as a virtuous exemplum, and Andromache perversely embraces her son’s death as the pinnacle of her misery. Andromache’s approach provides her with solace, whereas the rational approach is exposed as a denial of horrifying and irredeemable human suffering.

We will remember that the futurity inherent in meaning and symbolism relies upon a denial of our “real” selves—in order to experience ourselves and the world around us as coherent, fixed, and permanent, we must identify ourselves with a “surrogate” subject that is propped up by socially recognized symbols. In becoming social subjects, we lose access to the disorder and entropy of the Real. However, Edelman posits that traces of this reality linger in the symbolic realm, and that queerness can expose this residue of formlessness that exists in the social order, despite all efforts to deny it:

“The structuring optimism of politics to which the order of meaning commits us, installing as it does the perpetual hope of reaching meaning through signification, is always, I would argue, a negation of this primal, constitutive, and negative act. And the various positivities produced in its wake by the logic of political hope depend on the mathematical illusion that negated negations might somehow escape, and not redouble, such negativity.”384

Our investment in the realm of fantasy amounts to a “primal, constitutive, and negative act”—

“constitutive” in that it allows us to exist as social subjects, but “negative” in that it denies the chaotic jouissance of the real. We might seek to compensate for this negation by constructing

384 Edelman (2004), 5. 191 more and more elaborate symbolic structures, denying the loss of the real through a heavier reliance upon the empty hope inherent in stories, meaning, and social institutions; however, this

“negated negation” only “redouble[s]” our loss by ultimately distancing us further from the real.

Edelman continues:

“My polemic thus stakes its fortunes on a truly hopeless wager: that taking the Symbolic’s negativity to the very letter of the law, that attending to the persistence of something internal to reason that reason refuses, that turning the force of queerness against all subjects, however queer, can afford an access to the jouissance that at once defines and negates us. Or better: can expose the constancy, the inescapability, of such access to jouissance in the social order itself, even if that order can access its constant access to jouissance only in the process of abjecting that constancy of access onto the queer.”385

Hope and positivity can only exist by continually and compulsively denying chaos and destruction. However, these traces of chaos linger within our experience of the symbolic order.

Queerness thus functions as a way of not only refusing futurity for oneself, but also demonstrating the destruction underlying the hope and comfort of the symbolic order.

Andromache’s affectively intense response to Astyanax’s death will perform such a function in relation to the Stoic sources of comfort with which her response is contrasted.

At the opening of Act 5, a messenger appears and delivers horrifying news to

Andromache and Hecuba: their children, Astyanax and Polyxena, have been killed. He tells the mothers, mactata uirgo est, missus e muris puer;/ sed uterque letum mente generosa tulit (“the young woman has been killed, and the boy flung off the walls; but both bore death with a noble mind,” Tro. 1063-1064). The news at hand obviously disrupts the sense of future and promise represented by the marriageable Polyxena and Hector’s heir Astyanax; however, the messenger cloaks this loss with a consolatory Stoic narrative. The two youths died courageously: maintaining total control of their minds (mens) in the face of disaster, they embody Stoic ideals.

As previously discussed, this extraction of meaning from death is characteristic of futurism, and

385 Edelman (2004), 5. 192 is offered to Andromache as a form of solace in the face of this devastating discovery—the word sed implies that Astyanax and Polyxena’s bravery is meant to somehow offset the trauma of their death.

Andromache, however, completely ignores this Stoic opportunity for solace, disregarding the nobility of Astyanax’s death. Instead, she goads the messenger: expone seriem caedis, et duplex nefas/ persequere: gaudet magnus aerumnas dolor/ tractare totas. ede et enarra omnia (“lay out the sequence of their deaths, and recount the double abomination: great pain rejoices in grasping the entirety of its misfortune. Tell and relate everything,” Tro. 1065-

1067). The exemplary bravery of her son--a product of his rationality, as emphasized by the word mens—is replaced as a source of comfort by the purely affective, paradoxical consolation to be found in totae aerumnae. Andromache does not aim to counteract or deny the horror of

Astyanax’s death, relying on the messenger’s logic of sed; instead, she turns towards amplification, with the intertwined nouns and modifiers magnus aerumnas dolor… totas emphasizing the reflexivity and self-perpetuation of pain. According to Littlewood, we must read this statement as the logical conclusion of Andromache’s stated desire at the opening of

Act 3 to lose everything,386 and of her strange quasi-resentment of Astyanax, who “disrupts the closure which would otherwise be hers.”387 I agree with Littlewood, especially because

Andromache here emphasizes the completeness and totality of her pain—she wants to grasp aerumnae totae and omnia. Thus, she appeals to complete and absolute hopelessness as a stuplime source of comfort, rejecting the optimistic meaning-making of the narrator.

Furthermore, in their totality, these aerumnae contrast with the brief, partial, and sanitized consolation of the narrator. Unbridled pain seems to capture the entirety of Astyanax’s death in a way that exemplarity and reason cannot. In this way, pain has beaten reason at its own game:

386 Littlewood (2004), 245. 387 Littlewood (2004), 243. 193 while Stoic doctrine claims that logos pervades and accounts for all things, Andromache suggests that, in fact, it is magnus dolor that provides us with access to omnia.

In fact, her response to Astyanax’s death has both recalled and exceeded the reaction she had predicted for herself at the opening of Act 3. She maintains the same fundamental logic of stuplimity expressed in her first monologue. We will remember that, in her opening monologue, she imagined that her extreme hopelessness in the wake of Astyanax’s death would empower her to commit suicide, an act worthy of a Stoic sage—she would thus find paradoxical wisdom in grief. Similarly, in the performance of totalizing grief that emerges from her conversation with Ulysses, Andromache enacts a resolute bravery in the face of death. When Astyanax dies, traces of Stoicism can indeed be found in Andromache’s response; however, these traces consist in the Stoic eupatheia of gaudium, rather than the resigned Stoic tranquility of suicide. The flat

Stoic apathy Andromache promised has transformed into Stoic joy and plenitude. Our heroine thus fuses together the perverse jouissance of no-futurism388 with Stoic virtue in a way that emphasizes the most affectively intense iteration of the latter.

In response to Andromache’s injunction, ede et enarra omnia, the messenger begins to recount the circumstances of Astyanax’s death. As numerous commentators have noted, the messenger paints Astyanax as a Stoic exemplum in this passage, which resonates with many of

Seneca’s descriptions of noble deaths.389 Unafraid to face his circumstances, the boy uultus huc et huc acres tulit/ intrepidus animo (“turned his keen eyes this way and that, untroubled in his soul,” Tro. 1092-1093). As Ulysses begins to summon the gods, Astyanax refuses to allow his enemy to dictate his fate and sponte desiluit sua (“leapt down of his own accord,” Tro. 1102). In

388 See also Gunderson (2018), 124 on the ways in which intertextual echoes draw out the pleasure of destruction in Seneca’s Agamemnon: “It is possible to find a sadistic negative pleasure even if one is forced to live ‘after Troy’ or ‘after Homer’s Troy’ or ‘after Vergil’s Troy.’ Seeing one’s own tragedy gives pleasure. And even if one was mad to have enjoyed doing so, the ones who live on after ourselves will themselves suffer the same fate.” 389 E.g. Regenbogen (1963); Boella (1979), 74-76; Fantham (1982), 17; Corsaro (1991), 70; Mader (1997), 345; Keulen (2001), 501; Busch (2009), 278; Trinacty (2015), 36. 194 this way, he embodies the exact ideals set forth in Book 6 of the Natural Questions: when threatened with certain death, the sage stabit super illam uoraginem intrepidus, et fortasse quo debebit cadere desiliet (“will stand untroubled over that gaping hole, and perhaps he will leap down into that place where he will be compelled to fall,” Nat. 6. 32.4).390

Andromache responds to the messenger’s report with anger and distress, railing against the cruelty of Astyanax’s murder, and finally asking, quis tuos artus teget/ tumuloque tradet?

(“who will bury your limbs and consign them to the tomb?” Tro. 1109-1110). This question reflects a remaining shred of futurism and hope in Andromache. Collecting and burying

Astyanax’s limbs will, in a small way, restore him, making him whole again. Furthermore, a tomb epitomizes the process of survival after death through a symbol—by consigning his body to a tomb, Andromache would ensure some form of survival for her son. This futurism brings with it a degree of frantic anxiety for Andromache, as expressed by her agitated questioning.391

The messenger’s response, however, completely forecloses the possibility of futurism by describing in gruesome detail Astyanax’s irreparably mangled body:

Quos enim praeceps locus reliquit artus? ossa disiecta et graui elisa casu; signa clari corporis, et ora et illas nobiles patris notas, confundit imam pondus ad terram datum; soluta ceruix silicis impulsu, caput ruptum cerebro penitus expresso— iacet deforme corpus.

“What limbs did that steep place leave? His bones were broken up and shattered by the heavy fall: his weight, dashed to the earth below, ruined the tokens of that glorious form, both his face and those noble marks of his father. His neck was broken by its collision with rock; his skull was destroyed, his brain squeezed out from within—his body lies disfigured.” (Tro. 1110-1117)

The beauty of Astyanax’s body as an intact whole is understood as an abstraction, firmly rooted

390 See Ep. 70.21 for a similar heroic picture of jumping to one’s death. 391 Similarly, Littlewood (2004), 249 argues that the question of who will bury Astyanax represents a continuation of Andromache’s painful and futile hope, which had defined the dramatic tension of Act 3. 195 in the symbolic: this beauty was reflected in his signa clari corporis. These signa include the boy’s face and whatever other body parts are referred to as patris notae: the specific phenomenal nature of these body parts is not mentioned, and they are referred to only qua symbolic markers of Hector’s lineage. Astyanax’s whole body thus represents futurism insofar as it is a locus of meaning. Furthermore, these symbolic features are explicitly and literally linked to futurity and the continuation of the family line: they point to Astyanax’s descent from

Hector.

These future-oriented abstractions, however, are jumbled (confundit) and rendered meaningless by the sheer corporeality of Astyanax’s pondus hitting the ground, a physical impact echoed multiple times throughout this passage in the phrases grauis casus and impulsus.

The lingering promise of wholeness and meaning expressed in Andromache’s previous line is unequivocally denied here: Astyanax is irrevocably deforme. When set in contrast to signa and notae, deforme points towards not just physical ugliness but a denial of symbolic meaning, a denial reinforced by the fact that Astyanax’s limbs are so violently shattered as to be impossible to restore: the destruction of his physical body renders the possibility of futurity, sense, and wholeness utterly impossible.392 It exposes the finality of destruction, which, as Edelman argues, meaning-making optimistically attempts to obscure and deny. We might contrast Seneca’s description of Astyanax’s irreparable body with both Euripides’ and Ennius’ versions of the child’s death, in which his body is buried on Hector’s shield.393 In the latter case, although

392 Scenes of dismemberment often represent breaks in what Edelman would call futurism. Most (1992), 405-406 points out that, for the Stoics, dismemberment posed a particular threat to personal identity, since the Stoic animating life force was thought to unify the self by emanating from the heart through the body as a whole. Frontisi-Ducroux (2004), 9-24 argues that dismembered bodies stand in for a broken social order, and Schiesaro (2003), 201 argues that they point towards a crisis in meaning: “How can we reconstruct a narrative which overcomes the puzzles and limitations of human understanding?” For Gunderson (2015), 122, Hippolytus’ dismemberment in Seneca’s Phaedra represents “the radical absence of intelligibility”—indeed, Fantham (1982), 374 compares the gruesome violence of Astyanax’s death to the death of Hippolytus. However, in Gunderson’s reading of the Phaedra, Theseus wants more than anything to reconstitute his son’s beauty; Andromache seems to find paradoxical meaning in Astyanax’s very formlessness. 393 E. Tr. 1130ff; for the relevant fragment of Ennius’ Andromacha Aechmalotis, see Non. 504,18. Schetter (1965), 415 notes that the irreparable damage to Astyanax’s body is a Senecan innovation. 196 Astyanax has died, his body is restored and consigned to a permanent symbol of his father’s dominance and Trojan military aggression. Seneca’s version vehemently denies such a symbolic redemption.

This denial of meaning and wholeness carries a horrifying affective patina. The graphic and detailed description of Astyanax’s crushed bones and splattered brain, as well as the sudden violence conveyed by words such as elido and impulsus, elicit disgust and distress. When read in relation to the messenger’s stylized and idealizing description of Astyanax’s death, this passage serves as a reminder of the physical brutality underlying ostensibly virtuous and admirable forms of death. In his previous attempt to paint Astyanax as a Stoic exemplum, imbuing the end of his life with a meaningful narrative, the messenger has glossed over the inconceivable and unredeemable violence of the boy’s death—the sort of denial at the heart of

Edelman’s account of futurism.394 The horror of this description constitutes the inevitable resurfacing of the grotesque, despite our attempts to negate it. As Edelman puts it, traces of a formless and meaningless Real linger under the surface of the symbolic order. Initially a source of solace and comfort, the glorifying Stoic narrative imposed upon Astyanax’s death carries an upsetting aftertaste that points towards the limits of a rationalizing approach to death.395

A reader intent on reinterpreting Astyanax’s death as an easily digestible, Stoic story might experience the narrator’s graphic description as a sort of affective disruption of, or even

394 Schiesaro (2003), 174-176 argues similarly for the inadequacies of Stoic precepts in the universe of Senecan tragedy. Schiesaro claims that the chorus of Seneca’s Thyestes reiterates boilerplate Stoic maxims about the fickleness of popular opinion, maxims which fail to morally account for the villain Atreus’ paradoxical adherence to these Stoic topoi: “by opening itself to a paradoxical interpretation which is clearly at odds with the chorus’s presumable ‘authorial intention’, the song… involuntarily sanctions… the notion that ‘real’ power can invariably turn language to its own advantage, and that even the most hallowed of Stoic precepts are not safe from tendentious exploitations à la Atreus” (175). 395 With reference to various passages from the Troades, including this one, Motto and Clark (1987), 219 ask: “In subjecting us to such discomfort (for there is little of catharsis to be found in such scenes), Seneca appears almost a master of mayhem, a true Machiavellian of misery. The question is: what ground does he gain, what points has he won, by tracing such a course of intense, remorseless, and irremediable suffering?” I will suggest that Andromache’s paradoxical solace to be found in “irremediable suffering” serves as the only break in this “discomfort.” 197 as a punishment for, his attempt at meaning-making. Andromache, however, has shown little interest or investment in the idea of Astyanax as Stoic exemplum. Accordingly, her reaction to this utterly hopeless and upsetting scene is remarkably calm: sic quoque est similis patri (“in this way, too, he is like his father,” Tro. 1117). In its brevity and affective flatness, this response may strike us as “grotesque” and “inappropriate,”396 but it follows quite logically from

Andromache’s request to hear of Astyanax’s death in great detail in order to grasp totae aerumnae (Tro. 1066-1067). The messenger’s description confirms that Andromache has lost absolutely everything—there is no body for her to put back together or lineage for her to preserve. This absolute grief leaves no room for fear, distress, or agitation—the sorts of feelings she displayed ten lines earlier, when she believed she could still restore Astyanax’s corpse. We might posit that the striking stillness of this line stems from the same sort of oversaturated grief described in Andromache’s very first speech, where the surplus of death had left her torpens… rigensque. According to Littlewood, the messenger’s speech that preceded this comment

“springs from and outdoes Andromache’s excesses;”397 the messenger’s very excess of horror, however, paradoxically puts an end to Andromache’s excesses. Thus, Andromache attains a perverse sense of stillness and tranquility in the extremities of her hopeless grief.

Furthermore, Astyanax’s dismemberment constitutes a disgusting rewriting of the soul’s dissolution after death, recalling the solace to be found in the finality of death. The messenger emphasizes that Astyanax’s body has been scattered over the natural landscape, noting the praeceps locus on which Astyanax’s body has been destroyed, stricken ad terram. Throughout the Troades, Andromache has frequently used the word locus to indicate a “space” for hope, either a metaphorical “space” in her emotional landscape wherein she might find solace,398 or a

396 Littlewood (2004), 249-50. 397 Littlewood (2004), 249. 398 Prosperis rebus locus ereptus omnis (“every space has been snatched away from my heart’s desire,” Tro. 423- 424). 198 physical space in which she might hide Astyanax.399 These spaces were often hypothetical and chimerical, the subjects of a longing and futile quis locus? Here, the landscape of Troy has finally and resolutely denied Andromache’s hopeful searching by shattering Astyanax rather than protecting him. This splintering and scattering of his physical body into the natural world parallels the process described in the choral ode preceding Andromache’s entrance at the opening of Act Three, wherein the soul was envisioned as a natural phenomenon, temporary, material, and prone to dissolution and reabsorption into nature.400 Beautiful and aestheticized when applied to the soul,401 this dissolution is horrifying when reenacted on a fleshy scale by

Astyanax’s body. Despite its relative abhorrence, the latter iteration of this physical process effectively denies futurism in the same way as the former. Thus, while Astyanax’s dismemberment undercuts rationalizing attempts to paint his death as a stylized exemplum, it manages in its horrifying way to convey the same finality of death suggested by the chorus’ initial rationalizing approach.

Andromache’s reaction to Astyanax’s mangled corpse not only demonstrates the stuplime serenity that results from a rejection of futurism, but also functions as Edelman’s queerness, exposing the meaninglessness and disorder that constantly subtend the symbolic order. Andromache’s claim that sic quoque est similis patri presents Astyanax’s horrifying death as a continuation of the logic of reproduction and futurism. Throughout the play, Astyanax has been described as Hector’s double, and the word quoque reminds us of a repeated refrain:

Astyanax’s resemblance to his father. However, all previous comparisons of Astyanax to Hector have emphasized the strength, renewal, and redemption which this father-son resemblance

399 quis locus fidus meo/ erit timori quaue te sede occulam? (“what place will be loyal to my fear, and in what place will I hide you?” Tro. 476-477); quis te locus, quae regio seducta, inuia/ tuto reponet? (“what place, what secluded region will restore you safely?” Tro. 498-499). 400 See Petrone (2013), 84-5. For Hippolytus’ dismemberment in the Phaedra as a form of absorption into the natural world, see Gunderson (2015), 120-121. 401 See Lawall (1982), 248-9 on the chorus’ Epicurean ode as “detached” and “abstract.” 199 promises. Here, on the other hand, Astyanax’s similarity to Hector is built upon their shared grotesque and incorrigible formlessness, and the finality of both their deaths.402 By maintaining the structure and logic of family lineage but replacing the hopeful implications of this lineage with death and destruction, Andromache exposes the chaotic mess that lurks beneath all our futile attempts at meaning-making. The logic of futurism constitutes an optimistic take on lineage: though a father may die, his son will carry on his memory. Andromache rewrites the idea of lineage pessimistically: though a son may remain alive after his father’s death, he too will eventually die—family lines spiral towards oblivion, meaninglessness, and formlessness.403

In this way, as Edelman would put it, Andromache “expose[s] the constancy, the inescapability, of such access to jouissance in the social order itself.”

Furthermore, by maintaining the structure and form of lineage but replacing all of the optimistic ideas therein with grotesque death and destruction, Andromache paints a picture of futurism as an empty propulsion forward, a hollow repetition of generations destined to die rather than a vehicle for conveying sense and substance.404 This phrase thus contains elements of queerness, a force which, according to Edelman, “reduc[es] every signifier to the status of the letter and insist[s] on access to jouissance in place of access to sense.”405 Generational

402 In Euripides’ Troades, Andromache similarly compares Astyanax’s dislocated hands to his fathers’: ὦ χεῖρες, ὡς εἰκοὺς µὲν ἡδείας πατρὸς (“Oh hands, how sweetly similar to those of your father,” 1178). In Euripides’ version, however, Astyanax continues to be compared favorably to his father, with reference to the two figures’ shared beauty (ἡδείας); Seneca, on the other hand, provides an alternative, gruesome form of family resemblance. As Fantham (1982), ad loc puts it, “Seneca echoes the comparison from Euripides, but strips the words of their tender epithet.” 403 See Petrone (2013), 94: “Ne viene proposta una visione rovesciata della patrilinearità, misurata sulla sconfitta e sul destino di perdenti che si prosegue nella stirpe, riunificando il figlio al padre ma solo nel segno di una fine totale.” Similarly, Pipitone (2014), 630 reads sic quoque… as a “segno di un ribaltamento della patrilineità;” see also Corsaro (1991), 67. Keulen (2001), ad loc. suggests that “Seneca’s deviating from the tradition that the body of Astyanax was buried on Hector’s shield… must be a result from his aiming at this pointed analogy.” 404 Accordingly, Littlewood (2015), 172 characterizes the Troades as a display of vain repetition without the promise of renewal; similarly, Schiesaro (2003), 195 notes, “In the Troades… it seems, the only permitted form of repetition is ad litteram.” In a reading of Seneca’s Agamemnon and his Oedipus, Gunderson (2018), 133 argues that “the repetition automatism of the Senecan apparatus” exposes identity as “a proper noun who thinks that that particular pronoun is a mere shifting signifier with which I need not identify.” 405 Edelman (2004), 37. 200 similitude, which had previously been treated as a symbol for Troy’s redemption and renewal, is exposed as an “empty letter,” which points towards nothing. The “sense” of renewal which it had been granted is replaced by a formless body beyond comprehension, constituting a release from futurism and access to jouissance.

In this way, Astyanax’s death not only tears down the hope and fear that both rationalism and affectively saturated no-futurism opposed; it exposes and undermines the strategies of meaning-making that characterize the rationalistic approach. Here, affective strategies do not function as a secondary system of ethics in the shadow of Stoic orthodoxy. Rather, they perversely exceed, outdo, and critique Seneca’s most “proper” philosophy.

Erotic Virtue: Polyxena’s Death Scene

The vast majority of this chapter has focused on Astyanax as a symbol of reproductive futurism, whose death exposes the violence underlying rational methods of coping with death and destruction. However, the Astyanax-Andromache relationship constitutes merely one of a number of intertwined plotlines in the Troades; Polyxena’s death, which immediately follows

Astyanax’s, contains a similar parody of futurity and rationalizing exemplarity. Like Astyanax,

Polyxena represents reproductive futurity and the survival of the Trojan race: she is a marriageable young woman with the potential to bear Priam’s grandchildren. Both Greeks and

Trojans emphasize her sexual potential throughout the play, initially coaxing her into dressing elegantly for her sacrifice by claiming she is to marry Pyrrhus (Tro. 864ff), and then staging her actual death as a marriage to the ghost of Achilles (Tro. 1134ff). Unlike in the case of Astyanax, whom Andromache actively attempts to save, much to her own affective detriment, Polyxena’s futurism is a lost cause from the start of Act 4: she herself knows and accepts that she will die

(Tro. 945ff), and she emerges as the object of resigned pity and grief rather than forward- leaning fear and hope (Polyxene miseranda, Tro. 942). Although Polyxena is a perpetual symbol

201 of lost potential and never the object of hope for the future, her death does generate the same attempts at rationalizing exemplarity as Astyanax’s did. Like Astyanax’s, Polyxena’s death critiques this practice. The messenger’s description of the boy’s grotesque death emphasized the ways in which exemplarity glosses over human suffering. Polyxena’s death remains stylized and beautiful throughout; however, its very beauty emphasizes the way this process of abstraction from horrifying reality allows viewers to take perverse pleasure in death.

Astyanax’s death was observed by an internal audience of Greeks and Trojans, who wept for his fate. This internal audience’s response to Polyxena’s death is treated at much more length, and problematized more thoroughly, than in the case of the boy.406 As mentioned previously, both the youths’ deaths are framed as moral paradigms who face death mente generosa. Accordingly, to a certain extent, the internal audience receives Polyxena’s death as a typical Stoic exemplum.407 For instance, the messenger describes the reaction to her death as follows: audax uirago non tulit retro gradum;/ conuersa ad ictum stat truci uultu ferox./ tam fortis animus omnium mentes ferit (“the dauntless maiden did not step backwards: turned towards the blow, she stood defiant, her expression fierce. Such a brave spirit struck the minds of all,” Tro. 1151-1153).408 Polyxena’s death is mined for a moral lesson about bravery, to be received by a spectator’s mens. Furthermore, the audience is seated theatri more (“in the manner of a theater,” Tro. 1125) as they watch her death: the messenger thus raises the possibility that spectators of a tragedy might read the scenes before them according to moralizing hermeneutic methods, in which characters are treated as positive or negative exempla, and meaning is

406 On the idea that Senecan tragedies are generally interested in characters’ emotional reactions to the events onstage rather than the content of the events themselves, see Wilson (1983). Relatedly, for the frequent use of internal audiences in Senecan tragedy, see Solimano (1991), 66-69. Owen (1970), 135 argues that Seneca seems more interested in the internal audience to the deaths of Polyxena and Astyanax than to the youths’ deaths themselves; see also Amoroso (1981); Mader (1997). 407 For Polyxena as a Stoic exemplum, see Fabre-Serris (2015). 408 Compare Polyxena’s masculine Stoic bravery to Iphianassa’s feminine submission at Lucr. 1.92: muta metu terram genibus summissa petebat (“fearfully silent, she fell onto her knees, sinking into the earth”). 202 extracted from their actions.

Many elements of the internal audience’s response, however, call this practice into question. First of all, as Mowbray points out, from the beginning of the description of

Polyxena’s death, this practice of rational viewership is proven ineffectual.409 After Astyanax has been killed, fleuitque Achiuum turba quod fecit nefas,/ idem ille populus aliud ad facinus redit (“the crowd of Greeks wept at the crime it committed, but that very same group turned to the next crime,” Tro. 1119-1120). Despite having recognized and lamented Astyanax’s death for the nefas it was, the Greeks have learned nothing, returning to their bloody spectacle.410

Furthermore, descriptions of Polyxena’s beauty in death fuse the language of exemplarity with the language of lust, calling into question the aestheticization of human suffering by drawing out its most perverse and self-serving aspects.411 For instance, as Polyxena is guided towards the middle of the crowd, the messenger describes:

ipsa deiectos gerit uultus pudore, sed tamen fulgent genae magisque solito splendet extremus decor, ut esse Phoebi dulcius lumen solet iamiam cadentis…

“She casts her gaze low with modesty, but nevertheless her eyes glow, and her beauty, now at its end, glistens more than usual, just as the light of the sun always shines more sweetly when it is setting.” (Tro. 1137-41)

Certain key words in this description recall the language of Stoic exempla—both pudor and decus recur frequently in this philosophical context. Here, however, decus explicitly refers to

Polyxena’s appearance, and her pudor seems to function as an accessory to her physical beauty, serving to amplify her chaste desirability,412 rather than referring to a substantial virtue. Motto

409 Mowbray (2012), 408-409. 410 Wohl (2015), Ch. 2 makes a similar argument about Euripides’ Troades, in which the pity elicited by staged suffering is exposed as politically and morally fruitless. 411 For Polyxena’s problematic sexualization in this passage, see Schiesaro (2003), 242-243. 412 For the idea that a woman’s pudor could amplify her beauty, see e.g. Ovid’s description of Lucretia at Fast. 2.757-758: hoc ipsum decuit: lacrimae decuere pudicae, et facies animo dignaque parque fuit (“This became her: her chaste tears also became her, and her face was equal to and worthy of her soul”). 203 and Clark claim that the beauty of the falling sun functions as a metaphor for the “endorsement of death” that has served as “the major undercurrent of the drama”413—if this is the case, a quasi-Stoic moral lesson (“death is more pleasant than life”) is nestled within a blatantly erotic claim (“Polyxena looked especially pretty at the end of her life”), reinforcing the idea that Stoic meaning-making proves a perverse enterprise during Polyxena’s death scene.

The internal audience’s affective reaction to the young woman’s death further underscores this idea. The narrator recounts,

stupet omne uulgus…hos mouet formae decus, hos mollis aetas, hos uagae rerum uices; mouet animus omnes fortis et leto obuius… mirantur ac miserantur.

“The entire group was stunned…the beauty of her form moved some, her tender youth moved others, the twisting vicissitude of fortune moved still others; her brave spirit, going in the face of death, moved them all. They are amazed and feel pity.” (Tro. 1143- 1148)

The description opens and closes with the reactions shared by everyone in the audience; we will begin by discussing these common feelings. All the audience is apparently “moved” by

Polyxena’s bravery (animus… fortis) in the face of death: they all read her as an exemplum, or, at the very least, they all focus upon the “correct” aspect of the scene. What feelings constitute this affective “movement”? Seneca describes these affects using the verbs stupere, mirari, and miserari. As discussed in Chapter 3 of this dissertation, the polyvalent term miratio refers sometimes to ignorant wonder, and other times to an enchanted feeling of enlightenment; in

Seneca’s letters, the latter meaning is used to describe our wonder in the face of virtuous exempla. We are tempted to read mirantur in this manner, since it describes our reaction to

Polyxena’s exemplary bravery in death; however, its appearance alongside stupet, which

413 Motto and Clark (1987), 227. 204 connotes a much more passive and ignorant state,414 pulls mirantur towards its less enlightened meaning. The stakes of the underlying meaning of this term are raised by the word miserantur, which recalls the quintessential affective experience of viewing theater.415 In fact, Mowbray argues that mirantur alludes to the experience of ekplexis, a state of wonder induced by live theater according to Stoic theory.416 Seneca thus draws attention to the fact that the internal spectators experience wonder towards exempla qua wonderstruck theatergoers, and he raises the question of whether this way of viewing exempla constitutes knowledgeable or ignorant miratio.

This dual move raises metatheatrical questions: when we identify exempla in Seneca’s tragedies, are we truly learning, or are we simply stylizing suffering for our own lurid and ignorant pleasure?

This ambiguity is further compounded by the various elements that “move” the audience in different ways. Some audience members are affected by uagae rerum uices—as Mowbray and Shelton have pointed out, this faction of the audience has gleaned a Stoic philosophical message from the exemplum before them, namely, that even the most privileged individuals are vulnerable to fortune’s vicissitudes.417 Others have a purely erotic response, marveling at

Polyxena’s formae decus, and still others fixate on her mollis aetas, displaying some mix of eroticism and sentimentality as they lament the premature downfall of a youth. Mowbray argues that these three categories exemplify “correct” and “incorrect” hermeneutic methods (namely, the extraction of a Stoic message and lust/sentimentality, respectively) in response to a brutal sight. While I agree, I wish to emphasize that viewers exhibiting all of these responses have

“correctly” noted Polyxena’s Stoic bravery in death, as outlined above—therefore, even lust and

414 See definition 1 of stupeo in the OLD: “to be or become physically powerless, numb, paralyzed, or sim., to be deprived of one’s faculties.” 415 As articulated in Arist. Po. 1449b-1454b. 416 Mowbray (2012), 397. 417 Mowbray (2012), 415-416; Shelton (2000), 112. 205 sentimentality are perversions of a vaguely Stoic way of reading rather than completely off-base misreadings. The audience’s shared identification of Polyxena’s bravery in death yields a heterogeneous set of affective responses. Thus, even “proper” Stoic hermeneutic methods may be subjectively experienced as a collection of morally questionable and inconsistent affective

“motions.”418 Furthermore, Polyxena’s exemplary bravery itself was already tinged with an ambiguous set of affects that slid between knowledgeable miratio and titillated stupefaction.

What do we actually learn from stylized depictions of death?

Forms of viewership based upon the extraction of a message distance their viewers from the immediacy of physical brutality and configure human suffering as an abstraction. This distancing allows for the projection of eroticized and self-serving desires onto the abstracted scene. The joy (gaudet) that Andromache took in listening to her own aerumnae strike us as perverse or strange; however, the detached and abstracted Stoic process of meaning-making has proven just as voyeuristic as Andromache’s affectively saturated form of viewership.

Conclusion

As many critics have pointed out, Senecan tragedy frequently recalls Stoic ideals, only to problematize them, watch them fail, or demonstrate their often unsavory extremes. My reading of the Troades supports this general trend in scholarship, arguing that Stoic forms of consolation emerge as idealized abstractions, whereby violence and suffering are mined for lessons and meaning. Furthermore, in the Troades, this rationalizing approach is overturned in part by an alternative strand of thought, which I have identified in Seneca’s philosophical works: the notion that affective extremes can provide forms of solace. Seneca’s philosophical

418 See Schiesaro (2003), 241: “The mise en scène of spectatorship does invite the audience’s critical reflection on its own acts, and thus fosters the possibility of critical viewing. But the further complication of this model finally turns it on its head, as it shows that no definite pattern of behaviour is really predominant. The audience is left with the tantalizing impression that a form of critical distancing is indeed possible, but that no coherent prescription for it can be given. What the scene ultimately provides is the illusion of critical spectatorship, a form of controlled reaction which is theoretically possible but actually elusive, since it depends too much on individual attitudes and reactions.” 206 works can thus help shed light on his tragic characters’ modes of thought—Andromache seeks out totalizing grief as a way of attaining quasi-Stoic serenity. At the same time, Seneca’s tragedies nuance and critique the content of his philosophical works. Seneca’s philosophical works subordinate alternative, affective forms of wisdom to rationalizing ones, preserving the ultimate dominance of traditional Stoic wisdom over affective extremes. In the Troades, however, affective extremes are given free reign, where they parody and outdo their rational counterpart.

207 Conclusion

According to Stoic doctrine, logos accounts for everything, enveloping the entire universe with an airtight rationality. Across his genres, Seneca asks us to consider the relationship between this permeating objective logos and the psychosomatic body of the individual subject. Logos may well objectively motivate all phenomena, but subjective life nevertheless has trouble deciding that this “all” really comprises all there is. So often, the

Senecan subject follows his rational capabilities as far as they will take him towards understanding the universe and his place within it. However, he eventually exhausts his faculty of reason, and finds himself left with a buzzing cluster of affects that transcend reason. I hope to have shown that, on a subjective level, these affects can take us farther than pure reason, painting in the mind’s eye a picture of the cosmos and the subject’s place within it.

In Chapter 1, I argue that, in the Natural Questions, even the sage nourishes his exalted sense of self through enchantment and joy. Chapter 2 shifts the dissertation’s focus to the proficiens, making the case the case that stupefaction and anxiety not only serve as paradoxically consolatory salves for distress, but also guide the imperfect subject towards an appreciation of the vastness and interconnectedness of the cosmos, and his fragility within in.

Similarly, in Chapter 3, I trace the ways in which Seneca harnesses even the most ignorant instantiation of wonder in order to grasp the intentional design of the cosmos. Next, in Chapter

4, I turn to the letters, demonstrating that our conception of the good, central to guiding ethical behavior, has its roots in a sense of wonder that perverts the objective truth. Finally, Chapter 5 argues that, in the Troades, extreme grief serves as a form of consolation more effective than pure reason, which fails to adequately account for the irredeemable and meaningless nature of cruel acts. Ultimately, though divine reason objectively explains all things in the world, it falls short as a tool whereby the individual may subjectively apprehend the world.

208 Overall, then, I hope to have shown that something more exists in Seneca’s letters, aside from orthodox Stoic doctrine. While Seneca expounds upon Stoic ideals of pure rationality, these ideals are continuously shown not to be enough, especially for the imperfect subject who aims to make progress despite his epistemic flaws. Affect fills in these epistemic gaps and allows the subject to grasp what he otherwise could not. Sometimes, Seneca spells out for us the potential that affect holds, but more often than not, the vision of the cosmos afforded by affect is expressed indirectly, through imagistic descriptions, as well as the structure, repetition, and word choice of Senecan prose. In this sense, my argument for a sort of affective sublime is compatible with ideas of a Senecan literary sublime—Seneca’s form pushes us towards something more than can be accessed via a rote transfer of philosophical content.419 In the same way that brute rationality fails to paint a holistic picture of the cosmos in the individual’s mind, a sterile exposition of Stoic doctrine comes up short as a didactic tool in Seneca’s letters.

This dissertation has not extensively discussed the relationship between Seneca’s works and the society in which he wrote. However, the failures of pure rationality hold some social implications, which I will gesture towards as a final point. Roman elite masculinity, associated with rationality and self-control, often involved the projection of abjected emotion and vulnerability onto women and the feminine. Accordingly, though Seneca claims that men and women alike are capable of both acting rationally and ceding to the emotions, he frequently describes intense affect as a feminine trait, and rational knowledge as a masculine one.420 This opposition holds not only in Seneca’s most orthodox passages, but also in a number of the passages I have highlighted, which pave alternative routes to virtue. In many cases, affects are

419 This is the main argument of Gunderson (2015). 420 For emotion as feminine (muliebris), see e.g. Ep. 78.17; Helv. 11.3.2, 11.16.1; Polyb. 11.6.2; De Clementia 1.5.5, 2.5.1; De Constantia 2.19.2. For rational knowledge as masculine (virilis), see e.g. Helv. 12.4. On the “virile” coding of rationality, affective detachment, and autonomy in Stoicism, see e.g. Graver (1998), 620-624; Wilcox (2006), 76-80; Bartsch (2009); Gunderson (2015), 81-82. 209 ascribed to women and feminized men, such as Hostius Quadra in Nat. 1; Andromache in the

Troades; and even the figure of Natura at the end of Nat. Book 7, ostentatiously preening herself in order to induce dumbfounded stupefaction in voyeuristic mankind.421 Along similar lines, affect is sometimes implicitly associated with the lower classes, such as in the opening of Book

7, when Seneca creates an “aristocracy of wonder” by describing un-wise forms of miratio in language that connotes the common rabble.422

However, in my reading of Seneca, this abjection of affect does not allow for the preservation of a superior, rational male elite subject. First of all, rather than being deemed a weakness to be unequivocally dismissed, feminized and subaltern affect is viewed as a potential source for ethical progress—we are invited to take seriously ways of being so frequently marginalized in Roman society, Stoicism, and Seneca’s own texts. Just as strict rationality fails in comparison to sublime affects, unflaggingly masculine values are demonstrated to be an inadequate interpretive tool when compared, for instance, to Andromache’s motherly grief.

Furthermore, in the cases I have examined, Seneca’s own narrative voice reflects these feminine traits, sharing in affective stupor and intensity. In Chapter 2, the narrator took on a stupefied position vis-à-vis the natural disasters he described, and in Chapter 3, he shared in the very ignorant miratio he condemned at the opening of Nat. 7. Whereas Roman elite rationality often defines itself against womanly and subaltern feelings, the affective tendencies of the narrator blur the line between these diametrically opposed subject-positions. I therefore believe my dissertation to be in line with recent scholarly arguments that masculine and feminine ways of being coexist within the Senecan subject. For instance, Rimell posits that, though Seneca extols masculine models of subjectivity based on metaphorical “rectitude” and self-sufficiency, he simultaneously posits alternative, “curved” postures based upon vulnerability and mutual

421 See pp. 120-121 above. 422 See pp. 100-101 above. 210 care.423 Rimell attributes these curved postures to the politically unstable historical context of

Neronian Rome, which forced the aristocratic male subject to confront his impotence and penetrability.424 Similarly, in his book Personification and the Feminine in Roman Philosophy,

Dressler argues that the Roman philosophical subject dominates and suppresses women and effeminate men, while also “feel[ing] their persistence in himself as the source of his ability to need and love – to become, in short and in both senses, a subject of care;”425 only through the figure of the feminine is the Roman philosopher able to express his identity as a “relational subject” who depends upon others. The Senecan subject thus transcends the rigid masculine strictures in which he binds himself—while both Rimell and Dressler focus on intersubjective dependency and care, intense affect constitutes another element of the feminine that supplements Senecan rationality and autonomy. As the sage admires his own faculty of reason, this very rationality, usually considered a masculine trait, becomes fodder for feminized specular vanity. In a similar way, the proficiens, who is sometimes envisioned as a valiant hero engaged in a manly struggle for ethical progress, is reimagined as a feminine and vulnerable subject, rife with affective flaws.

Ultimately, Senecan reason—as well as the lofty form of subjectivity that follows therefrom—coexists with, depends on, and is enriched by a wide array of affects and subject- positions. As a final illustration of this idea, I will turn in the last few pages of this dissertation to the very end of the Natural Questions. The bulk of Book 2 deals with the nature and causes of lightning and thunder. However, at the close of the book, Seneca imagines that Lucilius might brush off these abstract scientific explanations, requesting concrete therapeutic guidance in extirpating his fear of lightning bolts (Nat. 2.59.1). Seneca responds with a consolatory passage

423 Rimell (2017). 424 Rimell (2017), 771. 425 Dressler (2016), 2. 211 meant to fortify us in the face of death. Yet, as we have come to expect, this passage is rife with a panoply of affects, which are baked into the very structures of reason rather than adjacent to it.

Seneca begins with a form of consolation similar to that invoked in his discussion of earthquakes, which I explored in Chapter 2 of this dissertation. He reminds Lucilius that death is imminent for us all, and that dangers lay on all sides—at the end of the day, O te dementem et oblitum fragilitatis tuae, si tunc mortem times cum tonat! (“how insane and forgetful of your own fragility you are, if you fear death when it thunders!” Nat. 2.59.9). In this passage, fear is acknowledged, and countered with another affect: shame. Seneca mocks the overweening reader who thinks that thunder is his greatest threat: O te dementem. Seneca does not draw upon the scientific explanations of lightning and thunder in order to assuage Lucilius’ fear: rather, his consolation is aesthetic and affective. Furthermore, like the anxiety of Chapter 2, the shame invoked by Seneca here forces us to recognize our insignificance and impotence in the universe

(fragilitas). Similarly, Seneca asks his readers: male scilicet actum erit tecum, si sensum mortis tuae celeritas infinita praeueniet, si mors tua procuratur, si ne tunc quidem, cum expiras, superuacuus sed alicuius magnae rei signum es (“Poor you, if infinite swiftness circumvents your perception of death, if your death is attended to with sacrifices, if, when you die, you will not be useless, but a sign of a great thing!” Nat. 2.59.10). The mocking sarcasm expressed by male scilicet, followed by an enumeration of the positive aspects of a death by lightning, invites us to feel shame and embarrassment towards our fear of lightning. Affect is layered upon affect in this consolation. This shaming also involves a diminution of the overweening human, who is forced to recognize that, given his mortality, death by lightning would be a boon rather than a disaster.

Finally, Seneca closes the Natural Questions with the following words:

Sed non erit huic cogitationi locus; casus iste donat metum. Est inter cetera hoc quoque 212 commodum eius quod expectationem suam antecedit. Nemo umquam timuit fulmen, nisi qui effugit.

“But there will not be time for this thought; this sort of disaster absolves you of fear. Among other things its benefit is this: that it comes before you expected it. No one has ever feared a lightning bolt, except a person who has already survived.” (Nat. 2.59.13)

In a way, this passage constitutes the logical conclusion of the previous paragraphs. Seneca has acknowledged Lucilius’ fear and compounded it with shame, all in the service of drawing out the fragility and insignificance of humans in the world. Now, Lucilius is told that he is so small and epistemically compromised that, if a lightning bolt were to hit him, he would not even anticipate it, let alone fear it (expectationem suam antecedit). This radical ignorance, we are told, is ultimately the best defense against bad feelings—casus iste donat metum. The affects in this passage undo themselves: they shrink the subject into such a position of vulnerability that he cannot even perceive his own affects.

What can we learn from this radical ignorance? The phrase nemo umquam timuit fulmen, nisi qui effugit raises two possibilities. We can continue to irrationally fear lightning, like the subject who has evaded it but remains fearful (qui effugit). Alternatively, we can rationally recognize the absurdity of this position and live free from fear. Yet it is only on the heels of this impacted affective moment that reason is able to play a role: rather than a linear surmounting of affects via reason, we see fear and shame folding over each other, negating each other in paradoxical ways. Reason emerges not against, but through these affective entanglements.

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