RE-THINKING THE ROMAN DOMUS: HOW ARCHITECTS AND ORATORS CONSTRUCT SELF, SPACE, AND LANGUAGE

DISSERTATION

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for

the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the

Graduate School of The Ohio State University

By

Gillian Elizabeth McIntosh, B.A., M.A.

* * * * *

The Ohio State University 2003

Dissertation Committee: Approved by Dr. Erik T. Gunderson, Adviser

Dr. William W. Batstone

Dr. Duane W. Roller Adviser Department of Greek and Latin Copyright Gillian McIntosh 2003 ABSTRACT

Concerning research of the Roman home, I identify two problems. First, traditional scholarship on the Roman domus has tended to explore the physical structure in an effort to recover only the objective truth about real homes. Recent scholarship, however, shows that there is more to the home than mathematics, facts, and physical matter. Second, archaeologists are generally reluctant to consider the subjective, psychological aspects of the home, despite numerous ancient references to the home as having precisely these qualities.

Through the lenses of an architect (Vitruvius) and an orator (Cicero), I investigate the literary presentation of the domus, and consider it precisely as an artful and subjective presentation where numbers and facts are not primary concerns. I explore more fully the psychic life of architecture as an imaginary (or, metaphysical) place where real questions of self, society, and space are articulated. (Presentation in language is key.)

Some exciting discoveries include: (1) In both Vitruvius and Cicero, the home signifies more than physical matter. There is a sociology about the home; there is a sense of equivalence between the home and the self; there is a philosophical quality to the home, that ties self, space, and language together; the home is a vital and lived

ii metaphor. (2) The presentation of the home in text is important. (3) While scientific archaeological investigations pursue objective truth, the abstract, subjective perspective is also clearly valuable. The subject is presupposed by space; in addition, the subject is itself architectural. To lose sight of the subject is to diminish the room for a more comprehensive understanding of the home. And (4) it is important to consider text, self, and space synthetically.

This method for exploring the domus can be extended in several ways. One might pursue more fully the domus as Cicero presents it, or the domus as other

Roman authors present it. To pursue more thoroughly the importance of the metaphor of home will prove a productive enterprise. Certainly further work aimed at synthesizing the objective archaeological and the subjective literary homes will be profitable to the whole field, and beyond.

iii Dedicated to RTN, FAM, PEM, CFM, G.

iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so grateful to my adviser, Erik Gunderson, for his indefatigable patience, intellectual stimulation, constant encouragement, and support of my work.

I owe much to Duane W. Roller not only for his input in this dissertation, but also for all that he has done for me over the years. I owe thanks also to Will Batstone.

I extend many thanks to H. Paul Brown and Amber Lunsford for lots of stimulating discussions and thoughtful suggestions, not to mention constant friendship for the duration. I owe thanks also to Rebecca Futo Kennedy.

I wish to thank Betsy Tannehill and Mary Cole, whose kindness and tolerance merit much more than this brief acknowledgment.

Especial and heartfelt gratitude goes to Ryan Nichols, to my parents Fran and

Paul, and to Colin McIntosh, without whose unfaltering love, patience, faith, and occasional nagging this pie just would not have completed this dissertation.

v VITA

July 6, 1972 ………………………… Born – Toronto, Canada

1994 ………………………………… B.A. Latin, Queen’s University at Kingston

1997 ………………………………… M.A. Classics, Queen’s University at Kingston

1997 – present ……………………… Graduate Teaching Associate, The Ohio State University

FIELDS OF STUDY

Major Field: Greek and Latin

vi TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

Abstract .……………………………………………………………………………ii

Dedication…………………………………………………………………………..iv

Acknowledgments ………………………………………………………………….v

Vita …………………………………………………………………………………vi

Chapters:

1. Introduction ……………………………………………………………………1

Traditional Scholarship………………………………………………...1 Some Complexities of the Domus……………………………………...2 Recent Studies and Current Methodologies……………………………6 This Dissertation……………………………………………………….21

2. Constructing Matters: Architecture, Rhetoric, and Vitruvius’ Domus

Introduction ……………………………………………………………30 Constructing Sociology: 6.5.2 and 6.7…………………………………37 Constructing Biography………………………………………………..52 The Architect-King…………………………………………………….57

3. Cicero, Exile, and Epistolography: Building the Maison d’Être

Introduction……………………………………………………………71 Spying Crisis: the domus crumbles……………………………………76 From Crisis to Suspension……………………………………………..92 Testimony of Change: Cicero rebuilds his new home…………………96

4. There’s No Place (Not) Like Home: The Illusory ‘Lost and Found’ of Domestic and Political Space and Identity in Cicero’s de domo sua

vii Introduction…………………………………………………………….107 The ‘Real’ Home: Geography and Politics…………………………….112 The Symbolic Home……………………………………………………116 The Subject that is Cicero………………………………………118 The Supplemental Subject that is Clodius……………………...124 The Logic of the (W)hole………………………………………………139

5. Cicero, Philosophy, and a New Home: the Illusion of Philosophical Solution

Introduction……………………………………………………………147 Cicero as Philosopher: a Brief Portrait………………………………...152 The Paradoxa Stoicorum and Crisis……………………………………160 The Solution: Philosophy and Internal Space………………………….168 Perception of Philosophy………………………………………169 Philosophy as Construct(ion)…………………………………...173 Putting Philosophy into Practice……………………………….176 The Illusion of Solution………………………………………………...193

6. Conclusion……………………………………………………………………...197

Appendix: Cicero’s letters: The Dates of Composition ……………………………201

Bibliography ……………………………………………………………………….203

viii CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

Traditional Scholarship

The Roman domus has mostly been studied in terms of its physical structure.

Those interested in the home have turned to material remains as well as to literary references in order to reconstruct the matter of the house, and to understand other objective facts about it: who built it, who sold it, for how much, to whom, and so on.

Two prominent examples of this method are Lawrence Richardson’s A New

Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome, or Eva M. Steinby’s Lexicon

Topographicum Urbis Romae (volume 2).1 In each of these works, a description of the typical structural features is found: one learns, for instance, of the fauces, the atrium, the tablinum, the colonnades, and the hortus. Each also provides a detailed

1 L. Richardson (1992) A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press; and E.M. Steinby, ed. (1995) Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae (Volume 2: D- G) Roma: Edizioni Quasar. Christer Bruun critiques and builds upon Steinby’s work: (1998) “Missing Houses: Some Neglected Domus and Other Abodes in Rome,” Arctos 32: 87-108. Bruun essentially argues that, even though Steinby’s entries under domus in the vast Lexicon are the most inclusive yet, there are still many appearances of Roman domus that need to be considered. Bruun starts this, by listing some domus sightings he has found. Before this list, Bruun engages some important questions in terms of what should or should not be included in a topographical dictionary’s listing of domus. For instance: are we only concerned with homes of famous people? Are we only concerned with ownership, or with renters, and other economic matters? Should we also engage a more sociological approach, and think about neighborhoods? What about the matter of ‘Privatleben’: should we worry about what Romans did in their homes, and what they had in them? (vid. p. 93).

1 list of specific individual’s homes, replete with information about the location, the features, and the ancient sources on such homes. Wherever possible, a list of secondary scholarship is included.

Such descriptions focus almost exclusively on producing the objective facts about the home, and the objective facts about the history and owner. Though useful, these accounts fail to consider anything other than the very ‘concreteness’ of the place they are describing. Steinby does include more ideological aspects, with comments such as this (about Cicero’s home on the Palatine): “La scelta della nuova residenza era stata dettata dall’esigenza di risparmiare i disagi di un lungo cammino ai suoi clienti e dal desiderio di accrescere la propria reputazione.”2 Yet she seems to include this information only in an effort to ascertain where the domus was actually situated .3 In neither Richardson nor Steinby is there a serious pursuit of the social, political, philosophical, or generally abstract significance of the home. Yet these very aspects of the domus are significant. There is more to the home than the bare ‘facts’.

Some Complexities of the domus

Indeed the domus is complex, whether one explores its syntax, its meaning, its structure, or its ideological underpinnings. In terms of the syntax, domus is multiform.

It is sometimes a fourth declension noun, sometimes second (curiously, a feminine

2 Steinby (1995) 202.

3 The ancient sources are Cicero ipse (Att 1.13.6; 1.16.10), and Plutarch (Cic 8.6).

2 second declension). Even its morphology is complex and irregular.4 The syntactical foundations of the home are, it appears, rather varied. The edifices that grew up hence in some ways reflect this syntactic multiplicity. Domus (the word) refers not only to the family’s private dwelling. It stands also for the household of persons who live within the building, or, more broadly, for any group (such as a school of philosophers). It can mean the town, city, or country where one was born or where one principally dwelt. Domus is where animals live (as a nest for birds, or a shell for crustaceans). It is also understood very generally, to refer to one’s resources

(financial, intellectual, and such).

The structure of the Roman home was also multiform. A certain set of stock features was generally included. Other structural elements were in- or excluded depending on the social status and the financial capability of the owner. For instance, the first century B.C. architect Vitruvius explains that everyday (non-elite) men had no need for magnificent entranceways, for tablina, or for atria, because these men tended to their business by visiting others’ homes rather than by being visited by others (de arch. 6.5.1).5 Vitruvius describes how the social and physical aspects of the home coincide: plain homes are for (they ‘reflect’) average people, and fancy homes are for the socially elite. In this regard, not only are homes varied in their structure,

4 OCD s.v. domus.

5 For more on this, and on Vitruvius’ presentation of the home, see Chapter 2.

3 but that diversity itself depends upon the inhabitants. The home cannot be kept separate from the social, political, religious, and gendered relations that take place in, and are reflected by, the home.

The home was also conceived and presented in symbolic ways.6 In the

Institutio Oratoria (11.2.17ff.), Quintilian advises his students to remember a speech by means of a house: each room, as well as the contents of the room (such as statues) should represent a different part of the speech. Thus, when it is time for delivery, all the orator has to do is tour through the imaginary domus, and present his speech.

6 Saller (1944) 342ff. provides a rich supply of primary references where the domus extends beyond the concrete. On social/political relations within the domus, see A. Wallace-Hadrill (1) (1988a) 43-97; (2) (1998) “The Villa as Cultural Symbol,” in The Roman Villa: villa urbana Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania,43-53; A. Leen (2000-01) “Clodia Oppugnatrix: the Domus Motif in Cicero’s Pro Caelio,” CJ 96: 141-162; R. Laurence (1997) “Space and Text,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Rhode Island: Portsmouth. See also T.P.Wiseman (1987) “Conspicui postes tectaque digna deo: The Public Image of Aristocratic and Imperial Houses in the Late Republic and Early Empire,” in L’urbs urbain et histoire CEFRA 98: 393- 413. On house and social status, see E. Scott (1990) “Romano-British Villas and the Social Construction of Space,” in The Social Archaeology of Houses (ed. R. Samson) Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press 149-172. Anne Leen talks about the use of decorative programs within the house in order to present one’s self and one’s status, (1991) “Cicero and the Rhetoric of Art,” AJP 112: 229- 245. See also R. Rippengall (1993) “Villas as Key to Social Structures? Some Comments on Recent Approaches to the Romano-British Villa and Some Suggestions Toward as Alternative,” in Theoretical Roman Archaeology: First Conference Proceedings (ed. E. Scott) Aldershot: Avebury Press, 79-102. On house and gender relations, see A. Bergren (1992) 253-310; R. Hingley (1990) “Domestic Organisation and Gender Relations in Iron Age and Romano-British Households,” in The Social Archaeology of Houses (ed. R. Samson) Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 125-148; P. Bourdieu (1980) The Logic of Practice (transl. R. Nice) Stanford: Stanford University Press, appendix (“the Kabyle house or the world reversed”); and S. Lawrence (1999) “Towards a Feminist Archaeology of Households: Gender and Household Structure on the Australian Goldfields,” in The Archaeology of Household Activities (ed. P. Allison) London: Routledge, 121-141. More risqué, but revealing of the tensions that houses can impart/excite, are the 19th century French novellae on houses; for example, J- F. Bastide’s (1996) La Petite Maison: An Architectural Seduction (transl and introduction by R. El- Khoury) New York: Princeton Architectural Press. More generally, on architecture and its ability to communicate, see E.W. Leach (1988) The Rhetoric of Space: Literary and Artistic Representations of Landscape in Republican and Augustan Rome New Jersey: Princeton University Press; Ann Vasaly (1993) Representations: Images of the World in Ciceronian Oratory Berkeley: University of California Press; U. Eco (1997a) 182-201; and, with a more psychological spin, see Olivier Marc (1977) Psychology of the House London: Thames and Hudson.

4 Domus, then, is no mere physical structure: it houses speech; and, with memory as its ally, enables the orator to work his magic. The architecture of the house represents, and makes present, the architecture of the speech. Thus, in Quintilian, the structure of rhetoric and structure as rhetoric are made to converge.7

Houses are also equated with a person’s psychology. In Book 4 of De Rerum

Natura (512-521), Lucretius discloses that when a person builds a house with faulty tools (ruler, set-square, and the like), he will produce a higgledy-piggledy structure; this structure will in fact be a product of, and will accurately reflect, the deficiencies of his mind and the insufficiencies of his reasoning. In this way, then, the state of a man’s house is equivalent to the state of his mind.

The psychological element of the home is apparent also in Plutarch’s presentation of the domus in the Publicola (10.1-5; see also Livy 2.7). Here, Plutarch presents a lavishly extravagant house, belonging to Valerius, and fit for a king.

Valerius, as it happens, was thinking himself fit for kingship. The house, then, represents him well. But, when Valerius learned that to the Roman people the opulence of the house suggested inappropriate claims to reign, he had the house torn down. No palace meant no airs towards monarchic rule. And the people rejoiced.

Thus, within Plutarch's narrative, house is metaphorized as self: domus doubles for dominus. And it does this so well, that the house’s death produces real grief amongst real people, just like the death of a real person would: for Plutarch tells us that,

7 For similar associations between space and memory see Quintilian’s story of Simonides and the art of memory (11.2.11-16); see also Cicero’s version of the same story, de orat. 2.352-54.

5 despite their joy at Valerius’ gesture, the people are so deeply saddened by the loss of the house that they mourned it as if it were human (hosper anthropou). Domus, then, is not just a sign of status, nor is it just standing in for its owner: it takes on its own life.

Suetonius (Caesar 81.3) follows the house-as-man relation; but in this setting, the house represents what the man will be (house as omen as man). Suetonius relates several omens that foretold Caesar’s assassination. Among them is his wife

Calpurnia’s dream: one of the roof gables collapsed, and fell. She awoke suddenly, to another ominous spatial sign: the door to the room swung open of its own accord. So here too the role of the domus (or, part of the domus) extends beyond mere physicality. Constituted within psychic space, the home’s own constitution predicts (it ante-reflects) the collapse of its owner.

From these few illustrative examples, we spy a house that is a symbol for speech, mind, self, and ruin. That the ancients perceived of the domus in a multitude of ways should encourage scholars to follow suit, and avoid limiting their perspective to objective, scientific, physical facts alone.

Recent Studies and Current Methodologies

Indeed, scholars have begun to explore more than the physicality of the home.

Specifically, recent studies have pursued the social, political, religious, and other relations that surrounded the Roman home. Andrea Carandini, for instance, in his investigation of the Palatine houses from the Late Republic to the Julio-Claudian era,

6 was concerned with slaves’ quarters. In the house of M. Aemilius Scaurus, Carandini discovered a substructure to the home that was (by his lights) a series of rooms for the slaves.8 The slaves were not relegated to the outskirts of the home (as has been seen in other homes),9 but to the underskirts. The physical structure of the home reflected the social structure within.

Simon Ellis, Joanne Berry, Beverly Berg, Bettina Bergmann and others have examined the art and artifacts of homes in order to understand private space more thoroughly. Ellis, for instance, relates a home’s décor with displays of power and public image, while Berg ties the internal trappings of Cicero’s house with his very identity. Pedar Foss has explored the religious elements of and within the home. Guy

Métraux, Peter Saller, and others have written articles and books that bear a similar message. An especially useful collection of works appeared in 1997: Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond, edited by Ray Laurence and Andrew

Wallace-Hadrill.10 There, one can find sensitive and exciting articles on the various

8 A. Carandini (1988) Schiavi in Italia: gli strumenti pensanti dei Romani fra tarda Repubblica e medio Impero Roma: Nuova Italia scientifica 359-387 (especially 370).

9 See, for instance, Pliny’s letter (2.17) wherein he describes the design of his country villa. There were passageways on the periphery of the structure that were for the slave to move about in, and to dwell in. Michele George has written on slaves in the Roman home, and has included an investigation of M. Aemilius Scaurus’ home: (1997) “Servus and domus: the slave in the Roman house,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Portsmouth, RI: JRA, pp.15-24.

10 S. Ellis (1994) “Power, Architecture, and Décor: How the Late Roman Aristocrat Appeared to his Guests,” in Roman Art in the Private Sphere: New Perspectives on the Architecture and Décor of the Domus, Villa, and Insula (ed. E.K. Gazda) Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, pp.117-134; J. Berry (1997) Household Artefacts: Towards a Reinterpretation of Roman Domestic Space,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Portsmouth, RI: JRA, pp. 183-195; B. Berg (1997) “Cicero’s Palatine Home and Clodius’ Shrine of Liberty: Alternative Emblems of the Republic in Cicero’s De domo sua,” in Studies in Latin Literature

7 relations about the home. There have been moves, in other words, to extend the domus from its material confines, and to explore other, more abstract aspects of the

Roman home.

Scholarship exploring the domus falls under one of two research methods: the archaeological or the literary. Each involves traditional and contemporary methodologies. There are two forerunners in the contemporary field: Mark Grahame in the archaeological domain, and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill in the literary. Each scholar has taken his field to new ways of thinking about the domus. Yet each ultimately leaves something more to be done. It will be important to review and critique the salient theses of each in some detail in order to ascertain their strengths and weaknesses. I plan to combine the strengths of each, and establish something productive out of their weaknesses, in order to contribute fruitfully to the current discourse.

Traditionally, the archaeological record has been used to reconstruct material culture (with an emphasis on material), and daily practice. One need only consult any issue of AJA to see that this is the case. Archaeologists have catalogued space along with objects found in that space, and have attempted objectively, or ‘scientifically’, to

and Roman History VIII (ed. C. Deroux) Bruxelles: Latomus Revue d’Études Latines, pp. 122-143; B. Bergmann (1994) “Painted Perspectives of a Villa Visit: Landscape as Status and Metaphor,” in Roman Art in the Private Sphere: New Perspectives on the Architecture and Décor of the Domus, Villa, and Insula (ed. E.K. Gazda) Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, pp. 49-70; P. Foss (1997) “Watchful Lares: Roman household organization and the rituals of cooking and dining,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Portsmouth, RI: JRA, pp. 196-218; G. Métraux (1999) “Ancient Housing: Oikos and Domus in Greece and Rome,” JSAH 58: 392-405; R. Saller (1984) “Familia, Domus and the Roman Conception of the Family,” Phoenix 38: 336-355. Also: R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds.) (1997) Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond Portsmouth, RI: JRA.

8 document what life was really like. Sometimes, however, this traditional methodology might seem a bit too objective, or too focused on the facts.11 There is more to life than physical space and things. The social design, or the ideological underpinnings, of the spaces and of the activities are increasingly meaningful to us: who went where and did what, and who did not, who could not, and who decided anyway, are some of the questions that less traditional methods are now addressing.

Recently, the archaeological world has lent more emphasis to the ‘culture’ part of material culture. While the material aspect of this type of investigation still remains, the material record is now being scoured, or ‘read’, for what it might say about something beyond the physical surface. Mark Grahame has been especially important.12 In general, Grahame’s claim is that space is not just bricks and mortar, and it is not just about daily activities; it is about identity and society (individualism and collectivity, to use his terms), about power and knowledge, and about control of exposure and concealment. Following Hillier and Hanson,13 Grahame sets up a

11 The weaknesses inherent in this methodology include: sometimes the space itself is too lost to be measured and reconstructed; sometimes the space can be measured, but no objects are found inside, to aid in our understanding of the nature of that space; and sometimes objects are found, but they are out- of-place, and they thereby add to the confusion of reconstruction. Additionally, certain assumptions underlie both the assessment of objects and the assessment of the spaces expected in a house. Such assumptions, while often logical, are not always very helpful.

12 Parenthetical page references within my text on Grahame are all to Grahame’s book (2000) Reading Space: Social Interaction and Identity in the Houses of Roman Pompeii: A Syntactical Approach to the Analysis and Interpretation of Built Space Oxford: BAR International Series 886. For articles by Grahame, see (1998) “Material Culture and Roman Identity: the spatial layout of Pompeian Houses and the Problem of Ethnicity,” in Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire (ed. R. Laurence and J. Berry) London: Routledge, pp. 156-178; (1997) “Public and Private in the Roman house: investigating the social order of the Casa del Fauno,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Portsmouth, RI: JRA, pp. 137-164.

13 B. Hiller and J. Hanson (1984) The Social Logic of Space Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

9 ‘spatial syntax’, and explains how we can and should ‘read’ space. He does this without the aid of the literary record. Indeed, he warns against the dangers of the literary record (the textual method), and claims that his lack of use of the literary helps build a more objective and accurate reconstruction of the actual past.

It is worth considering in some detail the methodology that Grahame sets up, not simply because it shows that the domus transcends its physical confines, but also because it claims to provide a new, more objective paradigm with which to assess domestic space and (its relation to) ancient identity. Accordingly, in an order that reflects Grahame’s own approach to reading space, I categorize and summarize

Grahame’s salient arguments. These categories are (A) power, knowledge, and control; (B) identity and society; (C) spatial syntax and access analysis; and (D)

Grahame’s warning against the literary record. Following this, I briefly critique

Grahame’s project, and explain where my project arises.

A. Power, Knowledge, Control: Grahame argues that the exchange of knowledge is the driving force behind social encounters. The exchange of knowledge is necessary for establishing trust between people: “Without trust, social bonds cannot develop and without social bonds, there can be no society” (3). Architecture plays a role in the exchange of knowledge in that it allows individuals to control both what they share and what they retain in terms of knowledge of the self, by enabling them to

10 appear or retreat into spaces. In this way, architecture helps individuals “sustain a sense of personal autonomy” (ibid). It is a means of freedom; and it is a means of privacy (15).

Architecture can also be a means of disempowerment: the spaces structured by architecture at times allow the individual to retreat, to hide himself, while at other times they force him out into the open, to be monitored by others. An inequality arises, wherein one individual gains more or less power over himself or others. In the case of the retreat into private space, the individual’s ability to control knowledge gives him the greater share of power; in the case of the enforced exposure, his inability to retain personal autonomy renders him powerless in the encounter.14 Thus the placement of walls, windows, and doors (the architecture) is crucial in terms of social relations. The materiality of any structure extends beyond its concreteness, and has an effect upon the way those who built it use it and are shaped by it.

B. Identity and Society: Grahame reveals, it is precisely in social relations

(where knowledge and power exert forceful and formative roles) that individual identities are formed and sustained: “Identity is a relative construct: who one is depends on whom one knows” (3). Since architecture is crucial in the dynamics between power, knowledge, and control, and since power, knowledge, and control are crucial in the formation and perpetuation of identity, it follows that architecture plays

14 Grahame uses the terms “power to” and “power over” in order to differentiate these two “faces” of power: “power to” is the control over knowledge revealed about the self, while “power over” is the repressive or controlling aspect of power (17). On the freeing and repressive powers of architecture, see 17-18.

11 an important role in effecting identity at both the individual and societal levels.

Writes Grahame: “It is clear that we must see architecture as having an active role in constituting human beings as certain kinds of individuals, at all times and in all places. In other words, it has always been involved in the creation of identity and this,

I wish to maintain, is architecture’s primary function” (19). Thus, when we encounter space, we can read into the arrangement of the space (i.e. into the architecture) and reach a reasonably accurate notion of the social relations and identities that were constituted therein. Again, then, the matter that is architecture extends well beyond matter, to social relations, and to individual identity.

C. Spatial Syntax and Access Analysis: In order to determine the extent that architecture permits and denies knowledge and control, Grahame provides an analytic method by analogizing architecture with written text. Writing is a means of encoding and thereby fixing speech acts; it is a means of making permanent an event that would otherwise be lost once complete. Likewise, architecture is a means of encoding and thereby fixing human actions (and interactions); it is a means of making permanent spatial events that would otherwise be lost once complete. Architecture, like text, ‘documents’ human social activities (3).

Following Hillier and Hanson, Grahame sets up a ‘spatial syntax’. Just as the syntax of language recognizes a relationship between language and culture, so does spatial syntax set up a relationship between space and culture. And, just as the syntax of language consists of a set of rules that determine word order and intelligiblity

(through various forms and constraints), so too is spatial syntax comprised of rules

12 that determine the arrangement of space and our subsequent (ability to work towards an) understanding of that space (25). But these rules are not absolute: there are a number of interpretations available to any particular arrangement. Various aspects affect an interpretation, such as social attitude, background, and time.15

Since architecture is like a text, and since social encounters are like speech, then there must be a way to read and to write architecture. Writing is a form of production, one that adheres to the syntax of language. Built space is also a form of production, one that adheres to spatial syntaxes. Grahame argues that “if architecture is analogous to text, the production of built space must be analogous to writing. It therefore follows that movement through built space must be analogous to reading, since the composition of a spatial layout cannot be known unless it has been experienced” (28). Thus we have:

text : architecture :: speech : social encounter :: reading : movement through space :: writing : production of architecturally differentiated space.16

There is, though, Grahame acknowledges, something unsatisfactory about the necessity of ‘moving through built space’ in order to ‘read’ it. First, the task of actually moving through built spaces would be onerous. Second, in the case of antiquity, such a task is often impossible since there are insufficient concrete remains.

Third, even if we could move through these spaces, we could not do so as the original

15 On the importance of temporality, see p. 26. Space syntax and architecture parallel linguistic syntax and text, vis-à-vis combinatorial and interpretive varieties.

16 See Table 3.1, p. 28

13 inhabitants did. Nevertheless, we are not prevented from making a reading of space; we are not precluded from establishing space’s significance (28). Grahame proposes a method by which we can read built space: access analysis.

Grahame defines access analysis as “a topographical method that describes the relations of permeability in a building and offers indices that allows those relations to be quantified” (3). Access analysis offers a new method of interpreting built space and its effect on social interactions and individual identities. The archaeologist first makes an access map; this presents the space in its “barest relations” (33), as a series mathematical points. He then justifies that map, and thereby shows the spatial typology of the place. Next, he calculates the relative asymmetry, and determines the accessibility and inaccessibility of the various spaces of his site. In so doing, the archaeologist provides the structural and spatial syntax; he has the tools needed to read space. Everything is measured in numbers.

In an important way, Grahame’s provision of a way to calculate space and its accessibilty through a mathematical medium, allows archaeologists to determine a space’s more abstract qualities, such as power, knowledge, control, identity and society (points A and B above). Grahame establishes a means to measure the ways, and extent to which, a house is more than just its material substance. In Grahame’s own words: “the walls will tell [us] something” (98).

D. On the Literary Record: From the outset of Reading Space, Grahame makes clear the problems inherent in the literary record. In the preface, he lays these critical foundations: “...the interpretation of house plans by reference the literary

14 sources is imprecise, anecdotal and subjective. Remarks made by the Roman authors about their domestic environments tend to be in passing” with no pertinence to actual places (vii).17 Thus, the problems lie both in the primary sources, and in the use that scholars have made of them, in terms of what they reveal about spatial layouts and functions.

In chapter 9 Grahame systematically exposes the weaknesses of the long- standing literary method. He shows that “robustness, rigour, and objectivity are not apparent in the text-based methodology. Indeed it can be seen to possess serious flaws” (89). There are seven flaws, briefly outlined below.

1. Though there is a certain regularity to the text-based method, that regularity is “illusory,” it is “an artefact of the method and not a reliable description of reality itself” (90). 2. The only houses that have come under analysis have tended to be those that conform to, or include, the spaces that Vitruvius identifies. The result is that “the sample of houses studied tends to be biased” (90). In addition, there arises a certain circularity: examples are found that conform to Vitruvius, and they are then used, in turn, as empirical proof substantiating precisely what Vitruvius was talking about. 3. Use of the primary texts does not take a house’s spatial context into consideration (92). It is the structural context of a room, not its name, that determines function. An atrium in one house might be central to all social interactions; in another, it may be simply a space used only en route to other, more socially involved spaces. Thus, the identification of a room, without consideration of its surrounding spaces, does little to inform the function and use of that room. 4. Readers have not duly considered the ambiguity of the texts they use (92-3). While texts can provide a certain fixity, they still demand a reader; and since each reader approaches a text from his own context and with his own perspective, there will necessarily be several takes on just one text. If texts do

17 Unfortunately, Grahame’s own remarks remain unsubstantiated: which authors? Which works? What remarks? The only literary source he turns to is Vitruvius; and he seems only to refer to Vitruvius in order to show how scholars have misused him.

15 not affix meaning, then the application of texts to spaces becomes problematic. 5. Grahame tackles the problem of “text and reference” (93-94). Following Ricoeur, Grahame differentiates between a text’s ‘sense’ and its ‘reference’. ‘Sense’ refers to the meaning of a text, and it is necessary for a text to be intelligible. ‘Reference’ is not a necessary ingredient; ‘reference’ makes claims to “reach, describe, explain or in some other way represent the world of experience” (93). Reference applies to the real. Some primary sources have no reference; it is, therefore, dangerous to use these texts in terms of reconstructing reality. 6. Grahame identifies a Roman/Pompeian/cultural problem that the text-based method entails. Scholars tend to assume a homogeneity between regions. But, he argues, there were vast differences in space and life in Pompeii itself, and there were even vaster differences between regions. Thus, to apply a Roman architectural text to Pompeian remains is deeply problematic.18 7. Finally, Grahame argues against the broad applicability of the primary sources, for these literary sources reflect and account for the Roman elite. Any broader application (to a non-Roman or a non-elite) cannot succeed. Besides, he argues, these texts are “a play of ideas, rather than the embodiment of the truth” (96). As such, texts are useful, but only with respect to what they reflect on, namely the Roman elite.

This, then, is Grahame’s new archaeological methodology. From critiquing the text-based method, to identifying deeper ideological issues constituted both within and by architecture, to laying out a new method by which we can ‘read’ ancient spaces, Grahame has provided the archaeological world with a shifted analytic paradigm by means of which antiquity can be more objectively reconstructed and understood. Material, he shows, is deeply imbricated in more than just matter: it is tied tightly in with the socially constructed world. The strengths in Grahame’s new methodology are many. One of the most striking advantages is that he enables us to

18 Grahame talks about ‘status’ and ‘etiquette’ (94-95) when he distinguishes between individual and group membership. He separates regional and individual heterogeneity into two distinct critiques of the text-based method. I have conflated the two, since the gripes seem to be analogous. Thus, one region (Pompeii) is to another (Rome) and one individual (Marcus) is to another (Sextus).

16 assess the social interactions that the architecture both instantiates and perpetuates.

There are, however, some problems, some of which I perceive to be rather significant.

I identify three.

My first contention pertains to Grahame’s observations about identity. He is right to argue that architecture and personal identity are interrelated, yet he is nowhere interested in the subject (in personal identity). There is no space for the individual subject in Grahame’s mathematical, objective model. Indeed, he seems irritated by the deceptive and irrelevant talk of houses within antiquity. Second,

Grahame recognizes that there are multiple readings and interpretations of space.

Implicit within this is the notion that reading space (like reading a text) is always already a subjective experience (though it is guided by certain syntactical rules).19

Since Grahame has failed to provide a space for the subject, it is not surprising that he also fails to realize that subject and text, and subject and space, are important pairs.

The reading of text and the reading of space cannot be separated from the subject who reads. Third, Grahame analogizes space with text, and uses this analogy to institute a system of reading space; later on, he systematically undoes the value of reading texts.

His arguments are self-refuting: if readings of texts are not robust and rigorous, how then can readings of space be both?20

19 Again, Grahame wants to get beyond the multiple via mathematics, but there are multiple reactions to space within antiquity, many of which are going to be filtered through issues of gender, class, and status.

20 Grahame fails to think through the very textedness of his own work. The houses he works on are, for the most part, all (or almost all) in ruins. Accordingly, he creates floor plans, maps, and articles about those remains, and circulates these texts amongst colleagues. His work is, of course, literary. Yet it is

17 The point of my critique is to show that (1) the subject matters. Grahame is right to recognize the interrelatedness of architecture and identity. Now, an exploration of that very individual and his relation to space is needed. Second (2), the subjectivity of reading (text or space) is important in terms of the notion of the union between subject and text: reading is subjective, readers are subjects inseparable from reading. Likewise, the process of presenting is also subjective: writing is subjective, writers are subjects inseparable (at some fundamental level) from the texts they produce. Finally (3), architecture, the subject, and writing need to be investigated concomitantly.

From Grahame’s new archaeological method, it is time to consider (more briefly) Andrew Wallace-Hadrill’s contributions to the field. Wallace-Hadrill is foremost among scholars attempting to work concurrently with the archaeological and literary records.21 In a key article, “The Villa as Cultural Symbol,” Wallace-Hadrill explores the villa using both literary and archaeological evidence.22 He begins with a literary perspective on villas: Cato and Varro are his principle sources. In these treatises, there is a notably moral tone, as hardy Roman agricultural work is pitted also, by his lights, valuable because it is objectively literary. Nonetheless, for those of us not at the sites, the paper version of the homes provides the only access. The written record is important.

21 He also has articles out that focus more heavily on either the archaeological (see (1997) “Rethinking the Roman atrium house,” in Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond (ed. R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill) Portsmouth, RI: JRA, pp. 219-240) or the literary (see (1996) “Engendering the Roman House,” in I Claudia: Women in Ancient Rome (ed. D.E.E. Kleiner and S.B. Matheson) Austin: University of Texas Press, pp. 104ff.). My interest lies in his efforts to conjoin these methods.

22 (1998) “The Villa as Cultural Symbol,” in The Roman Villa: villa urbana Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 43-53. Parenthetical numbers in my text now refer to this article by Wallace- Hadrill.

18 against the luxuriant and often extravagant leisurely life of the Greeks. Wallace-

Hadrill includes Vitruvius, whose text links the literary and the archaeological: though principally architectural, Vitruvius’ text provides “resoundingly practical and rustic” (46) advice that, Wallace-Hadrill notes, would be in pleasing keeping with the moralizing of his predecessors. Vitruvius also provides an architectural prescription: he provides structural do’s and don’t’s for various types of housing.23 At 6.5.3-4 (47 in Wallace-Hadrill), Vitruvius explains the essential structural distinction between the villa urbana and the villa rustica: in the city, one moves from the entrance to the atrium, and on into the peristyle; in the countryside, one moves from the entrance to the peristyle, and on into the atrium. The courtyards, that is, are inversed. Vitruvius keeps his differentiation at the structural level.

Wallace-Hadrill next provides an archeological analysis of the ‘Villa of The

Mysteries,’ at Pompeii. He describes the space in terms of its physical arrangement, noting along the way its conformity to Vitruvius’ description.24 As Wallace-Hadrill transfers from the literary to the archaeological, he unites these two registers. He argues that, in as much as the texts pit Roman industry against Greek luxury, so does the ‘Villa of The Mysteries.’ In the villa, the opulent and indulgent Greek style adjoins and contrasts the hardy industrious Roman life. In the Greek part (the pars urbana), the walls are highly decorated with drunken and erotic Dionysiac scenes. In

23 See de arch 6.6.5; and Wallace-Hadrill (1998) 46.

24 In this villa, we see the ‘inverted’ urban arrangement: from the entrance, one is confronted with the peristyle arrangement, and then with the atrium style.

19 the Roman part (the pars rustica), the adjoining rooms are service-oriented, and have little decoration.25 Thus, the physical space (its arrangement, use, and decoration) reflects the same antitheses that the texts did.

Wallace-Hadrill draws several antithetical components together in this article.

Explicitly he shows that the texts pit Greek decadence against Roman industry; he also claims that the authors (Cato, Varro, and Vitruvius) draw such counterposing elements together. In addition, Wallace-Hadrill notes the concurrency between the literary and the archaeological record: in the latter, the same opposites are simultaneously pitted against, and conjoined with, one another.

In terms of critiquing Wallace-Hadrill, there are two notes. While it is pleasing to see Wallace-Hadrill turn to, and use the literary record, it would be more pleasing were he to treat that record as precisely literary. Instead, Wallace-Hadrill culls from the texts whatever he finds to substantiate his archaeological findings.

Rather than using the texts as a substantive vehicle that proves real space, it is important to explore the texts, and the architecture of the texts, and see what they say

(and how they say it) about space. Second, like Grahame, Wallace-Hadrill seems to lack interest in the subject in his pursuit of retrieving reality. Yet the subject and his relation to space are important. Specifically, there would be no spaces without subjects. Thus, a subject is always presupposed by these spaces. Conversely, the self

25 I think there is something even more exciting here: the pars rustica, where all the industry happens, is at the entry level (i.e. in the peristyle part); thus, the pars urbana, where all the opulence occurs, is where the atrium lies. Roman labor is set in Greek architecture; and the Greek decadence is set within the Roman architectural context. The contrasts are thereby drawn into a more rigorous dialogue. Also, in de architectura, Vitruvius describes the villa rustica (6.6) before moving in to the Greek home (6.7).

20 is itself architectural. Our surviving texts do not obscure the realia of architecture so much as they reveal the complex dynamic between space and psyche. I wish, then, to explore more fully the psychic life of architecture as an imaginary place where real questions of self, society, and space are articulated.

This Dissertation

The project of this dissertation is to explore the artful and subjective presentations of the domus in ancient literature. To explore the domus in this way is to supplement preceding studies, and to further extend the home out from its material confines, out even from its purely objective confines, into a realm wherein the subject and his home sustain and represent one another. While the literary record may not always be reliable in the reconstruction of the material world, it is surely helpful in our understanding of the vitality of the metaphor of home. As such, it is critical to our understanding of both the home and the individual.

I have limited my studies to the texts of Vitruvius and Cicero. In part this was a practical decision: to explore every instance of the domus would be too large and chaotic a project for the scope of this dissertation. Mostly, though, my decision was based on my interests in architecture and language, as modes of constructing and presenting the domus. Thus, I have opted to explore an architect (Vitruvius) and an orator (Cicero), and see how they have gone about portraying the home.

In Chapter 2, I explore the ways in which Vitruvius presents the domus in de architectura. Not much is known about Vitruvius, especially compared with Cicero.

He was a Roman architect and a military engineer. As an engineer, he worked under

21 and traveled on campaigns with Caesar. He outlived Caesar, though, and was at least an acquaintance of Octavian, later Augustus. The means that Vitruvius witnessed many important changes, which were not limited to regime alone: for Augustus, and his predecessor undertook vast construction and reconstruction projects. For an architect, this was undoubtedly an exciting time. Vitruvius staked his space, and acquired fame by writing de architectura, a 10-book meditation on architecture (its practice as well as it theory).

Each book has a different theme. Briefly, Book 1 is concerned with planning to build a town, and with laying out the terminology of architecture as well as the background of a good architect. Book 2 is a discussion of building materials. In 3 and

4, Vitruvius focuses on temples (their history, construction, and ‘orders’). In Book 5, he describes other public, civic buildings. Book 6 is a presentation of private space, that is, the home. In 7, Vitruvius describes building materials, and their use in plaster decoration, and more. Books 8 through 10 are more technical, or engineer-like. In 8, he writes of aqueducts and water supply; in 9, he shows his knowledge of astronomy, and illustrates its relevance to architecture; and in 10, Vitruvius describes tools and machinery.

Mostly, scholars have explored this treatise as merely an architectural manual.

I argue, to the contrary, that text is not simply an architectural manual, but it is also a meditation on the philosophy of architecture. It is an artful expression of the architect and the architectural world. Vitruvius does describe materials, tools, machines, and building methods; he is an architect, with expertise in engineering. But he also

22 describes the sociology of spaces; he even builds that sociology into his text. He is artful in his literary presentation. As such, de architectura provides a pleasing segue between the physical and the literary.

My interest lies in the home. Accordingly, the majority of Chapter 2 is spent exploring Book 6, where Vitruvius presents private space. Within this Book,

Vitruvius describes the construction process for building a house. In the process of explaining how to choose a site, where and how to build, what rooms to include, and such, Vitruvius, I argue, spells out the vitality of the metaphor of home by presenting the home as a person: the home is born, it grows, and it becomes part of the social world. In so doing, he constructs and writes the home’s biography. Home and life coincide. But, as Vitruvius builds the home, he also builds the text; and as he gives life to the home, he gives life to his text. Text and home coincide. Vitruvius creates a closely inter-relating nexus of life, home, and text. These threads sustain and reflect one another; to keep them distinct interrupts the development of understanding.

There is a philosophical quality to Vitruvius. His home and his text reach out beyond the physical confines of the home and the text. Knowledge, he argues, is what matters more than matter. His knowledge, precisely, enables him to negotiate between the physical and the philosophical. Vitruvius is the architect-king. Vitruvius, then, does more than present the ‘real’ home. The types of house that he chooses to present, and the equivalence he sets up between humans and houses show this. But, I will

23 show, Vitruvius is a knower of space; thus his interest seems more in presenting a theory of the order of space than in describing real spaces. The home in de architectura is, accordingly, imbued with both real and abstract features.

From Vitruvius, I turn to Cicero. Chronologically speaking, Vitruvius follows

Cicero. My interest, though, lies not in the chronological presentation, or development, of the home. That is, I am not interested in showing how Cicero may or may not have influenced Vitruvius, or in considering the changes in representation or in Roman thought over time. Relations between home and individual, and between home and social rank or gender or political clout are the themes I am pursuing. Rather than figuring out a continuum or a unified vision of literature on the home, I am investigating the details of manner in which the house becomes an element of Roman subjectivity. Accordingly, it does not matter that I explore Vitruvius before Cicero; in terms of theme, in fact, consideration of Vitruvius before Cicero is necessary, since

Vitruvius provides a thematic segue between physical and literary architecture.

Thematically, then, there is coincidence between the architect and the orator: both are writing about, and meditating on, the home. Both seem to have interest in pursuing aspects of the home that extend beyond the materiality of the home; for

Vitruvius, that means consideration of sociological and gender relations, for Cicero that means thinking through the politics and subjectivity of the home.

Compared with Vitruvius, we are well informed about Cicero’s history. It seems unnecessary to delve into Cicero’s biography here, save for a small pocket of years, where the importance of the house coincides with the history of the man.

24 Chapter 4 lays out the facts of space and place. For now I note that in 62 B.C. Cicero moved into his house on the Palatine. It was a risky move, since Cicero did not have the traditional aristocratic blood that was typically demanded of men living in such a visible, and politically steeped location. Nevertheless, Cicero dwelled in this house for several years, much to the increasing chagrin of Clodius. But in 58 B.C. he went into voluntary exile. The details of this exile are outlined in Chapter 3; for now it is important to note that Cicero was separated from his home. In his absence, his home was seized by Clodius, destroyed by Clodius’ men, and the space where the house had stood was consecrated and became a public shrine.26

This separation necessarily instituted a unique relation between Cicero and his home. I am interested in exploring Cicero’s relation to, and presentation of, the domus vis-à-vis his exile. In order to gain a full perspective, I have chosen to investigate three texts in particular: the letters he wrote during exile, a speech made upon his return, and a philosophical presentation from some 11 years later. That is, to each type of writing, there is a chronological correlate: during, immediately after, and several years following this exile. My hope, then, is not only to explore Cicero’s presentation of home but also to trace the similarities and differences over time and circumstance.

Details of the texts and their context are laid out at the start of each chapter.

By way of a brief and introductory overview, though, I here outline the important features of each Chapter. Chapter 3 pursues the same themes as Vitruvius did, most

26 For more on Cicero’s history, see Chapters 3 and 4.

25 centrally the relation between home and man. In the letters, though, there is an important difference: the home and the man in Cicero’s letters are not only theoretical, since Cicero writes about the Palatine structure, and himself. In the letters,

Cicero documents his exile and the disruptive effects of being without his home. At first, he is depressed, and so a melancholic tone pervades the early letters. Over time, however, we witness a change: Cicero separates his self from his house. The letters, I argue, emerge as a crystallization point, a replacement even, for the home and a new place where he can take up residence. The letters become a home away from home. In this way, the realia of the architecture of the domus are translated into the realia of the architecture of letters.

In Chapter 4, I study a speech made upon Cicero’s return to Rome in 57 B.C.

Cicero delivered the ‘de domo sua’ speech to convince the pontifices to return the home to him without offence to state religion. The themes again coincide with earlier chapters, for Cicero’s focus within this speech is his home, and what the separation from that home signified. In the de domo speech, the domus is symbolic in important ways. It houses Cicero’s identity (his status, political clout, reputation, and sense of self). The loss of the home marked a loss of Cicero. This was harmful to both the city and Cicero. The city suffered in Cicero’s absence; its survival depended on him.

More troubling still was the fact that Cicero and his home were replaced by Clodius and a statue of Libertas. Clodius was the inversion, the perversion even, of Cicero;

26 and the statue of Libertas was really a pilfered prostitute from out-of-town.

Everything turned upside-down when Cicero left. Cicero had to return; his home had to be returned.

Cicero capitalizes on a sense of equivalence between self and home. Though the letters show that Cicero spent 18 months of exile ridding himself of that equivalence, he revisits it, and uses it in the de domo speech because within Roman thought it is an equivalence for which and around which one can easily make a case.

That is, Cicero’s ‘real’ relation to the home is not what matters: the relation between self and house is, especially since Cicero argues that this self is the savior of the republic. Cicero uses the reality of the Palatine structure to provide a concrete manifestation of relations and circumstances that exceed mere concrete. The Palatine structure becomes a symbol of Cicero, the state, and the state of the state: when

Romans see an empty space where the house stood, they can also ‘see’ the disaster that hits Rome. Again, the home is both real and symbolic.

In Chapter 5 I explore the extent of success or failure as I continue to think through Cicero’s use of the home within a different written medium. The same factors

(self, home, and presentation) remain; but I explore them from a different time and through a different genre. The new time is 46-44 B.C., some eleven years after

Cicero’s exile; the new genre is philosophy. In the mid-40’s B.C. Cicero turned whole-heartedly to the study of philosophy. His palate was eclectic. My focus lies in

Cicero’s adoption of Stoicism, and in an application of the Stoic theory of oikeiosis.

27 In the Paradoxa Stoicorum and in the Tusculan Disputations the same skeletons continue to haunt Cicero’s closet: exile, Clodius, the home’s erasure, and the effect on Cicero. Yesteryear’s ‘therapy of writing’ seems to have failed.

Nevertheless, Cicero has recourse: he turns radically into himself, as he turns to philosophy. Philosophy becomes Cicero’s cure-all. Philosophy and mind become

Cicero’s new, impenetrable home: the internal world is spatial, private, and safe. The problem, though, is that Cicero’s turn in se is too radical. Cicero overloads the internal realm with all the external trappings that caused him to despair in the first place. The Stoic model ultimately fails for Cicero.

Cicero’s philosophical meditation upon the same themes and circumstances of the past show that the case of the house is not really closed. In this way, we see that the domus is a durable figure of thought, over a broad spectrum of writings. In the philosophical texts, Cicero uses the home as a literary trope that mobilizes lively discussion, But in so doing, he further complicates the intersection between philosophical abstraction and individual biography. The home is again imbued with factual and theoretical qualities.

In the concluding chapter, I synthesize the accounts of Vitruvius and Cicero, and explore some of the patterns, implications, and avenues for further investigation.

It is clear that domus, self, and text are interwoven and mutually sustaining in each presentation. In the texts, we see not only the names of owners and selling prices: we see subjective and artful expressions wherein the home reflects, houses, and nurtures the self. And we see that the home cannot best be understood through the

28 archaeologists’ lens alone, for the house is necessarily both a fact and an idea. The text (the literary record) proves invaluable in the process of understanding the importance of the home as a vital and lived metaphor in Rome. It must not be disregarded because of its subjectivity; it must be included for precisely this reason.

29 CHAPTER 2

CONSTRUCTING MATTERS: ARCHITECTURE, RHETORIC, AND VITRUVIUS’ DOMUS

Introduction

Vitruvius is mostly studied as an architect, indeed as the architect who handed down the long and detailed architectural manual, de architectura. In this work,

Vitruvius both prescribes and describes the construction process, from choosing the right site (1.4-7), to laying the proper foundations (3.4, 6.8), to using the appropriate materials (2.3-7, 7). He describes many structures (including temples [4], theaters

[5.3], baths [5.10], and prisons [5.2]). He also describes many parts of structures

(such as columns [4.1-3], walls [2.8], foundations [6.8]). He even describes machines and tools (such as wells and cisterns [8.6], wheels, screws, and pumps [10]). This is all quite technical, and certainly architectural. Accordingly, Vitruvius’ work has been scoured by scholars and architects alike, for its historical and structural content.27

27 See for instance, H. Plommer (1973) Vitruvius and Later Roman Building Manuals Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; I.D. Rowland & T.N. Howe (ed.s) (1999) Vitruvius: Ten Books on Architecture Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; F. Choay (1997) "The De Re Aedificatoria: Alberti, or Desire and Time," in The Rule and The Model: On the Theory of Architecture and Urbanism Cambridge: The MIT Press (ed. D. Bratton), pp.65-136; B. Baldwin (1990) “The Date, Identity, and Career of Vitruvius,” Latomus 49: 425-434. S. Ford Weiskittel, (1979) “Vitruvius and Domestic Architecture at Pompeii,” in Pompeii and the Vesuvian Landscape: Papers of a Symposium / sponsored by the Archaeological Institute of America, Washington Society, and the Smithsonian

30 More recently, however, classicists have begun to view Vitruvius through other lenses.28 Louis Callebat has carved a space wherein a rhetorical Vitruvius emerges.29 Alice Weeks has called for a literary and political review of Vitruvius’ text and agenda.30 Pierre Gros approaches Vitruvius’ text from an ideological point of view.31 And Mireille Courrent explores the ways in which Vitruvius uses the human body in both his technical and artistic expression.32 Such novel perspectives are necessary: to think of Vitruvius as merely an architect is to do him an injustice. For he reflects variously, and at length, on social structures (class [6.5], ethnicity [6.1], and gender [6.7]), on biological structures (of the body [3.1], and of the mind [6.1.9]),

Institution Washington, D.C.: The Institute, pp. 25-33; this article, despite its failure to assert anything with surety, is nevertheless a fairly representative example of how scholars take Vitruvius’ text, and see how it does or does not ‘fit’ with archaeological remains (often, those at Pompeii or Ostia). See also, M. Greenhalgh (1974) “Pliny, Vitruvius, and the Interpretation of Ancient Architecture,” Gazette des Beaux Arts 116: 297-304.

28 Foremost, and hot off the presses, among new scholarship on Vitruvius is Indra Kagis McEwan (2003) Vitruvius: Writing the Body of Architecture Cambridge: The MIT Press.

29 L. Callebat (1994) “Rhétorique et architecture dans le “De Architectura” de Vitruve,” in Le Projet de Vitruve: Objet, Destinaires et Réception du De Architectura Palais Farnèse: École Français de Rome, pp. 31-46. Callebat sets out to show elements of rhetoric in Vitruvius’ de architectura; he illustrates that Vitruvius’ technical architectural lanugauge reflects and parallels technical rhetorical language: “structures formelles, topoi, groupements numeriques, classifications….” Vitruvius, argues Callebat, uses familiar rhetorical language to bridge the conceptual gap between rhetoric and architecture. See also Callebat (1982) “La Prose du “De Architectura” de Vitruve,” ANRW 2.30.1: 696-722.

30 A. Weeks (2003) “Fighting for Space in Augustus’ City: Reading Contest and Conquest in Vitruvius’ De Architectura” paper delivered at APA 2003.

31 Gros, P. (1989) “L’auctoritas chez Vitruve. Contribution à l’étude de la sémantique des ordres dans le De Architectura,” in Munus non Ingratum: Proceedings of the International Symopsium on Vitruvius’ De Architectura and the Hellenistic and Republican Architecture (ed. H. Geertman and J.J. de Jong) Leiden, pp. 126-133; (1989b) “Les fondements philosophiques de l’harmonie architecturale selon Vitrvue,” JTLA 14: 13ff.; (1978) Architecture et Société à Rome et en Italie centro-méridionale aux deux derniers siècles de la République Bruxelles: Collection Latomus (vol. 156).

32 Courrent (1997) “Le corps humain, reference et modèle dans le De Architectura de Vitruve,” REA 99: 101-108.

31 on cosmological structures (9), and even perhaps on an ideological structuring of material (7). In so doing, Vitruvius yokes his project to a variety of other discourses.33

One discourse that pervades de architectura, as McEwan shows, is politics. In the preface to Book 1, Vitruvius dedicates the corpus of his work to Augustus.34 In so doing, Vitruvius inserts his work into broader contemporary architectural trends; in particular, Vitruvius ties his literary product to the vast physical construction and reconstruction programs that Augustus was heading. That is, Vitruvius’ text both implicitly and explicitly offers itself as a theory that supports Augustan practice more generally. There is then a certain political dimension to Vitruvius’ didacticism.

Vitruvius claims that he is sharing his knowledge with Augustus and all Romans so they might know about architectura. Accordingly, he describes the entire construction process of temples, basilicas, and other sorts of structures that Augustus himself was engaged in building and rebuilding. In other words, we are being taught how to understand, appreciate, and consume the fruits of the contemporary renovation of Rome and the bricks-and-mortar aspect of Augustus’ “Republic Restored.”

33 A particularly fruitful publication on new ways to read Vitruvius is Munus non Ingratum: Proceedings of the International Symposium on Vitruvius’ De Architectura and the Hellenistic and Republican Architecture (ed. H. Geertman and J.J. de Jong) Leiden, 1989. Articles within the book that are especially important to this chapter include those written by Geertman, Callebat, Gros, Coarelli, and (to a lesser extent) Hallier. Another thoughtful collection is Le Projet de Vitruve: Objet, Destinaires, et Réception du De Architectura Farnese: École Francaise de Rome (1994); scholars therein include Geertman, Callebat, Novara, and Romano. Worth noting is a remark made by F.E. Brown ((1963) “Vitruvius and the Liberal Art or Architecture,” Bucknell Review 11.4: 102ff.): “When and if the hard-bitten archaeologist girds himself to read “De Architectura” through, he may well be dismayed to discover that at best little more than half its pages have to do with architecture,” 102. As far back as the 1960s, scholars were hailing for a new perspective on Vitruvius; change seems to have been slow in the making.

34 On the use of corpus in de architectura, see McEwan, especially the introduction where she lays out the framework for her particular investigations of the body of, and bodies in, Vitruvius’ work.

32 And yet Vitruvius’ architectural survey was no more confined only to public space than Augustus’ legislation avoided domestic concerns. In fact after several books on founding cities and building public structures Vitrvuius turns his attention to private dwellings in Book 6. Vitruvius describes the construction process from finding the right site to laying the proper foundations to erecting an appropriate structure (6.1 – 6.5). When he finally comes to presenting a particular domus as a whole entity as opposed to summarizing its parts, Vitruvius chooses two specific house-types: a villa in the country (see 6.6), and a Greek house (see 6.7). Though not noted as such, this is a somewhat surprising move on Vitrvuius’ part: if he is dedicated to Augustus, his building program, and Roman imperium, then why does he fail to present an urban Roman home? And how, in turn, does the absence of such a presentation affect my own exploration of the Roman domus?

A simple explanation may be that Vitruvius’ audience knew already what urban Roman housing was like; the buildings were there, and so no site or tremendous construction process was needed. Alternatively, one may say that

Vitruvius demonstrates the breadth of his knowledge by describing both a villa and a

Greek home. (An awareness of things Greek was a sign of learning after all.) And yet these answers are too easy: Vitruvius elsewhere (Book 2) discusses the details of urban planning even though leveling a whole city and starting over is even more unlikely than tearing down an existing house. Moreover there are any number of

33 Hellenistic flourishes that Vitruvius omits. The salient point instead seems to be that

Vitruvius is presenting a theory of space qua theory. He is propagating himself as a knower of space and as a would-be “architect” of spaces more generally.

From a programmatic perspective, the reality of actual spaces (Roman or otherwise) is a secondary concern. Indeed, Vitrvuius’ descriptions of public spaces in the preceding books were every bit as abstract despite the omnipresent trappings of concreteness. Vitruvius is less interested in the real Roman domus than he is at pains to present a theory of the legitimate ordering of domestic space. On the one hand, we should notice the specifics of the few houses he actually chooses to describe. But on the other hand, it is the description itself, the method of description, and the ways in which that description is tied to other (social) structures, that seems even more important. Thus, we note for example that Vitruvius tours a Greek home with its gendered spaces while omitting a discussion of the contemporary Roman villa. The account of the former space at the expense of the latter brings out the gendered quality of the sociology of architecture even as it conceals the specific sexual politics of Roman houses. We observe, then, that certain exercises have been left for the reader.

My main interest, however, lies in what Vitrvuius specifically says, and the details of how he says it. The evaluation of any true or false congruence between text and real structures, urban or rural, Roman or Greek can take place only in the light of

34 this first and guiding concern. What interests me specifically are Vitruvius’ descriptions of the sociology of the home at 6.5.2 and 6.7, and his story of the home as a whole.

The purpose of this chapter is to discuss the ways in which Vitruvius presents the architecture of the domus. The first section explores the ways in which there is a sociology about the home: at 6.5.2, Vitruvius shows that men of differing social rank have different domestic spaces; and at 6.7, he portrays the different spaces that men, women, guests, and slaves occupy within the Greek home. In this way, architecture and social position are mutually reflective. Thus while the floor plan of an actual villa can be confusing and open to all sorts of interpretation and scholarly confusion today, the ideal house erected in the pages of Vitruvius specifically excludes such ambiguities. What is exceptional about Vitruvius’ presentation is that his language

(the design and arrangement of his text) performs this sociology: in 6.5.2, for instance, the practical home of the rustic is presented briefly in plain and unadorned language, while the opulence of the nobleman’s home is presented grandly in rich language. His words are well-designed, and constructed to present not only the matter of the home, but its sociology as well. Vitruvius does architecture—literary architecture—even as he writes on it.

The second section extends Vitruvius’ presentation of domestic space from the level of syntax to a more holistic vision of the home. Thus in addition to the social life of the home we find as well a story of the biology of the house. Once again, the actual details of real homes take second place to a more general theoretical claim

35 asserting the close ties between spaces and their inhabitants. Throughout Book 6,

Vitruvius describes the construction process of private dwellings, including considerations such as the climate, the terrain, appropriate proportions, room exposure, foundations, substructures, and so on. Threaded within his portrait is a home that closely resembles a human: it is born, it grows, and it develops socially.

The home, it may be argued, gains a life of its own. Vitruvius’ text again constructs a home that is more than mere matter: as Vitruvius builds the home, he concurrently depicts its biography.

The final section of this chapter considers the sociological and the biographical presentations synthetically. In each portrait, there is a sense of progress, a close relation between the home and the text-on-home, and a domus that has both physical and meta-physical qualities. It is clear that the home is a complex complex that cannot simply be confined to architectural analysis. Accordingly, the metaphysical aspects of the home will be further explored. It will become evident that there is a strong philosophical undercurrent to Vitruvius’ presentation of the home. In particular, there is a Stoic philosophy threaded throughout. Indeed Vitruvius’ text seems to be modeled on the Stoic system of structuring: there is a ‘logic’, a ‘physics’, and an ‘ethics’ about the Vitruvian home.

When Book 6 is read through a philosophical lens, the Books as a whole (its clear and more opaque aspects) becomes increasingly relevant. In fact, a philosophical reading unites the various parts of the book into a cohesive whole; at the same time, it accounts for the concurrency between the construction of the home

36 and the construction of text. This philosophical current also implicitly lends support to the sociological claims about architecture made throughout. But this remains, of course, a matter of innuendo and insinuation: the “truth” of philosophy in general bolsters the sense of the validity of Vitruvius’ specific sociological arguments.

Ultimately, though, it becomes apparent that Vitruvius’ project is not so much to present the architecture of the home, but to present his knowledge of architecture by means of the home. So it is, then, that as Vitruvius builds his text on home, he builds a case that what really matters is not the matter of the home, but that which is housed in the mind, namely knowledge. Vitruvius is the architect-king, and the domus is his means for so showing.

Constructing Sociology: 6.5.2, and 6.7

An analysis of two passages within Book 6 shows that Vitruvius does not simply describe the sociology of the home: he builds that sociology into his text-on- home. At 6.5.2 Vitruvius illustrates how a man’s public position is reflected by his domus; at 6.7, he shows that internal domestic relations determine the spaces used and occupied within the Greek home.

6.5.2

At 6.5.2, Vitruvius describes the appropriate homes for all, from the lowest of the low

(the rustici) to the highest of the high (the nobiles):

(1) Qui autem fructibus rusticis serviunt, in eorum vestibulis stabula, tabernae, in aedibus cryptae, horrea, apothecae ceteraque,

37 quae ad fructus servandos magis quam ad elegantiae decorem possunt esse, ita sunt facienda. (2) Item feneratoribus et publicanis commodiora et speciosiora et ab insidiis tuta, forensibus autem et disertis elegantiora et spatiosiora ad conventus excipiundos. (3) nobilibus vero, qui honores magistratusque gerundo praestare debent officia civibus, faciunda sunt vestibula regalia alta, atria et peristylia amplissima, silvae ambulationesque laxiores ad decorem maiestatis perfectae; praeterea bybliothecas, basilicas non dissimili modo quam publicorum operum magnificentia comparatas, quod in domibus eorum saepius et publica consilia et privata iudicia arbitriaque conficiuntur.

In sentence (1), Vitruvius claims that those who work the land must have unadorned and functional spaces; such spaces must be made for the purpose of preserving the produce, more so than for any ornamental beauty. In (2) he describes the spaces for two other classes of men. First, money-lenders and taxmen are to have rooms that are more pleasant, more handsome, and havens from assault. Second, the public advocates and men of learning are to have rooms that are more elegant and more spacious. The spaces for these middle class men are for the purpose of hosting gatherings.

In (3), Vitruvius presents the nobiles and their homes. These men engage in honors and magistracies, and they owe a certain responsibility to the people. Their homes, accordingly, must have lofty and regal entrances, very generous atria and

38 peristyles, woods and walkways that are more extended and that are perfected according to an elegance of grandeur. Beyond that, these nobiles are to have libraries and basilicas as splendid as the public ones, because in these men’s homes, public and private business is conducted.

Some scholars have pointed out that, within these prescriptions of space,

Vitruvius shows the close tie between space and social rank. Andrew Wallace-

Hadrill, for instance, has noted this relation, and has argued that it is the architect’s project not only to be aware of the hierarchical correlate between space and status, but also to produce it in his client’s real home.35 What must now be brought to light is that Vitruvius in fact builds this social structure right into the structure of his text on buildings. An analysis of the form of 6.5.2 evidences this.

Sentence (1) is interesting on its own for it introduces a comparative reading: with magis quam, Vitruvius implies that there is an internal tension between usus (ad fructos servandos) and decor (ad elegantiae decorem). Vitruvius’ presentation in (1) steers us towards a sense that this villa is mostly a place for labor: he focuses on functional rooms (staula…cryptae, horrea, apothecae ceteraque), not on those where the rich urbanite seeks some R&R from the chaos of the city (the sort of rooms that we read of in Pliny’s letter 2.17, for instance). At the same time, however, he does not limit our perspective to a purely earthy or practical one: by introducing the notion

35 A. Wallace-Hadrill (1994) Houses and Society in Pompeii and Herculaneum New Jersey: Princeton University Press, pp. 10-17. See also (1996) 104. Coarelli (1989) also tends to the sociological and ideological implications of architecture; he starts with 6.5.2 to talk about the sociology of actual spaces within actual homes. Meiggs ((1960) Roman Ostia Oxford: Clarendon Press) notes the tie between space and society, though not within a Vitruvian context; see Ch.12 (“On Houses”).

39 of decor, Vitruvius solicits a comparative perspective, and thereby prepares the reader for the next sentence, which take us up the next step of the social ladder. The internal tension of (1) becomes a general difference between (1) and (2), between rustici and the middle class.

Accordingly, it is through a comparative lens with the following sentences that (1) becomes more interesting, for a social and structural dynamic appears when sentences (1) and (2) are considered in tandem. There are several verbal and structural echoes of (1) in (2). Corresponding to fructibus rusticis serviunt in (1) are fenatoribus et publicanis, and forensibus…et disertis in (2). In addition, just as the rustici have certain types of rooms, so do these other men: corresponding to stabula (all the way to) cetera, are commodiora et speciosiora et…tuta, as well as elegantiora et spatiosiora. Furthermore, the directive in (1), that vestibula…ita sunt facienda, is echoed by faciunda sunt vestibula in (3). Finally, there are corresponding purpose clauses in each: ad fructos servandos in (1), and ad conventus excipiundos in (2).

These echoes enter the sentences into a dialogue that articulates spatial and social difference. The most immediate difference is one of class: from (1) to (2)

Vitruvius has moved up the social ladder. In addition, there is a corresponding difference in space: in (1) the rooms are plain and unadorned (there are no adjectives describing the crypts, granaries, and such), whereas the rooms in (2) are described only adjectivally, and the adjectives are mostly comparatives.36 These play a

36 Tuta alone is positive; we may be justified in considering this comparatively, though. The insertion of safety may imply a lack of safety in others’ homes, or it may suggest a need for safety that is not apparent for the others.

40 rhetorical role, signifying ‘more’, in the sense of ‘better’. The difference, indeed, seems to be one of quality not quantity: there are more rooms in, and more text afforded to, the villa rustici than the homes of the middle-class men. But the comparatives in (2) show that it is not the number of rooms that matters to the middle-class man so much as the quality. The refinement of rooms, and the bettered texted version show that the importance lies in style. Accordingly, the spaces for the men in (2) are more sophisticated both physically and ideologically; they are not bigger necessarily, but they are better.37

In addition, the purposes of the spaces articulate similarly hierarchical perceptions. The verbal echo in the purpose clause of (2) (ad conventus excipiundos) marks also the ‘better’ purpose of the ‘better’ men: where the rustici have no social interactions, the middle-class men need space precisely for such interactions. Usus again seems to conflict, and yet coincide with decor: for now we see that, despite the refinement (or perhaps because of it), there is a purpose (usus) to the middle-class homes, as ad conventus excipiundos demonstrates. In other words, these middling homes are not exempt from usus, but they have sublimated the cultivation of the land and transformed it into the fostering of socio-economic ties.38

37 It is worth noting here that Vitruvius is one of the middle class, the “eloquent” disertus, and so he again performs his own text by tastefully understating rather than belaboring his observation. Yet as refined as his presentation is, Vitrvuius nevertheless makes evident the humble, labor-intensive life of the rustici and the over-all superiority of the nobiles. For more on Vitruvius’ middling role, see below.

38 The faeneratores are appropriate middling men here, for they too lay things away like the rustics; in fact faenero comes from faenus “hay”. Yet they are also economically tied to the nobiles: the farmer gathers his herd, while the orator receives flocks of men (conventus) under his roof. In other words, as farmer is to faenerator, so is faenerator to nobilis.

41 Therefore, the verbal and structural echoes between (1) and (2) enter the sentences into a comparative dialogue. Each echo has a deeper, more social significance. In this way, via the medium of the domus, Vitruvius’ text reflects society in form and content. The reflection between form and content, and between life and text, becomes clear when sentence (3) is considered. This sentence moves through the space of the nobiles. Vitruvius moves up the social ladder, into the nobleman’s house, and into the rooms therein. In this respect, (3)’s structure reproduces that of the two preceding sentences. In (3), however, the rooms are both named and described; furthermore, they are described with adjectives of the positive, comparative, and superlative sort (alta, laxiores, amplissima). In this way, Vitruvius inscribes social ‘progress’ linguistically, structurally, and socially as he constructs and presents the various rooms described in 5.6.2.39

Sentence (3) confronts the reader with bigger, and better architectural spaces.

It also consumes a significantly larger portion of Vitruvius’ text: it is as long as sentences (1) and (2) combined. Detail, accordingly, corresponds to rank: the unadorned rooms of the rustic have little texted space, whereas the nobiles have adorned rooms and the most texted space. In this way, Vitruvius’ text builds up to the built up buildings of those sitting at the highest rank on the social scale.

39 For a linguistic and structural analysis of 6.1, see L. Bek (1976) “Antithesis: A Roman Attitude and its Changes as Reflected in the Concept of Architecture from Vitruvius to Pliny the Younger,” in Studia Romana in Honorem Petri Krarup septuagenarii (ed. K. Ascanni) Odense: Odense University Press, p.157; she also recognizes (but without detailed analysis) that 6.5 is steeped in social stratification, p. 158.

42 The function of space is also a factor, for inasmuch as space was determined according to the menial or social demands of the men in (1) and (2), so too is space for the nobleman dependent upon his social function. These high-class men need the best and most spaces because more often (than others, saepius), both public and private transactions go on there. Accordingly, function determines domus, domus reflects rank, and all is housed in, and reflected by, the text.40 Additionally, in (3) there is a verbal echo from (1): ad decorem maiestatis hearkens back to ad elegentiae decorem. So, just as the countryman is not concerned with elegance and ornamentation (like his sentence), so the nobleman is maximally concerned with decorum (like his sentence). In this way, the comparison between usus and decor in

(1) extends to, and includes, (3). Yet, the space of the nobiles is not without usus: the décor in their homes also serves a function. Thus, when in (2) importance was laid on the quality of the rooms rather than the quantity, in (3) we see that the nobles’ rooms are steeped in both quality and quantity: these men need many spaces for many functions, and they need elaborate, fine rooms for displaying their position during those functions. Vitruvius introduces function and fancy in order to distinguish them, but he ends up confounding that distinction.

40 Métraux (1999) discusses the Greek oikos and the Roman domus; he glosses over the big issues: architecture and tradition; house and society; relevance on the cultural and urban contexts; role of politics, and so on. He notes that most recently scholarship has developed an interest in (1) house as an expression of social status; and (2) internal trappings (from gardens to wall paintings and mosaics) as active agents in promoting and perpetuating that status (p.396). For other Classical scholarship on architecture and society, see Wallace-Hadrill (1998) 43-53; and (1988a) “The Social Structure of the Roman House,” PBSR: 43-97; see also Pierre Gros (1978).

43 A potential curiosity within this passage lies in the relative invisibility of the middleclass homes. The suggestion of ‘quality’ seems accurate, but it also seems insufficient when all three house-types are considered. The rustici have more rooms, albeit unadorned; the nobiles have quality and quantity. Those between the social scale’s ends become somewhat lost in the middle. Their invisibility bears uncanny resemblance to the invisibility of the urban Roman home in Vitruvius’ description of whole homes. In light of this, we may explain the eclipse of detail similarly. One might argue simply that people already knew what the typical, middle-class home was like. Vitruvius, accordingly, is only interested in telling us what we might not already know. Presentation of knowledge supersedes, or determines, Vitruvius’ selection of which rank of home to portray. But such an explanation remains inadequate. Who among his readers would never have been to the countryside? Who would never have visited the homes of the powerful either as client or occupant?

Of course, Vitruvius himself was a man of the middle class. It may seem more

(rather than less) curious then, that he should keep his own home-type uncovered. But the invisibility of the very space in which Vitruvius dwelt arguably emphasizes all the more what Vitruvius can, and does do with the homes of higher and lower ranked men. It is not, in other words, the physical space that he occupies that matters; it is his knowledge and presentation of all spaces that makes the middling Vitruvius visible, and that provides him with the (important, everlasting, and perhaps political) space that he may well actually be after. In a way, then, amidst the conflict and coincidence of usus and decor, Vitruvius simultaneously collapses the distinction between the

44 rustici and the nobiles even as he presents their differences. The lack of emphasis on the middle is important, but it is important precisely because the invisibility of the middle is a way to bring opposites together.

Beyond this explanation, though, it seems that Vitruvius is interested in not just the relationship between architectural elements and physical spaces but so too in propagating a vision of the structure of social relations more broadly, relations that are specifically arranged in their mutual relationship. Thus the portrait of these three sets of homes is then itself a sort of meta-structure housing under one roof the disparate elements of Roman society. Here the interlocking analogies rustic:middle::middle:noble allow the rustic and the noble to be set in relationship to one another even at the expense of offering a detailed vision of the middle. And yet eliding the middle produces a useful polarization of society in a manner that will return in the choice of the Greek house which is articulated as man versus woman rather than high versus low (below). Thus it is the role of the middle to both be there and to disappear. It is both better than and the same as the lowest class. The middle class is also worse than and the same as the nobles. Its role is thus to elaborate hierarchy per se without itself being specifically elaborated.

Ultimately, the language of 6.5.2 is well designed and well constructed.41 Its component sentences, arranged as they are, invite comparison even as they enact it.

41 The structure of this passage is hard to miss. Despite that, scholars have not noticed the art to Vitruvius’ language. For instance, see Clive Knights ((1994) “The Spatiality of the Roman Domestic Setting: An Interpretation of Symbolic Content,” in Architecture and Order: Approaches to Social Space London: Routledge, p.119): “A brief descriptive synopsis of the formal organization of the Pompeian house is necessary in order to introduce a familiarity upon which to locate succeeding discussion. Vitruvius provides such a description in a cold and detached manner which does little to

45 There is a rhetoric to the architecture of both the domus and the text.42 The rhetoric does not construct the differences between classes so much as it reflects them. Or, rather, the texts constructs a theory of difference that abstracts and promotes concrete differences in terms of a normative vision of society where structure mirrors function; everyone is in his place and there is a place for everyone. Both domus and text serve a mediary role, between public and private, between space and society, between lowest and highest, and between plain and descriptive. But domus and text are not only mediary: they also collapse opposing ends of the social and syntactic scales.

The logic of space within the text and the logic of the text itself are mirror images. Accordingly the same can be said about the architect as was said of the house. As the builder of both the home and the words-on-home, Vitruvius himself

convey the nature of spatiality and significance. Even the most cursory glance through a Pompeian ruin could persuade the most disinterested spectator that there seems to be a great deal Vitruvius is not telling us.” See also Morris Morgan who, in the preface to his translation of Vitruvius, writes, “The translation is intended, then, to be faithful and exact, but it deliberately avoids any attempt to treat the language of Vitruvius as though it were Ciceronian, or to give a false impression of conspicuous literary merit in a work which is destitute of that quality” ((1960) Vitruvius: The Ten Books On Architecture New York: Dover Publications Inc., p. v). See also, Choay (1997), p. 117: Vitruvius’ work is a collection of “random connections and sequences which sustain no relation to the chronology of the operation of building, [it] is a discontinuous collections of parts.” See also p. 121: "if [Vitruvius’] attempt at synthesis fails with his postulation of an order and a logic that are in fact lacking, that is because his epoch did not provide the conceptual means which would have allowed him to realize-much less to define-his project as such." This latter sentiment provides little consolation. See L. Bek (1976, especially p. 156) as well. Other scholars have analyzed Vitruvius’ language, but in more analytic ways; see Ruffel (1964) “Mots grecs dans Vitruve,” in Hommages à J. Bayet (ed. J. Renard and R. Schilling) Bruxelles: Collection Latomus, pp.627-639; Callebat (1994), (1982), and (1974) “Le vocabulaire de l’hyrolique dans le livre VIII du “De Architectura” de Vitruve,” RPh 11.8: 313-329; Mortet (1908) “Remarques sur la langue de Vitruve,” RPh 32: 194-209.

42 Barry Baldwin puts it nicely: “Vitruvius was an architect with words” ((1989) “The Non- Architectural Side of Vitruvius,” Prudentia 21.2: 4-12), 11.

46 mediates between, and conjoins, all factors.43 Of course, even though he is a middle man, he is also a middle-man. This role requires him to give way to his superiors even as it enables him to see both sides of the social equation. That is, the middle is omnipresent but nowhere explicit. It both does and, more importantly, does not get lost between the lowest and the highest. His knowledge of the lowest and the highest gives him a privileged position; his text assures that visible place. Thus even as this text is offered to the emperor, the dedicatee is no more forgotten and eclipsed by the recipient than Augustus’ own name disappears from the Temple of Mars Ultor when it is offered to the god.

6.7

In 6.5.2 Vitruvius uses architectural features as well as language to present differences of social rank; in a way, his language guides readers through the various social strata by both polarizing and yet uniting the lowest and the highest on the scale.

In 6.7, Vitruvius again takes his reader on a tour of a house, but this time Vitruvius is not only on the lookout for social rank: differences of gender are forefront here. In

6.7, Vitruvius’ chooses the Greek house as his model. Vitruvius again uses space

(architectural features) as well as language to present the distinctions of male and female even as he unites those differences. In this regard, despite the different foci of

6.5.2 and 6.7, both tours (as it were) build upon and expand one another.

43 Thus it is entirely appropriate, and surely by design, that Vitruvius inserts the disertus –the very class to which he belongs—amongst other middling professionals in the middle sentence, sentence (2).

47 In 6.7 Vitruvius tours the Greek domus.44 6.7.1 is a texted and a spatial introduction: Vitruvius writes about, and in so doing takes his readers through, the front door, along the thyroreion (entrance hallway), through another door, and into the first peristyle. Once inside, Vitruvius describes the rooms where the women do their spinning, and where the slaves dwell:

In his locis introrsus constituuntur oeci magni, in quibus matres familiarum cum lanificis habent sessionem…. Circum autem in porticibus triclinia cotidiana, cubicula, etiam cellae familiaricae constituuntur. Haec pars aedificii gynaeconitis appellatur (6.7.2).

Vitruvius emphasizes the interiority of this space with in his locis intorsus: womanly space is (inscribed) inside the inside, as it were. The interiority is further internalized by circum: womanly space is not only interior, but enclosed and confined within.

Notably, women’s space is surrounded by the slaves’ quarters. Both are collected under the terminological umbrella of ‘gynaeconitis’. Gendered and socially hierarchized threads are woven, simultaneously, into the fabric of the domus, and into the text. Women sit at their looms, dwelling inside; slaves circulate around and about this space. The socially marginalized are included, even secluded together within space and text.

44 Joachim Raeder ((1988) “Vitruve, de architectura VI 7 (aedificia Graecorum) und die hellenistische Wohnhaus- und Palastarchitektur,” in Gymnasium 95: 316-368) has written about Vitruvius’ Greek house. Raeder reconstructs the home based on Vitruvius’ description, explores similarities and differences between that reconstruction and real Greek homes, then tends to the meaning and function of the real home (to see how it coheres with Vitruvius’ version).

48 Vitruvius next moves out of the gynaeconitis into a different space: the andronitides.

Coniunguntur autem his domus ampliores habentes lautiora peristylia, in quibus pares sunt quattuor porticus altitudinibus, aut una, quae ad meridiem spectat, excelsioribus columnis constituitur (6.7.3).

These spaces are more spacious (ampliores), and more stately (lautiora); in addition, they have columned porticoes. As with 6.5.2, the comparatives demarcate spatial and social difference: compared to the women’s quarters, these rooms are bigger and better. The contrast between the spaces is further accentuated because they are placed next to one another: on the one hand, the text marries these rooms with coniunguntur, but in so doing, it emphasizes their difference. Indeed, in contrast to his brief description of the gynaeconitis, Vitruvius provides detail about these better rooms:

Id autem peristylum, quod unam altiorem habet porticum, Rhodiacum dicitur. Habent autem eae domus vestibula egregia et ianuas proprias cum dignitate porticusque peristyliorum albariis et tectoriis et ex intestino opere lacunariis ornatas, et in porticibus, quae ad septentrionem spectant, triclinia cyzicena et pinacothecas, ad orientem autem bybliothecas, exhedras ad occidentem, ad meridiem vero spectantes oecos quadrata ostia ampla magnitudine, uti faciliter in eo quattuor tricliniis stratis ministrationum iudorumque operis locus possit esse spatiosus (6.7.3).

The tropes are familiar from the discussion of the three classes of houses above. This neighboring space is not only more spacious and stately, it is also steeped (both textually and structurally) in a certain showiness and style that now seem conspicuously absent in the gynaeconitis.

Ironically showiness is frequently aligned with effeminacy in Roman thought.

But Vitruvius is using the Greek house to construct an ethic of legitimate masculine display. This display is specifically a show of station, taste, and erudition. There are

49 outstanding rooms (egregia vestibula), doors unique in grandeur (ianuas proprias cum dignitate), decorated colonnades, Cyzicene dining-rooms, painting-galleries, libraries, exedrae, and very spacious social rooms. The detail, and the kind of detail stand out when compared with the preceding womanly, slavish peristyle.45

The point was just made that inasmuch as coniunguntur unites the rooms, it simultaneously ensures their distinction. The word is appropriate as an architectural term; it may gain momentum when Vitruvius next reveals that the space married to the women’s quarters is precisely the men’s quarters:

In his oecis fiunt virilia convivia; non enim fuerat institutum matris familiarum eorum moribus accumbere. Haec autem peristylia domus andronitides dicuntur, quod in his viri sine interpellationibus mulierum versantur (6.7.4).

These more spacious, more sumptuous, more detailed spaces are where manly meetings occur (virilia convivia). These are the andronitides, married to, yet distinct from, the gynaeconitis. Built into the Greek social system, and built into Vitruvius’ text, women did not take their place at these tables (on these recliners). Indeed, these areas were called andronitides precisely because it was here that men interacted without their women interrupting them (sine interpellationibus mulierum). Greek domestic space is gendered. Vitruvius’ text enacts this, as he allocates women and men separate, yet conjoined spaces. Their spaces are separate in terms of practice

(activities inside), but they are conjoined in terms of the social ties that bind, in terms

45 On the ornatmentation in Greek houses, and the Roman reaction to that, see Sara Yerkes (2000) “Vitruvius’ monstra,” JRA 13: 234-251.

50 of the material walls that bind, and in terms of the text that does too.46 As with 6.5.2,

Vitruvius draws the form and content of his text into a dynamic via the medium of the home.47

Greek domestic space is not only gendered: it is socially hierarchized as well.

For, housed within the gynaeconitis are the slaves’ quarters. By contrast, within the andronitides, guests are housed:

Praeterea dextra ac sinistra domunculae constituuntur habentes proprias ianuas, triclinia et cubicula commoda, uti hospites advenientes non in peristylia sed in ea hospitalia recipiantur. Nam cum fuerunt Graeci delicatiores et fortuna opulentiores, hospitibus advenientibus instruebant triclinia, cubicula, cum penu cellas…. Ita patres familiarum in hospitio non videbantur esse peregre, habentes secretam in his hospitalibus liberalitatem (6.7.4).

The andronitides, then, are hospitable spaces, in contact with the outside world.

Indeed, the men’s quarters provide a home-away-from-home, even as they are a home-within-a-home. Yet, the home-within-a-home is distinct from the inner space where women dwell. For the gynaeconitis houses slaves as well as women, while the andronitides houses guests as well as men. Thus, domestic space simultaneously enacts and reflects gender as well as social roles.48 Vitruvius structures his text to enact the same relations.

46 On separate quarters according to gender, see L. Nevett (1994) “Separation or Seclusion? Towards an Archaeological Approach to Investigating Women in the Greek Household in the Fifth to Third Centuries,” in Architecture and Order: Approaches to Social Space London: Routledge, pp. 98-112. For Roman families and their space, see R.P. Saller (1994) Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (especially chapter 4: Familia and domus: defining and representing the Roman family and household, pp. 74-101).

47 And this is an especially potent dynamism: the dunamis of the men is reflected by their space: more luxurious, and more room for otium.

51 In both 6.5.2 and 6.7 Vitruvius describes different social aspects of domestic space. In one instance, public rank affects the type of home one owns; in the second, private relations determine who uses what spaces.49 In each portrait, Vitruvius does more than describe the architecture of the home: he transcribes that architecture

(replete with social differences) into his text. In this sense he performs the very architecture that he is describing.

Constructing Biography

From an analysis of form and content, the second section of this chapter provides a more holistic vision of the Vitruvian home, from its origin, through the construction process, to the final product. Above I have argued that Vitruvius aligns form and content within the home. The lives to be lived and the places in which they are lived are fundamentally related. Thus one can speak of a sort of “sociology of the house” and an “architecture of gender”. But this conflation of the biological and the architectural has further dimensions. Specifically the very notion of home itself has a

48 Saller (1984) articulates the ties between domus and status, domus and sentiment, domus and public life, domus and dominus. He fails to delve into the implications of all this; his project seems to be simply to document how and when domus means what. For further reading on architecture and gender, see A. Bergren ((1992) “Architecture Gender Philosophy,” in Innovations of Antiquity (ed. R. Hexter and D. Selden) London: Routledge, pp. 253-310).

49 It is worth noting that Vitruvius does not sample a lot of homes. The Greek home stands out all the more: does Vitruvius plan to promote the Greek style, where social and sexual distinctions are made? Does he want Romans to consider adopting this arrangement of domestic space? This intriguingly exclusive portrait cannot be explored within the current project, but it merits more study.

52 biography, a birth, a body, and a social development. Indeed the biological metaphor is applied even to the elements of the house such that the house is understood in specifically anatomical terms.

Life for the home begins in Book 2 (2.1.1-7). At 2.1.1 Vitruvius describes:

Interea quondam in loco ab tempestatibus et ventis densae crecitatibus arbores agitatae et inter se terentes ramos ignem excitaverunt, et…qui circa eum locum fuerunt, sunt fugati. Postea re quieta proprius accedentes cum animadvertissent commoditatem esse magnam corporibus ad ignis teporem… (2.1.1).

Vitruvius is not the first to describe an origin to social life in this way. Extant fragments from Greek Stoic writers, for instance, present similar beginnings.50 Indeed the coincidence of Vitruvius’ portrait and that of the Stoics is important, and will be addressed below. Meantime, Vitruvius’ inclusion of this origin, and the language he uses are worth investigation. First, there is a tempestuous storm, there are trees rubbing up together (inter se terentes), and sparks are flying. After the storm, as the smoke is still smoldering, people swarm to the warm, safe space of the fire. The image of the warm, hearthy fire seems similar to a womb, a place of comfort, warmth, and safety. In this way, then, the sky has impregnated the earth.51 If this is so, readers await some sort of birth. Vitruvius indeed delivers the effects of this earth-sky union:

50 See Diogenes Laertius (44B; Aetius (46A); Aristocles, in Eusebius 46G); Nemesius (47J); Galen (47H). See H. von Arnim (1903-1905) Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta Lipsiae: Teubner

51 See also 8.praef.1: Vitruvius refers to Euripides explaining how the earth was impregnated by the rains of heaven and, thus conceiving, brought forth the young of mankind and all of the living creatures in the world. Whatever is sprung from her goes back to her again. See also Aristocles, in Baltzly (2000) 3: “The designing fire of the conflagration is likened to a sperm which contains the principles or stories of all the things which will subsequently develop.” The likeness to sperm is present in Vitruvius’ account, but it is not an exact reflection: these men flee, reunite, prolong the fire, mumble into language, and then build homes. The similarities and differences need further thought; so

53 In eo hominum congressu cum profundebantur aliter e spiritu voces, cotidiana consuetudine vocabula, ut optigerant, constituerunt, deinde significando res saepius in usu ex eventu fari fortuito coeperunt et ita sermones inter se procreaverunt. Ergo cum propter ignis inventionem conventus initio apud homines et concilium et convictus esset natus, et in unum locum plures convenirent habentes ab natura praemium praeter reliqua animalia, ut non proni sed erecti ambularent mundique et astrorum magnificentiam aspicerent, item manibus et articulis quam vellent rem faciliter tractarent, coeperunt in eo coetu alii de fronde facere tecta, alii speluncas fodere sub montibus, nonnulli hirundinum nidos et aedificationes earum imitantes de luto et virgulis facere loca quae subirent.

Custom, language, social interaction, and the home are born.52 Vitruvius provides an order of things. It is important to note now, because I will revisit below, the place of language within this order: it precedes the home, and in a way it mediates between nature and structure. For now, the focus remains on the home.

After its birth in nature, the home next appears at 6.1.1, where Vitruvius describes the role of the climate in the design of the domus:

[Ratiocinationes et commensus symmetriarum] autem ita erunt recte disposita, si primo aniamadversum fuerit, quibus regionibus aut quibus inclinationibus mundi constituantur (6.1.1).

The construction of the home is a cosmic matter, constructed in direct relation to the arrangement of the skies above and the earth below.53 This makes sense, since the domus is itself the product of the earth-sky union. Home, then, is not just born from

does the important placement of language within this ordering of origins (especially since Chapter 5 will show that Cicero presents a different order).

52 Heidegger ((1997a) “Building, Dwelling, Thinking,” in Rethinking Architecture (ed. N. Leach) London: Routledge, pp. 100-108) notes the concurrence of beginnings, vis-à-vis social life, buildings, being, dwelling. For more on Heidegger, see Chapter 3.

53 On the relation between cosmos, human bodies, and architecture, see Maiorino (1992) "The Vitruvian Man: At the Navel of Life's Compass,” in Leonardo da Vinci: The Daedalian Mythmaker Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University, ch.8.

54 the earth and sky: it takes its shape them as well. In this regard, the home again bears a close resemblance to humans, who also take their appearance from their parents.54

If Vitruvius is indeed structuring the home like a human, the domus should start growing into its own being. It does: at 6.1.3, Vitruvius starts shaping his domestic matter. First, however, he talks about human bodies taking their shape according to their topographical and climatic environments: global positioning and climate directly effect the pitch of a person's voice (6.1.5ff.), the strength of his limbs

(6.1.3), and the coloring of his complexion (6.1.4). Vitruvius next says that houses are like people because they too take their shape from their surrounding landscapes:

Quodsi ita est, uti dissimiles regiones ab inclinationibus caeli variis generibus sint comparatae, ut etiam naturae gentium disparibus animis et corporum figuris qualitatibusque nascerentur, non dubitemus aedificiorum quoque rationes ad nationum gentiumque proprietates apte distribuere… (6.1.12).

Vitruvius explicitly draws home and humans into a parallel relationship. As he does so, he implies that houses are also imbued with corporum figurae qualitatesque.55

At 6.3, Vitruvius turns to the various parts of the home—the rooms.56 These spaces interact, and are proportioned according to the other spaces within the body of

54 Anne Bergren (1992) discusses the cosmic mixings of architectural creation in her critique of Derrida, and the “choral works” which he worked on with Eisenman.

55 At 6.1.1, Vitruvius has already noted that homes take their shape according to topography and the climate. He does not need to restate this at 6.1.3; the point of including the home at 6.1.3, then, is not to repeat himself, but to associate homes with people. Vitruvius parallels bodies with buildings at 1.2.4, and 3.1. Courrent’s (1997) investigation of Vitruvius’ use of the human body is especially fruitful; of the image of the body, she writes “…en propose vise à replacer l’architecture dans l’expression d’une harmonie universelle, mais également à la presenter comme le facteur d’une relation nouvelle entre l’homme et le monde” (101).

56 For further reading on the relation between the parts and the whole, see McEwan. McEwan lays emphasis on the overarching role of ratio, or the divina mens: it unites and indeed structures whole

55 the home. For instance, the fauces must be either one half or two thirds the width of the tablinum (6.3.6); the alae should have a width equal to one fifth to one third the length of the atrium (6.3.4); and the tablinum should be one half to two thirds the width of the atrium (6.3.5).57 Vitruvius institutes a dynamism between the all parts. At the same time, he continues the correspondence between bodies and buildings: for bodies too entail parts (limbs) that interact.58

Vitruvius brings the parts of the home back together again at 6.5. As he does so he brings further complexity and order to the domus, for he now turns from the physical to the social structure of the home. Having distinguished private from public domestic spaces, he says: …igitur, qui communi sunt fortuna, non necessaria magnifica vestibula nec tablina neque atria, quod in aliis officia praestant ambiundo neque ab aliis ambiuntur (6.5.1). Men of everyday fortune have no need for magnificent entrance-ways, nor for tablina, nor for atria, because these men tend to their business by visiting others’ homes rather than by being visited by others. When

Vitruvius talks about average men (qui communi sunt fortuna), he introduces a social

entities as well as the parts of those entities. Given the philosophical undertones of the whole corpus, the role of ratio is an important one. For more on the divina mens, known also as logos to the Stoics, see the last section of this chapter.

57 See 6.3.3-11 for more examples.

58 Again, see and 1.2.4, and 3.1

56 structure to the home: plain homes are for (they ‘reflect’) average people, and fancy homes are for the socially elite.59 Vitruvius draws social status and domestic space into a dynamic, and mutually reflective relationship.60

This, then, is the holistic vision of the house: born out of a stormy night between the earth and the sky, it takes its shape from both. Its shape becomes a body, which resembles, and is articulated by means of, the human body: as a human body has parts, so does the domus. As the parts of the body interact with each other into one eurhythmic whole, so do the parts of the domus. The similarity between human and domestic bodies extends from the physical to the behavioral: for the home also becomes socially structured as it develops. The home is no longer just a concrete structure. Thus, from babe, to body, to body with identifiable parts, to socially interactive member, the domus is ever developing, and gaining complexity. As

Vitruvius constructs the home, he is actually writing its biography.61

The Architect-King

The final section of this chapter will consider the sociological and the biographical presentations synthetically. Despite the narrow focus of 6.5.2 and the contrastingly broad scope of the life of the home, there are several similarities

59 Thus, Vitruvius’ prescriptions of appropriate proportions between spaces within the home (supra) apply only to the elite. Only the elite can have harmonious homes.

60 A social hierarchy about the home was already noted in 6.5.2 and at 6.7.

61 In addition, once the home has been constructed, Vitruvius refers to preserving it into old age: see 6.7.7; 6.8.1; 6.8.9; and 6.8.10. On the preservation or longevity of construction, see Gros (1978) 42, n. 210.

57 between the two versions of the domus.62 In each description, Vitruvius structures his presentation with a ‘forward’ flow. In 6.5.2 his depiction proceeds from the practical, rustic home in nature to the grand, noble home in the city. In the biographical description, Vitruvius’ prose advances from the home’s birth in nature to its socialization in culture. There arises from each portrait a unified sense of progress: from country to city, utilitarian to ornamental, and from nature to culture. The flow from nature to culture is the tie that Vitruvius uses to bind form to content.

Second, in each passage, nature plays an integral part.63 At 6.5.2 the text begins with a presentation of rustici, men whose livelihood depends on nature. These country-men have functional, natural spaces; they interact with nature both in and outside of the home. In addition, it is their involvement with nature –their produce—that ties them (economically and socially) to the nobiles.64 In the life’s biography, nature also figures: elements in nature (the climate and local topographical landscape) create and shape the home, from its birth through its physical development.

62 I am using 6.5.2 rather than 6.7 in this synthetic analysis. There is no special reason determining which passage to use, since the similarities apply also to 6.7 (see footnote 66 below). To unite three passages would render this section unnecessarily chaotic.

63 Derrida ((1997b) “Point de Folie—maintenant l’architecture,” in Rethinking Architecture (ed. N. Leach) London: Routledge, pp.324-335) discusses the “architecture of architecture” which has a (constructed) history. This applies to Vitruvius, especially since Vitruvius’ history of architecture—constructed within his own architecture of architecture—pits architecture precisely as natural. The scope of this chapter prevents further exploration; exploration is merited though.

64 Though there is both usus and decor in both the rustic villa and the Greek home, there is still a preponderance of weight given to usus in the villa, and decor in the Greek house. Thus, even if the villa is one that belongs to a wealthy Roman urbanite, the rooms described are of work, not leisure. Hence, a sense of ‘progress’ from work to luxury.

58 Third, the sociological and biographical passages are both comprised of parts that relate to the whole. In the former, Vitruvius presents several parts of the social world. The rustici, money-lenders, tax-farmers, public advocates, speakers, and the nobiles are separate classes within the social framework, and those who together make up the broad category of ‘society’. In addition, each man has a home that is itself divided into parts. The nobiles, most notably, have entrance-ways, atria, peristyles, libraries, basilicas, and so on. These parts interrelate and constitute his large domus. The relation of parts to the whole has already been noted in the home’s biography: the rooms in a house, like the limbs of a body, have separate functions, but they interrelate and fit together into a cohesive and whole home. In addition, the cosmos is itself made up of parts –the earth, the sky, and their creation—that cohere harmoniously within the larger cosmic system.65

Furthermore, in each section there is a concurrency between the construction of the home and the construction of the text-on-home.66 Throughout Book 6,

65 Callebat (1994) discusses balance, and correct proportions in Vitruvius. Regarding elements in Book 1 especially, Callebat argues that Vitruvius’ taxonomic systems leave the reader without a doubt as to architecture’s parallels to rhetoric: “situé par reference à la terminologie rhetorique, le vocabulaire vitruvien de la théorisation architecturale constitué un ensemble pour l’essentiel coherenet, marque sans doute par la complaisance taxonomique de l’auteur.” The parallel does not match up exactly; Callebat lists the terminology (q.v., p. 45).

66 These five points of similarity apply also to 6.7. (1) There is forward flow: from the private seclusion of the women and slaves to the public inclusion of men and guests. (2) Nature plays a role: the Greek house in 6.7 is the cultured space that follows (from) the natural and rustic Roman farm (in 6.6). (3) There are parts that relate to the whole: women’s space is married to men’s space. (4) There is a metaphysical aspect: the social and gendered hierarchy bespeaks something beyond mere physicality. (5) The construction of text-on-home mirrors the construction of home. For a thoughtful analysis of the Roman villa rustica and the Greek urban home (as they are justaposed in Vitruvius), see Wallace- Hadrill (1998) p.47ff. See also N. Purcell, (1994) “The Roman villa and the landscapes of production,” in Urban Society in Roman Italy (ed. T. Cornell and K. Lomas) New York: St. Martin’s Press, pp. 151- 180.

59 Vitruvius rhetorically and effectively constructs a domus that closely resembles real life, in form and function. At the same time, he builds a text on the domus that, in turn, resembles both the ‘real’ home and the more social aspects of domestic life. In this way, domus reflects human life, and text reflects the home’s life: it originates from somewhere (from a paternal authority), takes shape, and becomes increasingly complex. It is structured; its parts relate to the whole. It is imbued with social meaning. Thus, inasmuch as the real home mediates between public and private, and inasmuch as it houses and negotiates between space and society, so too does

Vitruvius’ text. Language is used to mobilize, and mediate between, various aspects of domestic life.

Language was, I noted earlier, a product of the earth/sky union; indeed, language enabled tecta. Thus, it is true for Vitruvius’ portraits, that language is a precursor, and necessary prerequisite for both the home, and the text on home.

Through language, Vitrvuius reveals that he is writing for both Augustus and himself

(for his own space in the literary world). Through language, Vitruvius shows a careful and deliberate order of words, and an equally careful choice of words. In each passage (6.5.2 and 6.7), the construction and role of language is key.67 Language itself plays the role of medium and mediator. It illuminates even as it disappears. It recalls, then, nothing so much as Vitruvius himself as architect and middle-man.

67 Language is mediary. Like the middle-class man in Vitruvius’ presentation, language runs the risk of becoming lost in the midst of literal reading and reconstructive conjecture. Language, like Vitruvius, is an important mediary.

60 However the specific role of language, order, and the home in Vitrvuius is the product of his engagement with Stoic philosophy. Indeed, when these passages are analyzed, it is readily apparent that the home signifies something beyond mere physical matter. Indeed, the home has meta-physical qualities in each depiction. In

6.5.2 and 6.7, the home is imbued with a sociology: Vitruvius structures his text such that it reflects the hierarchical differences, between classes and between the genders, of the home. The home both presents and perpetuates social difference.68 Similarly, throughout Book 6, Vitruvius’ description of the home narrates more than its material construction: the home, it was noted, assumes a life of its own. Thus, the physical story of the home extends beyond matter, to life itself.

This synthetic consideration brings to light the metaphysics of Vitruvius’ text.

In fact, when the similarities between the social and biographical portraits are considered in tandem, a strong philosophical undercurrent emerges. Even though

Vitruvius has not generally been studied as a philosopher, the philosophical threads, woven throughout his text, merit exploration.69 In fact the sociology of space that I have been arguing for can here be reconceived as an “ethics of space” within the technical discourse of Stocism.

These philosophical threads are particular features of Stoic philosophy. Stoic philosophy is centrally concerned with progress, with the role of nature, with the

68 See Saller (1984).

69 Scranton notices the philosophical (and semantic) elements in Vitruvius; see R.L. Scranton (1974) “Vitruvius’ Art of Architecture,” Hesperia 43: 494-499.

61 relation between the whole and its parts, and with literary presentation. Vitruvius’

Stoic inclinations, however, are not arbitrarily inserted into Book 6. Rather, the whole of Book 6 seems to be modeled on the Stoic system of structuring. While a detailed description of Stoic structuring exceeds the scope of this chapter, a simple outline will be demonstrably helpful for understanding Vitruvius’ own system of structure.70

Briefly, Stoic philosophers believed that the universe was comprised of three parts: logos, pneuma, and tonos.71 All systems within the universe were built upon an analogous triadic system. The three parts of the material world were logic, ethics, and physics. ‘Logic’ is bipartite. It is logos in the broadest sense: divine and absolute reason. And it is logos in the narrowest sense: syntactic and verbal reason. ‘Ethics’ is the ‘matter’ within the system; but it is matter that is always tied to nature. It is the matter through which man can live in harmony with nature, and achieve smooth flow through life.72 ‘Physics’ is that which holds everything together; it is the “sustaining

70 For more information and application of Stoic structuring in this work, see Chapter 5.

71 For general introductory and background information on Stoicism and the triadic system of structure, see K. Algra (1995) Concepts of Space in Greek Thought Leiden: E.J. Brill (especially chapter 6: Place, Space and Void in Stoic Thought, pp. 261-335); D. Baltzly (2000); W.M. Blundell (1990) “Parental Nature and Stoic oikeiosis,” Ancient Philosophy 10: 201-242; M. Colish (1985) The Stoic Traditions from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages: I. Stoicism in Classical Latin Literature Leiden: E.J. Brill; T. Engberg-Pederson (1990) The Stoic Theory of Oikeiosis: Moral Development and Social Interpretation in Early Stoic Philosophy Denmark: Aarhus University Press; M. Ierodiakonou (1999) “The Study of Stoicism: Its Decline and Revival,” in Topics in Stoic Philosophy (ed. K. Ierodiakonou) Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 1-22; A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley (1987) The Hellenistic Philosophers, 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; C. Natali (1995) “Oikonomia in Hellenistic Political Thought,” in Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium Hellenisticum (ed. A. Laks and M. Schofield) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 95-128; P. Roots “Is Stoicism Internally Consistent?”; S. Sambursky (1959) Physics of the Stoics London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; F.H. Sandbach (1994) The Stoics London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd.

72 This is rather abstract. The ‘ethics’ of Stoic materialist philosophy is hard to pinpoint; but Diogenes Laertius’ metaphor (see below) is illuminating.

62 cause” that pervades the system, and in so doing unites all three parts within that system.73 Diogenes Laertius explained the Stoic system through a series of metaphors:

Philosophy, they say, is like an animal: Logic corresponding to the bones and sinews, Ethics to the fleshy parts, Physics to the soul. Another simile they use is that of an egg: the shell is Logic, next comes the white, Ethics, and the yolk in the centre is the Physics. Or again, they liken philosophy to a fertile field: Logic being the encircling fence, Ethics the crop, Physics the soil or the trees. Or again, to a city strongly walled and governed by reason.74

Vitruvius builds this Stoic materialist structure into Book 6; there is a logic, an ethics, and a physics to the text. In terms of ‘logic’, Vitruvius includes both the broad and the narrow aspects. The logike, or overarching reason, is apparent in Vitruvius’ project and in the language he uses to describe that project. At 6.praef.7, having noted that people untrained in architecture nevertheless practice the art, he writes:

Quas ob res corpus architecturae rationesque eius putavi diligentissime conscribendas, opinans in munus omnibus gentibus non ingratum futurum. Igitur, quoniam in quinto de opportunitate communium operum perscripsi, in hoc volumine privatorum aedificiorum ratiocinationes et commensus symmetriarum explicabo.

The overarching logic of ratio has guided Vitruvius to reason that he must share his knowledge with the world. The language within his reasoning is itself part of the logos: words such as rationes, diligentissime, ratiocinationes, and symmetriarum

73 See Baltzly (2000) p.4-6 (logic), p.8-9 (ethics, and living in and with nature), p.2-4 (physics).

74 Diog Laert. 7.40 For a general but helpful overview, see Peter Roots, whose translation this is. These metaphors are rich indeed, despite their simplicity. That they pertain to nature is not unimportant. Further investigation of the role and type of metaphor would benefit, but is not necessary within this analysis.

63 reveal the order and balance of Vitruvius’ project (and mind). In addition, the words and sentiments are themselves arranged with order and balance:75

in the 5th book he wrote about the arrangement of public [buildings]; in this book he will explain the theoretical principles and symmetrical proportions of private buildings.

Ratio is Vitruvius’ logike: it determines that he writes, and it determines how he writes. Governed by ratio, the language in the preface sets 6.1 into motion. It also draws 6.1 to a close. Having described various extreme conditions (of climate, topography, bodily strength, mental strength, and more) around the world, Vitruvius turns to the temperateness of Italy:

Namque temperatissime ad utramque partem et corporum membris animorumque vigoribus pro fortitudine sunt in Italia gentes. Quemadmodum enim Iovis stella inter Martis ferventissimam et Saturni frigidissimam media currens temperatur, eadem ratione Italia inter septentrionalem meridianamque ab utraque parte mixtionibus temperatas et invictas habet laudes. Itaque consiliis refringit barbarorum virtutes, forti manu meridianorum cogitationes. Ita divina mens civitatem populi Romani egregiam temperatamque regionum conlocavit, uti orbis terrarum imperii potiretur (6.1.11).

The socio-biology of the Hippocratic Airs, Waters, and Places here meets up with

Stoic rationalism in order to fuse a narrative of place with one of mind. Most moderate in terms of mental and physical strength are the Italians. Just as Jupiter’s

75 On order, and terms of order, in Vitruvius, see Pavlos Lefas (2000) “On the Fundamental Terms of Vitruvius’ Architectural Theory,” BICS 44: 179-195. There are numerous articles interpreting the terminology Vitruvius uses to describe architectural theory; Lefas’ footnotes provide a rich bibliography of the most salient scholarship on the matter. See Scranton (1974) as well; and Gros (1989b), who alludes to some Stoic elements to Vitruvius’ language (p.189).

64 star moderates between hottest Mars and coldest Saturn, by that same ratio, Italy

–lying between, but also comprised of, both extremes—has a temperate and unbeatable climate. Accordingly, it is the divine mind (i.e. logos in the broadest sense) that sets the Romans in this outstanding and moderate place.

The words and their arrangement perform Rome’s middling position: there is balance and moderation threaded throughout both the form and the content. The logos of language, therefore, is tied explicitly to the logos of absolute reason (divina mens).

Moderation and mediation are key. Thus, inasmuch as Jupiter mediates, and inasmuch as Italy mediates, so too does Vitruvius mediate between form and content, and between logike and logoi.

In addition to the overarching logike, and to an explicit recognition of the tie between the two types of logic, Vitruvius attends to logos in its narrowest, verbal sense. In 6.7, as he tours the Greek home, he names the various spaces:

The space between the two front doors is called ‘thyroron’ in Greek: hic autem locus inter duas ianuas graece thyroron appellatur (6.7.1).

The recess between the two antae at one end of the peristyle is called the prostas by some, but the pastas by others: hic locus apud nonnullos prostas, apud alios pastas nominatur (6.7.1).

The women’s quarters are called the gynaeconitis: haec pars aedificii gynaeconitis appellatur (6.7.2).76

Between the two peristyles and the guests’ suites are passage ways, called mesauloe, because they are mid-way between two courts; Romans, though, call them andrones: inter duo autem peristylia et hospitalia itinera sunt, quae

76 It may be worth noting that the other spaces are called (hic) locus; they are masculine spaces. The women’s quarters, though, are described as (haec) pars of the house; it is a feminine space.

65 mesauloe dicuntur, quod inter duas aulas media sunt interposita; nostri autem eas andrones appellant (6.7.5).

Vitruvius is not only interested in accounting for the sorts of rooms, but also in accounting for their names. Naming spaces (giving them words) is germane and essential.77 Vitruvius clarifies that he is not interested in changing the terminology but in explaining etymologies to philologists: Nec tamen ego, ut mutetur consuetudine nominationum aut sermonis, ideo haec proposui, sed uti non sint ignota philologis exponenda iudicavi (6.7.7). Vitruvius’ target audience is not only a crowd concerned with the logic of building, but also one interested in the logic of logoi. In a sense,

Vitruvius too is simultaneously engrossed in both logics; his broader project and his narrow focus reveal this, and (at the same time) tie him to Stoicism.78

In Diongenes Laertius’ metaphor, ‘ethics’ is the flesh of the animal, the white of the egg, and the crop in the field. In Vitruvius, the ‘matter’ is the home. In one sense, it is the ‘matter’ because it is built and imbued with physicality. In another sense, it is the ‘stuff’ that is at once tied to nature (it sprang from nature) and that provides man with a smooth transition between nature and culture (between self and society).

One may claim, however, that Vitruvius’ home is only ever a written home; it is not a physical matter. In this case, there is still a Stoic ethics within Vitruvius: the

77 For further reading on Vitruvius’ use of Greek words, see P. Ruffel (1964), pp.313-329.

78 Nor is this passage an isolated instance of Vitruvius’ philological curiosity. At 1.1.3, he explains that in all matters, but especially in architecture, there is that which is signified, and that which gives it its significance. This is a sentiment typical of Stoicism; see Baltzly (2000) 5-6. See also Callebat (1994), for a Vitruvian rhetorical analysis of this passage. See also Scranton (1974) 494-499.

66 text is the ‘matter’. It is the product that Vitruvius constructs and publishes. In addition, it is that which ties man to nature (his roots, as well as his place within, and relation to, nature), and that which explains how man can live harmoniously in both nature and culture. Thus, the home and the text-on-home present the Stoic ‘ethics’ to

Vitruvius’ work.

In this light, a philosophical perspective accounts for the concurrency in construction between home and text-on-home. Stoic ethics shows that both home and text are the ‘matter’ that Vitruvius is building. Stoic logic shows that he is constructing them with words, and according to reason. A combination of ethics and logic reveals a philology and a philotechny to Vitruvius’ construction project: words matter, and they are the matter when it comes to building the home.79

According to the Stoic system, ‘physics’ is that which holds all things together. In order to determine what holds all of Book 6 together, it is necessary to look at the whole of the book. The only part not yet considered it the preface. Briefly outlined, the preface proceeds as follows:

1. The Socratic philosopher Aristippus argues that physical goods do not matter. He claims that children ought to be provided with the sort of property and resources that a child can carry with him, even after a shipwreck: eiusmodi possessiones et viatica liberis oportere parari, quae etiam e naufragio una

79 As Callebat (1984) writes, “la prose du “De Architectura” ne construit pas seulement un rapport de technicien ou l’exposé d’un vulgarisateur. Elle est l’instrumen à la fois fonctionnel et artistique d’une oeuvre littéraire” (720). Heidegger ((1997d) “The Origin of the Work of Art” (extracts) in Rethinking Architecture (ed. N. Leach) London: Routledge, pp. 119-120) notes a concurrency between techne and production. He argues that tikto and techne (creation and craftsmanship) are not oppositional. In fact, techne is a kind of practical performance, not a craft, and not something technical; rather, it denotes a “mode of knowing.” Techne as knowledge is a ‘bringing forth’ (tikto) of beings, in that it brings forth present beings as such beings out of concealedness and into unconcealedness. It brings forth a/letheia. This is an interesting interpretation, with exciting applications to Vitruvius, architecture, and text.

67 possent enare. These resources are ideal, and they are impervious to Fortune’s adversity: namque ea vera praesidia sunt vitae, quibus neque fortunae tempestas iniqua neque publicarum rerum mutatio neque belli vastatio potest nocere (6.praef.1)

2. Theophrastus urged men to acquire learning rather than put their trust in money. The vir doctus is the only person who is never friendless, and is always a citizen (in every state): doctum ex omnibus solum neque in alienis locis peregrinum neque amissis familiaribus et necessariis inopem amicorum, sed in omni civitate esse civem difficilesque fortunae sine timore posse despicere casus (6.praef.2). In other words, this man is self-sufficient, and is not bound by real space; the orbs terrarum is but one city to him.

3. Epicurus claims that fortune is of little help to the wise, since the mind (and its understanding) is that which governs all important and essential things: pauca sapientibus fortunam tribuere, quae autem maxima et necessaria sunt, animi mentisque cogitationibus gubernari. Indeed, many philosophers promote the mind because it cannot be diminished by Fortune; for education and intelligence never fail, but last steadily: sed permanent stabiliter ad summum exitum vitae (6.praef.3)

4. Vitruvius is widely educated; he is trained and able in philology and in philotechny (philologis et philotechnis rebus). The chief fruits of his education are that superfluity is useless, and true wealth is ‘not wanting’: haec est fructuum summa: nullas plus habendi esse necessitates eamque esse proprietatem, divitiarum maxime, nihil desiderare (6.praef.4)

At first glance, this praefatio seems out of place. At the end of Book 5, after he has described the construction process for public places, Vitruvius states that he is next turning to private homes. At the end of the praefatio, as noted, he ties the preceding prescription of public spaces to the ensuing explanation of private spaces. In light of this, the reader is understandably perplexed when confronted with the praefatio of

Book 6. For, there is nothing at all in this preface that pertains to any private home until the very end. The praefatio looks like a digression with little relevance to architecture.

68 Yet, the content of this preface is crucial. Aristippus, Theophrastus, and

Epicurus are philosophers. Vitruvius’ inclusion of them lays philosophical foundations. His inclusion of himself, as a fourth on this list, guides his readers to associate Vitruvius with philosophy, and (accordingly) to consider his text philosophically. In addition, each illustration presents the same ‘message’: knowledge, or mind, is more important than matter. Vitruvius encourages his reader not only to consider his text philosophically, but also to understand the importance of knowledge, and read the text with that in mind (as it were). If the reader understands and follows the prescriptions in the preface, he will understand how to read the whole of Book 6. He will understand Vitruvius’ message that knowledge of the construction process matters more than the construction process itself.80 In this way, knowledge founds and preserves harmony between all the parts, and all the wholes (chapters to whole of Book 6, rooms to the home, and home to the text). Knowledge, therefore, is the ‘physics’; it is the sustaining cause of Book 6.81

80 Vitruvius’ claim, that mind matters more than matter, appears throughout de architectura in fact: see 2.praef.4; 3.praef.3; 9.praef.1; 9.praef.15; 9.praef.17. See also 6.8.10, where Vitruvius explains that the difference between the architect and the other construction workers is that the architect can envision the product before it has even started. He has, it seems, the design in mind, whereas the others only see the product in its physicality. If it is true that knowledge matters most, then Vitruvius’ choice to present a rustic villa and a Greek home becomes unimportant rather than unusual.

81 Vitruvius’ project is, in some sense, didactic as well as technical, philosophical, and more. For the didactic amidst the technical, see Callebat (1974) 328: “Si l’on ajoute qu’interfèrent dans le livre VIII didactisme et speculations de théoricien, éléments du langage commun et recherche esthétique, on résoudra mieux sans doute la contradiction existant entre un exposé fréquemment imprécis et la mise en oeuvre, le plus souvent exacte et pertinente, d'un vocabulaire scientifique et technique.” See also Callebat ((1989) “Organisation et structures de De Architectura de Vitruve,” in Munus non Ingratum: Proceedings of the International Symopsium on Vitruvius’ De Architectura and the Hellenistic and Republican Architecture (ed. H. Geertman and J.J. de Jong) Leiden: E.J. Brill, pp. 34-38), p.35.

69 By investigating the domus in terms of its metaphysical qualities (i.e. by its relation to sociology, biography, and the text), a philosophical undercurrent surfaces.

It is by means of philosophy that Vitruvius’ text becomes coherent, and his project clear. Constructing the home matters, for in so doing, Vitruvius brings to light that knowledge of architecture –more so than architecture itself—is what ultimately matters. Vitruvius is the architect-king, not just the philosophical ruler of a city-state, but the literal builder of one.

That Vitruvius selects the home as his medium for his message is important to the larger project of this dissertation. The archaeological method (reviewed in

Chapter 1) describes the real, physical qualities of the home, as well as some of its sociology. Analysis of the literary presentation of the home (in the next chapters) will reveal the more symbolic aspects of the domus. Vitruvius does both: he describes the sociology of the home, he builds that sociology into his presentation of the home, and he enriches the home by (tying it to) words. Accordingly, Vitruvius provides a middle ground between material and symbolic representations of domestic space.

70 CHAPTER 3

CICERO, EXILE, AND EPISTLOGRAPHY: BUILDING THE MAISON d’ÊTRE

Introduction

From Vitruvius’ textual presentation of the home, we move now to Cicero’s.

Though Cicero antedates Vitruvius, I am interested in examining a set of themes within the discussion of architecture at Rome rather than developing the details of a

“history of ideas”. The home has typically been considered in terms of its physical matter; I am interested in its literary presentation and abstract features. Vitruvius explores both, and as such, he provides a pleasing segue between the two. Cicero, of course, was not an architect. While archaeologists and scholars may cull architectural facts from Cicero’s writing, Cicero himself does not provide any manual on architecture, the practice, or the technology of designing and building. Accordingly, I am exploring the ways in which Cicero portrays the more abstract and subjective aspects of the home.

As explained in the Introduction of this dissertation, I am beginning with an investigation of the Ciceronian domus in the exilic letters. I have chosen the exilic letters for a couple of reasons. To consider the entire body of Cicero’s letters would

71 be a mammoth undertaking, one sufficiently large as to merit its own dissertation. My decision, then, is, in part, practical: the exilic letters are a smaller, and somewhat unified collection of letters that can be managed within one chapter. Second, and more importantly, it is during his exile that Cicero had a unique relation to his home: he is without it. By exploring the effects of lacking a home, we may gain valuable insights about the importance of having a home. My work here, then, looks through the letters of 58 and 57 BC, to see what Cicero reveals about the home, and how he opts to structure it. I shall think through such comparative questions as, is the home, like that in Vitruvius’ work, constructed so as to reflect its owner? In what ways are the home and writing linked, again as they are in de architectura? What does Cicero bring that adds to the Vitruvian version, or to the general portrait of home? And so on.

Before embarking upon the investigation proper, it is important to note that in the exilic letters we do not find a vast trove of explicit references to the ‘domus’. This should not present a problem, though, for the number of references is not the point.

For one, it is the medium that is the point. More importantly, it is the type of reference that matters: when the home does appear, it plays a significant role. In addition, I will show that the lack of explicit mention of the domus is itself important. We can, in other words, trace Cicero’s presentation of, and relation to, the home by means of letters that both do and do not focus on this domestic unit.

This chapter will trace the ways in which Cicero constructs and presents the domus while in exile. We shall see that the home is related to the self, but in ways

72 distinct from Vitruvius’ version. Specifically, in the letters, the home is tied to Cicero himself; it is not some theoretical paradigm related to an abstract human form. Cicero may have lost a place where an eloquent man might receive gatherings of people as per Vitruvius, but he specifically presents his loss as an external fact with profound internal ramifications.

In the letters, Cicero’s life and identity are intimately tied (at first at least) to the home. In particular, the Cicero’s letters produce a sense of self that neither depends on the actual Palatine structure, nor ever remains fully independent of the idea of home.82 From those composed in exile (58 B.C) to those written within the first months of his return (late in 57), the letters transcribe a change from Cicero’s initial crisis that stemmed mostly from the loss of home, to a regained sense of self that was quite independent of the lost house. By the end of the process, the razed home has become a positive ‘clearing-away’:83 out of the area that used to be

Cicero’s home, Cicero built a new location wherein he renegotiated his self and his relation to space. This new locus is not, though, just revealed in the letters, it is in fact the letters themselves.84 Which is to say that, the letters become a crystallization point

82 See Mary Beard (2002) “Ciceronian Correspondence: Making a Book out of Letters,” in Classics in Progress: Essays on Ancient Greece and Rome (ed. T.P. Wiseman) Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 103-144; Beard argues for reading the letters as literature, as a whole book, rather than as a random collection of individual documents (especially p. 123ff.). See also Elizabeth Meyer (2000) Epistolary Ethos: A Rhetorical Analysis of Cicero’s Letters Boston University Ph.D. Meyer does not so much argue that the letters must be read as a book, but that they certainly merit scholarly attention, and are not to be considered “simply as the artless expression of Cicero’s own self-perception” vi.

83 The notion of ‘clearing-away’ and the positive effects of that belong to Heidegger (1997a). I shall make use of Heidegger’s theory of space in the final section of this chapter.

84 This may seem, initially at least, to be a rather abstract reading of, and culling from, the letters. As I investigate the home in, and the home of the letters, I plan to show that the letters are not as chaotic

73 of Cicero’s relation to the home. Arguments may be made for other crystallization points; but I will show that epistlography is a valid place for, and a valid replacement of, the home. The letters are a place where Cicero can, and does, reconstitute that which he has lost. Writing, home, and self coincide here, as they do in Vitruvius’ text; but this time, the presentation is more subjective and lived: Cicero’s subjects are himself and his own home.

First, Cicero’s crisis is explored. This crisis stemmed from, or coincided with, a chaotic relation to space that necessarily followed Cicero’s departure from Rome. In the exilic letters Cicero belongs nowhere, and he travels between several ‘nowheres’.

This experience was an important part of his exile, and it is an important inclusion in the letters. Even as Cicero is without a home, there is in his writing a sense of equivalence between Cicero and his home: as Cicero lost control of his home, he also lost control of his self. Home and self are inextricably linked in the early days of exile.

Once Cicero accepted that the home was gone, though, a general sense of despair was ushered in. This malaise pervades the earlier letters especially, and is manifest in a number of ways. Cicero claims that he cannot write for all the grief he experiences; he feels beyond consolation; he repeatedly enumerates all that he has lost; he wants to lose his own life; and he seems to be losing his mind. In one sense, this general despair replaces the crisis of losing the home; in another sense, it

and melancholy as some people say, nor are they as controlled and rhetorical as others say. And yet they are both. Letter-readers will do well to read the letters and see what they see. This attitude is influenced by Erik Gunderson’s article (Forthcoming) “S.V.B.; E.V.” CA.

74 supplements it. Thus, even when the home is missing (in Cicero’s life and in his letters), it is somehow still there, as the lost yet replaced locus of life and emotions.

The loss of home gives way to crisis, crisis gives way to melancholy, melancholy gives way to (or, it is articulated in) letters. This means that from Cicero’s chaotic relation to space to his feelings of melancholy during exile, the letters emerge as a place wherein all relations normally relegated to the domus (family, friends, identity, and stability) can now be housed. The letters become a new locus of life for Cicero.

All is not lost as Cicero laments his loss, however: within the exilic letters there is a sense of hope. The disappearance of the home has resulted in the rediscovery of the epistolary genre, now a genre that is a potential architectural site wherein an area can be cleared out and where he can begin reconstructing the house of bricks in and as a house of letters. Thus it is in the letters that Cicero could work through all losses incurred. In other words, the testimony of crisis is itself a testimony of change. Over time, Cicero performs the bad and the good of his circumstance: he is at once still dependent on the home, and (yet) freeing himself from it (his emotional attachment to it dissipates); he still harps on about his problems, but catches himself so doing, and puts a stop to it; and he starts to reason through his losses rather than simply lament them. Thus the house in the letters is very specifically a sick-house, something that appears not just as a token of a real loss but also as a symptom of loss more generally. The move away from descriptions of that concrete and symbolic loss is part of a refinding of the self and a place within which to house a more stable sense of “Cicero”. This home-away-from-home, though, is the epistles themselves.

75 The very “I” that the letters reveal as battered along with the old house comes together again on and within the page. In these ways, the letters show Cicero simultaneously oscillating between both chaos and control. Epistlography again provides a locus in which Cicero moves back and forth between revisiting crisis, and processing loss, as he writes about all that confronts him.

The sense of suspension yields to restoration (of self without house). For the most part, the post reditum letters witness the completed separation, but there is a glimpse of change in the later exilic letters as well. Cicero has moved from the unhealthy dependence on home to an independence that needs no cure. The letters are a place wherein the change occurs. Cicero builds a change out of letters. He thereby creates a new space in which to live. The loss of home, then, transpires to be a liberating experience for Cicero. This is what the final section will show.

Spying crisis: the domus crumbles

Soon after Cicero left Rome in 58 B.C., he began writing letters to Atticus and to his family, all of whom remained in the city.85 A chronological list of all extant letters written in 58 and 57 (including the dates of composition) can be found in the

Appendix at the end of this dissertation. One wonders if more letters were written, but

85 For a chronological list of the exilic letters, see the Appendix of this dissertation. For a study of Cicero’s letters (exilic and other), see G.O. Hutchinson (1998) Cicero’s Correspondence: A Literary Study Oxford: Clarendon Press; see Chapter 2 (pp.24ff.) for Hutchinson’s comments on Cicero’s exilic letters. See also Mary Beard (2002). For a thorough investigation of exilic writing, see Jo-Marie Claassen (1999); a focus on Cicero is peppered throughout, but her discussions in chapters 3-6 are most fruitful. For the precedents for, and history of Cicero’s exile, and for more on his exilic letters, see also Jo-Marie Claassen (1992) 19-47. On Cicero, exile, and the letters, see also Emanuele Narducci (1997) 55-73, though he approaches these factors from a philosophical perspective.

76 not preserved; if so, perhaps the collection as we have it would be less unified in form, content, and addressee.86 As things stand, we can note some patterns. For one, the number of addressees is limited: the clear majority of these letters is written to

Cicero’s friend Atticus (30 of a total 39). Seven of the remaining nine are addressed to friends and family (4 to Terentia, 3 to Quintus).

In other words, all but two of the letters are addressed either to Cicero’s

‘second self’ (so he calls Atticus), or to those in his domestic embrace. The content of the letters is mostly personal: Cicero does mix politics and economics into some letters, but for the most part, he describes both the despair and the hope that he feels concerning his departure and return. In this way, the content of the letters seems appropriate to the addressee: personal reflections sent to close friends and family.

Regarding the form too, there are some patterns. For instance, the earlier letters are mostly filled with a description of the places Cicero has traveled to and from, followed by a lament of the sadness he is experiencing. Another pattern can be found in the letters to Terentia. These letters typically open with what seems to be an excuse for Cicero’s lapse in writing: when he sits down to write to his wife, he misses her all the more, and his emotions swell such that he is rendered unable to write. A third pattern to note is a tone of optimism that pervades the letters of late 58, when Cicero seems to believe he is close to return.

These are just three examples; while there are undoubtedly more observations to be made, I am concerned here to indicate a certain sense of coherence to the letters

86 See Beard (2002) on Cicero’s reading letters as an edited collection.

77 from 58 and 57, and to claim that that coherence opens up, and justifies, avenues for further exploration. I also want to note something that seems most immediately evident: within these letters, we see a Cicero already stripped of most of his political, or public self. What remains, or what is shown to remain, is a Cicero who has not only lost much already, but he is striving to hold on to what he can, by way of those closest to him, by way of those who are part of his domus.

Indeed, it is the loss of the domus, and all that is housed therein that Cicero seems to feel quite distressed about. Within these letters, a panic is present, one cause for which (Cicero shows) was the loss of his home.87 The home, it seems, stood for

Cicero, his status, his power, and his identity. Its loss therefore signified a concomitant loss of these things. More precisely, once Cicero lost control of his home

(it was now at the perilous hands of his arch-rival Clodius),88 he suffered a concurrent loss of control over self. This is the panic that the exilic letters witness, and it is apparent in a couple of ways: it arises from, and is evidenced in, a chaotic relation to space following the separation of self from the domus, and it transforms into a sense of despair.

Exile forced upon Cicero a spatial transience. For the first month, he traveled to Vibo, Nares Lucanae, Thurium, Tarentum, and Brundisium, before settling at

Thessalonica for five months. After Thessalonica, he moved to Dyrrachium where he

87 See Claassen (1999) 105ff. Cicero’s letters “portray the almost day-by-day history of his seventeen months of exile and his near-hysterical obsession with self” (105). Cf., however, p. 183: “The letters give no detail about his daily life, not even about his incidents on his journey into exile.”

88 See Introduction.

78 stayed until his return to Rome. As noted, Cicero’s earlier exilic letters are filled with lamentation. The emotional outpouring pertains to the freshness of Cicero’s banishment, but it also pertains to his transience. Cicero has lost his home, but he is also lost in space. The chaos of non-place interrelates with the unhappiness in his letters. Similarly, the ebb of emotionality in the later letters coincides with stability he describes in terms of locale (first at Thessalonica, then at Dyrrachium).89

Until he settles, Cicero continues to write about all the places at which he has stayed, and from which he has been forced to leave. In Att 3.8, there is an especially strong sense of spatial instability.90 Cicero writes to Atticus:

Brundisio proficiscens scripseram ad te quas ob causas in Epirum non essemus profecti, quod et Achaia prope esset plena audacissimorum inimicorum et exitus difficilis haberet cum inde proficisceremur. accessit cum Dyrrachi essemus ut duo nuntii adferrentur, unus classe fratrem Epheso Athenas, alter pedibus per Macedoniam venire. itaque illi obviam misimus Athenas ut inde Thessalonicam veniret. ipsi processimus et Thessalonicam a. d. x Kal. Iunias venimus neque de illius itinere quicquam certi habebamus nisi eum ab Epheso ante aliquanto profectum. nunc istic quid agatur magno opere timeo; … vento reiectus ab Ilio in Macedoniam Pellae mihi praesto fuit. reliqua quam mihi timenda sint video nec quid scribam habeo et omnia timeo, nec tam miserum est

89 On the subjective relation to real and ideological landscape, see Denis Cosgrove (1984) Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape London: Croom Helm, especially pp. 13-38.

90 Att 3.7 [29 April, 58] is also rich with changing places and emotions (of fear or paranoia): q.v. See also Att 3.2 [April, 58]: here, Cicero associates place with emotions, by turning from his geographical explanation to his broken-hearted dejection at the letter’s end. He is too sad to write about anything but his troubled relation to location. The following letter (Att 3.4 [April, 58]) reveals that Cicero has been forced to travel even further away: Cicero’s unhappiness (miseriae) and the law have forced him to change locale; again space and emotions are mutually implicative. Cicero’s misery has sprung from legislation that has forbidden him to be within 500 miles of Rome. Thus, a decree on space generates misery that in turn determines space. Indeed, space and emotions are all that Cicero writes about in this and the previous letter, as he renegotiates his relation to both. Susan Treggiari (in (1998) 1-23) explores the ways in which individuals represent themselves and their feelings in lieu of their physical environment. Andrew Riggsby (2002) discusses Cicero’s use of iter when he talks about exile; Cicero seems to avoid using the term ‘exile’. This may be a way of avoiding that he was even banished. See also A. Robinson (1994) “Cicero’s References to his Banishment,” CW 87: 475-480.

79 quicquam quod non in nostram fortunam cadere videatur. equidem adhuc miser in maximis meis aerumnis et luctibus hoc metu adiecto maneo Thessalonicae suspensus nec audeo quicquam (3.8.1-2).

This letter is mostly about place. Cicero has traveled from Brundisium not to Epirus because of Achaia; he has arrived at Dyrrachium, and has learned that Quintus has set out from Ephesus to Athens by way of Macedonia. Cicero accordingly sent a letter to

Athens to tell Quintus to meet him at Thessalonica. Meantime, he has gone to

Thessalonica, and is concerned about Rome. His slave has set out from Ilium towards

Macedonia in order to meet Cicero at Pella.91 This is all Cicero writes about, except to add that he is wretched (miser), and is remaining cooped up at Thessalonica out of fear (metu).

In this letter, Cicero chronicles space before concluding with a short note about his emotional state. He yokes his sadness with his relation to space. He also includes a proliferation of places, and of persons traveling to and from those places.

Coordinating meetings between friends and family has become complex, now that

Cicero is without home. While these complexities were typical of any man’s exile, they are especially important here because they are written down, and written about.

That Cicero focuses as he does on place suggests that place is the point of the letter.

91 There is a practical logic to Cicero’s travels, most notably the element of safety (Cicero, for instance, leaves certain towns because if he stays, he runs the risk of being killed). The role of the law also determines Cicero’s whereabouts: he was staying at Brundisium, but had to leave when Clodius issued a law that banished Cicero from being within a 500-mile radius of Rome (see above note). The logic that necessitates Cicero’s travels, however, does nothing to address the real presence of a flood of emotional vocabulary. The emotionality present in these letters lends a natural association between the inconsistency of place with the inconsistency of emotion.

80 Cicero’s chaotic relation to, and predominant focus on space bespeaks a certain panic about the loss of the home. In the early letters, he writes of little else other than al the places he has gone to, or been forced out of. The despair of the loss of the home is more evident in other letters, where particular places are not as prominent. This hopelessness is most evident in Att 3.15. [17 Aug. 58] Cicero writes:

quid de bonis? quid de domo? poteritne restitui? aut si non poterit, egomet quo modo potero? haec nisi vides expediri, quam in spem me vocas? sin autem spei nihil est, quae est mihi vita? (3.15.6)92

Cicero brings panic to light with the short and sharp questions. He frets about his belongings (bona). He is particularly concerned about the home; hence, the question

‘can it be restored’ rather than ‘can they (the goods) be restored’. Cicero cannot perceive of life without the home; the home is his life. He emphasizes the sustaining potency of the home, and links it to his life, by the repeated use of posse: ‘Can it be restored? If it can’t, how can I be?’ His ability, his potency, rests with the home.

Cicero inscribes worry, that all will be lost when the home is gone, at another place in this letter. He writes: desidero enim non mea solum neque meos sed me ipsum. quid enim sum? (3.15.2) Cicero does not have (he desires, desidero) not only mea, nor only meos, but even me ipsum. Amidst all the loss, Cicero is himself at a loss for words. The ellipsis of bona, and amicos bespeaks a sense that all is lost with

92 For further reflection (and bibliography) of this letter, see Meyer (2000) 74-108.

81 the home’s erasure. The only ‘thing’ remaining is me ipsum, but quid enim sum reveals the insufficiency of self when all else is gone: Cicero shows that he too is lost.93 Home, contents, and master are lost.94

Att 3.15 substantiates the equivalence between loss of home and loss of

Cicero.95 The concern of losing his home gives way to a general anxiety. In the earlier letters, Cicero presents his desperation in virtually every epistle. After about four months, however, his reference to gloom wanes. There is a correlation, then, between despair and time. In addition, he presents his depression consistently: the same sorts of concerns pervade the letters.96 These concerns are: he cannot write because his tears prevent him; he is beyond consolation; he repeatedly enumerates his losses; he wants even to lose his own life; and he seems to be losing his mind. Cicero’s

93 Loss is empresenced in the letters; it is in the locus of letters that Cicero writes and houses all things (mea, meos, and me ipsum). For more on this, see below. On letters as an “agent” that “install[s] a presence in the place of an absence and exchange[s] for a desire predicated on lack a love based in language and the community of letters,” see Gunderson (1997) “Catullus, Pliny, and Love-Letters,” TAPhA 127: 201-231.

94 In her exploration of exile and writing, Claassen (1999) works through the “literary reworkings” of the “emotional experience” of Cicero, Ovid, and Seneca (vid ch.1). Each author, she argues, has his own “deliberate programme of self-presentation” (vid ch. 4). In terms of Cicero, Claassen examines both the post reditum speeches and the exilic letters, especially because Cicero presents himself so differently in each: where the speeches (especially de domo) show an almost heroic Cicero (who endured exile valiantly and selflessly, like a sacrificial lamb, all for the state), the letters show the intense inner turmoil that Cicero “actually” experienced. To Claassen, the letters show how it really was terrible for Cicero to be separated from Rome.

95 For Cicero’s identity, merging with his home, see Chapter 4; see also Beverly Berg (1997) pp.122- 143. For further reading on loss of home as loss of Cicero, see Richard Saller (1984) 336-355, especially p.354. On the home as reflection of status, see Andrew Wallace-Hadrill (1998, 1996, 1994, and 1988a).

96 Claassen (1999): “Only his misery is consistent” (107).

82 desperation is both heartfelt and staged.97 Though paradoxical, it will become apparent that this pattern (of chaos and control) is part of Cicero’s process of moving from panic to a reconstituted self, and of moving from the Palatine to the letters.

That Cicero cannot write for all his worry should not be surprising.98 The ellipsis of words in Att 3.15 is symptomatic of a larger problem, namely that of writing at all. Cicero repeatedly bemoans his inability to write: it is not simply words that he cannot write, but whole letters. Several excerpts illustrate this point well:

Att 3.2: iter esse molestum scio sed tota calamitas omnis molestias habet. plura scribere non possum; ita sum animo perculso et abiecto.

Fam 14.4.1: Ego minus saepe do ad vos litteras, quam possum, propterea quod cum omnia mihi tempora sunt misera, tum vero, cum aut scribo ad vos aut vestras lego, conficior lacrimis sic, ut ferre non possim.

Fam 14.4.3: Non queo plura iam scribere: impedit maeror.

Att 3.7.3: ego et saepius ad te et plura scriberem, nisi mihi dolor meus cum omnis partis mentis tum maxime huius generis facultatem ademisset.

97 Emanuele Narducci (1997) notes a genuine grief and a staged, or performed, rhetorical grief to Cicero’s representation of exile. Cicero expresses, time and again, the grave dolor that he experienced while in exile. On the one hand, this dolor is genuine and emotionally charged; on the other hand, it is a rhetorical manoeuvre, a skill even, which Cicero capitalizes on: ut viderer excellere non ingenio sed dolore assequebar. Narducci points out that Cicero is simultaneously an actor, but one who is acting out his own role. Claassen (1999) also notes Cicero’s audience awareness: “Cicero shows himself as consistently aware of the value of autobiography to colour a view of the author’s deeds for both his contemporaries and posterity…. The ‘I’-writer demonstrates consistent awareness of an audience to whom he is conveying a report about the ‘I’-exile. Behind these two personae stands the creative author who selects and transforms his material…adapted to the audience that he envisages” (156). See also G.O. Hutchinson (1998) 25: “The letters which seem most like pure self-expression also emerge as potent communication.” (In terms of the order, chronological or otherwise, of the letters, and indeed the history of the order of the letters, see Beard (2002). See also Meyer’s comments (2000) 9ff, and throughout; and Riggsby (1995) 123-135.

98 What is surprising, and paradoxical, is that Cicero is writing that he cannot write. Perhaps it is that he cannot write about anything other than his inability to write. And yet, he does write about other things (political and personal).

83 Qfr 1.3.10: Reliqua, ita mihi salus aliqua detur potestasque in patria moriendi, ut me lacrimae non sinunt scribere!

Att 3.10.3: eoque ad te minus multa scribo quod et maerore impedior.

Fam 14.2.1: nec enim habeo, quod scribam, nec hoc tempore quidquam difficilius facio. Ad te vero et ad nostram Tulliolam non queo sine plurimis lacrimis scribere; vos enim video esse miserrimas, quas ego beatissimas semper esse volui.

Fam 14.1.5: Non queo reliqua scribere--tanta vis lacrimarum est--, neque te in eundem fletum adducam.

It is clear, from this sample, that tears keep hindering Cicero.99 That they keep hindering Cicero is crucial: for as often as Cicero laments that tears prevent writing, so often is he trying to write. He keeps writing. So eventually (by Fam 14.2) Cicero says that he cannot write without tears (non queo sine lacrimis scribere, 14.2.1), whereas previously he claimed that the tears prevented him from writing at all. ‘Tears versus writing’ becomes ‘tears and writing’. Despite all the tears, Cicero does not wash himself away.100

Tears in general supplement Cicero’s specific panic about the home. They add to it, but at the same time, they replace it. For in none of these portraits of crying does

99 The hindrance caused by the letters appears elsewhere as well. See Att 3.8.4 [29 May, 58]: me et meorum malorum memoria et metus de fratre in scribendo impedit. (Not only does his grief hinder him from writing, one can practically hear Cicero’s sobs as he mumbles his way through this line: note all the ‘m’s for a whiney affect.) See also Att 3.15.2 [17 Aug, 58], and Att 3.20.1 [4 Oct, 58].

100 The importance of writing, as a means of drawing the reader to the author, and as a means of presencing the absent speaker, see Habinek (1998) The Politics of Latin Literature: Writing, Identity and Empire in Ancient Rome Princeton: Princeton University Press. He writes, “The reader is reminded of the materiality of the text only to have her or his attention drawn to the writer who authorizes it. Writers write…not to communicate ideas and certainly not to make money, but to direct attention to themselves and their performance” (105). It is important, then, that Cicero keep writing, even if he is almost drowning in tears; he need to present himself to Rome, to present his grief, and (importantly) to keep circulating. For a reading of Fam 14.2 (as well as 14.1 and 14.3), see Gunderson (Forthcoming).

84 the home explicitly appear. Cicero seems to have drowned the home out by crying; the panic of the loss of home has itself gone missing. With the (panic of) home gone,

Cicero needs a place to house and process his emotions. One place is the letters. At first the match fails (he cannot write), but over time, and with persistence (he keeps at it), Cicero builds the space for facing and hopefully effacing his troubles. In this way, he seeks solace in letter-writing, and the activity itself becomes a ‘home away from home’.101

Letter-writing in turn supplements Cicero’s tears: it adds to them (by reminding him of his troubles), but it also grants him the space to write them off.102

The letters document the domestic ruins even as they becomes a site upon and within which to rebuild and house a self. The site that provoked grief (the empty area of non-home) is exchanged for a site within which grief is performed and may be overcome. Cicero once asked of the house, “Can it be restored? If I can’t, can I?”

(poteritne restitui? aut si non poterit, egomet quo modo potero? [Att 3.15.6; 17 Aug.

58]) He asked as well “So what am I?” (quid enim sum? [Att 3.15.2; 17 Aug. 58]).

101 There is a closely packed nexus of relations here: home, writing, and emotions are interwoven in a way that cannot be clearly stated. For the complexities of this trio, see Chapters 4 and 5. See also Foucault (1994a) 207-222. Foucault argues that writing, and re-reading what is written, is a contemplative process, where concern for the future is handed over to reflection on the past. It can be an introspective process, and (as such) a self-conciliatory one as well.

102 To Derrida, the word ‘supplement’ always carries two senses: it means ‘to add,’ and it means ‘to replace’. Within the context of (the process of) writing, Derrida claims that writing serves as a supplement to speech. It is an “artificial and artful ruse to make speech present when it is actually absent.” This ‘addition’ is a dangerous one, for even as writing adds to speech (it “cumulates and accumulates presence”), it makes one forget that the speech that it represents is really missing. Writing replaces speech. Whether writing (the supplement) adds to or replaces writing (the absent original) it is dangerous, for the supplement is necessarily other than (it is exterior to) the original; how else could it add or replace? There are some clear applications of the Derridean notion of ‘supplement’ within the exilic letters, where absence, presence, loss, and being accumulate under writing’s broad umbrella.

85 Cicero is answering these questions. So what is he? He is the man who writes letters to his friends. He writes to them who he is and what he is. He thus is being restored and repaired before our very eyes even as the house itself remains a ruin with an uncertain future. Even when the home is missing, when Cicero does not mention it explicitly, the questions of identity that cluster around the house nevertheless exert a presence.

That Cicero seeks solace in writing is, he reveals, a necessity. Though difficult at first, he shows later that he can find consolation by no other means. At Fam 14.4.5

[29 April 58], Cicero cannot console himself: atqui ego, qui te confirmo, ipse me non possum. At Att 3.11.2 [27 June 58], he prevents Atticus from consoling him: consolari iam desine. And at QFr 1.3.5 [15 June 58], there is no comfort found in wisdom or learning: neque enim tantum virium habet ulla aut prudentia aut doctrina, ut tantum dolorem possit sustinere. First, second, and third persons fail to relieve

Cicero of his melancholy.103 Yet he does find solace from his malaise, as the later letters and the de domo speech testify. The prospect that the letters provide him that relief seems plausible, and, given the failings of self, friend and wisdom, it seems likely.

Nevertheless, Cicero is grieving. His tears prevent him from writing, and he feels at a loss for consolation. What exactly is he so distressed about? He has lost his

103 Claassen (1999) discusses Cicero’s anti-consolatory tone when he is in exile (versus all the consolation he offers to others in exile), pp.83-85. She notes, “[Cicero] ignores consolatory topoi as ‘world-citizenry’ and man’s adaptability through self-sufficiency” because, as far as Cicero is concerned, he simply cannot be without his home. Att 3.15 testifies to this. See also Claassen (1992) 29ff (her section on “Anti-consolatio”).

86 home. He has also lost all domestic relations. Cicero enumerates all that he has lost in several of the letters. His letter to Quintus on 15th June (QFr 1.3) in particular resonates with loss. Near the start, he laments: meus ille laudatus consulatus mihi te, liberos, patriam, fortunas, tibi velim ne quid eripuerit praeter unum me (1.3.1).104

Cicero has lost his brother, his children, his fatherland, and his fortune. Later on,

Cicero again recounts his losses:

qui modo fratre fuerim, liberis, coniuge, copiis, genere ipso pecuniae beatissimus, dignitate, auctoritate, existimatione, gratia non inferior, quam qui umquam fuerunt amplissimi (1.3.6).

Cicero has lost his brother, children, wife, wealth; he was most fortunate in money, dignitas, influence, reputation, and popularity. Of course the word that does not appear here is domus. He has lost this too, but Cicero does not use the word. And yet this one word in fact encapsulates all of the others: home is also a metaphor for family. A home, especially one on the Palatine, is also a symbol of status and reputation. Thus, even as Cicero enumerates what is missing, the word that unites the catalog of loss itself gets lost.

By recalling and repeating his loss, Cicero brings to light that which stands in its stead, namely a sense of loss, which brings with it grief, despair, tears and longing.

As he presents loss, Cicero empresences it: what he had is lost, but what is lost is now present. Everything is present in the letter, that is, except the house that would house all things. And yet it is the letter itself in which they now find a sort of surrogate space.

104 On Qfr 1.3, see Hutchinson (1998) 38-47.

87 Since Cicero constructed an equivalence between his self and his home, one expects now to find the self in Cicero’s epistolary space. Indeed, the self appears.

Specifically, though, Cicero presents a desire for the loss of self.105 He considers suicide, or is filled with regret that he remains alive. At Att 3.3 [April 58], he laments:

Vtinam illum diem videam cum tibi agam gratias quod me vivere coegisti! adhuc quidem valde me paenitet. Cicero is ashamed that he is alive. Yet, at the same time as he wishes he were dead, he imagines the future: he hopes to see the day when he will give thanks to Atticus for having forced him to live. Cicero wishes to die, but he also wishes to live.106

Exile has changed Cicero: it is killing him. Being away from Rome, he suggests, means having no being at all. So it is that Cicero is turning into a corpse while away.107 In other letters too, he conditions his life upon being in Rome. For

105 This is logical: as Cicero transfers his belongings to the letters, he inscribes them with the language of loss. Thus, when he transports the self, he uses the same syntax.

106 A similar sentiment emerges at Fam 14.4.1 [29 April, 58]: Cicero wishes to see Terentia so that he might die in her embrace. His death wish depends upon a life wish. But as long as he is in exile, remaining alive is shameful to Cicero. Indeed, valde me paenitet from Att 3.3 [April, 58] recurs in other letters: at Att 3.4 [April, 58], and at Att 3.7.2 [29 April, 58]. For discussion of Att 3.7, see Hutchinson (1998) 33-38. Cicero foregrounds his shame; he shows that he is ashamed to live since he has lost the chance to die honorably. This is apparent also in Att 3.7.2: the superlative honor that Cicero has missed is replaced now with shame. Cicero is ashamed, it would seem, whether he chooses to live or to die. See also Qfr 1.3 [15 June, 58]. Cicero again expresses disgrace at Fam 14.3.1 [29 Nov, 58], though he uses different language (q.v.).

107 Since Cicero can no longer die nobly, he can neither continue to live nor put an end to his life with anything but shame. It is as if he were, or should be, dead already. Indeed, there is in the letters a sense of precisely this. In a letter to Quintus (QFr 1.3 [15 June, 58]), Cicero reprimands a complaint from his brother that he has no wish to see Quintus; Cicero bewails,"Ego te videre noluerim?" Immo vero me a te videri nolui; non enim vidisses fratrem tuum, non eum, quem reliqueras, non eum, quem noras, non eum, quem flens flentem, prosequentem proficiscens dimiseras, ne vestigium quidem eius nec simulacrum, sed quandam effigiem spirantis mortui. Atque utinam me mortuum prius vidisses aut audisses (1.3.1)!

88 Cicero, ‘being’ is in Rome, and being outside of Rome is impossible.108 The prospect of lacking life has more vitality than that of lacking Rome. Amidst Cicero’s articulation of shame at remaining alive, or his desire to die, the missing home is

(again) noticeably missing. The locus that was so intimately tied to ‘being’ has been replaced: Cicero cannot live without Rome, not without home. Rome has assumed

Cicero’s vitality. But the home’s disappearance seems not to be depriving Cicero of his verve; home = Cicero is a waning formula, while Rome = Cicero may be waxing.

A final way in which Cicero portrays a general despair is by presenting himself as losing his mind. In addition to the loss of home, the loss of family, friends, and prestige, and the fantasized loss of life, Cicero writes about his loss of mental stability. Sometimes this is evident by his proclamations of how wretched he feels.109

In others, Cicero recognizes that his state of mind is revealed in his writing. For instance, to Atticus (Att 3.8.4 [29 May, 58]) Cicero acknowledges: ex epistularum mearum inconstantia puto te mentis meae motum videre. The very incoherence of the letters exposes the commotion in his mind.110 The problem is that the letters are not,

108 At Att 3.19.3 [15 Sept, 58], he explains that if Atticus cannot meet him in the city, then his friend should provide Cicero with some land for burial. He admits the same perspective at Att 3.26 [Jan, 57]. On exile as a death of sorts, see A.L. Motto, & J.R. Clark (1993) Essays on Seneca Frankfurt: Peter Lang, p.191: “Political assassination and political exile alike become common practice. Many a man might be ‘despatched’ equally well to the grave, or to remote lands beyond the Roman shore.”

109 See Att 3.5 [10 April, 58], ego vivo miserrimus et maximo dolore conficior, and Att 3.6 [10 April, 58], me vix misereque sustento. His misery is apparent also at Fam 14.3.1 [29 Nov, 58].

110 Cicero again notes the reflection of mind in writing at Att 4.3.1 [24 Nov, 57]. Cicero’s instability is also pronounced when he seems incapable of making a decision. In a letter to Terentia (Fam 14.4 [29 April, 58]), Cicero seems thrown into confusion when deciding whether to ask his wife to join him or not: O me perditum! O afflictum! Quid enim? Rogem te, ut venias? Mulierem aegram, et corpore et animo confectam. Non rogem? Sine te igitur sim? (14.4.3) The short statements, the indecision, the general discombobulation: these are the markings of an unstable mind. (See also Hutchinson (1998)

89 in fact, terribly inconstantiae; even when Cicero claims to be mad, he is reasoning through the causes for that madness.111 If he is not reasoning through the causes, then the very recognition that the mind is revealed in writing itself reveals that Cicero has some wits about him. Cicero is constructing his madness, and he is positing that madness in the new place he has built wherein his family, friends, dignitas, and emotions lie.112 There is no home here, for the home is gone, and the letters have provided a new space for rebuilding self. “So what am I?” is turning into “Who am

I?” And this “who” is a man who is refinding himself in his letters and rebuilding his domestic relations there. Elegant, spacious, and well-suited for receiving friends and loved ones, the epistolary non-space of the exiled Cicero displaces and replaces the

Palatine home.

28ff.; he remarks, 14.4 “shows the intimacy of the relationship in the manner of its writing, even (to be unromantic) in its lack of prose rhythm.”) The same features appear in a letter to Atticus (Att 3.9.1 [13 June, 58]), in which Cicero is again unable to make a decision (animum inducere non potui). In this letter, however, Cicero’s parenthetical comment reveals that he is aware that his indecisiveness betrays his mental weakness. Earlier on, he just failed to decide; here he fails, but he understands (he describes) the significance of that. This change bespeaks a certain clarity of mind, in the midst of madness. Other examples of emotional distress could be multiplied; see for instance, Qfr 1.3, Att 3.13, and a more retrospective admission of instability at Att 4.1.

111 See, for instance, Att 3.10 [17 June, 58], where Cicero explains to Atticus with good reason that he could have (but does not) a weak mind: nam quod me tam saepe et tam vehementer obiurgas et animo infirmo esse dicis, quaeso, ecquod tantum malum est quod in mea calamitate non sit? (3.10.2) For an exploration of Cicero as strategist, see the following chapter.

112 Ann Vasaly (1993) describes the training of the orator: “(a) to observe and describe concrete details of a place in order to provide his listeners with a vivid and moving description of a particular scene and the actions that occurred there, (b) to consider the objective and subjective characteristics of places in creating a convincing narrative, (c) to draw on these same characteristics in claiming the inevitability of his version of events… and (d) to use associations of specific places to manipulate the feelings of his audience” (24). Given Cicero’s training and skill in oratory, and given the reason lying behind his madness, one wonders to what extent Cicero is manipulating either himself or his recipients with chaotic references to a lost self, lost in space. This seems worth further investigation, beyond the simple allusions woven into this chapter.

90 This, then, is a portrait of Cicero’s general despair. From the panic he presents of the loss of home, Cicero switches to a more generally melancholic portrait of things. He could not write about it initially, but when he could, he wrote repeatedly of what he had lost, of how he wished to lose his life, how he felt beyond consolation, and how he seemed even to be losing his mind. Loss lies everywhere amidst the general despair; yet the most important loss –that of the home—itself disappears from

Cicero’s general portrait. The disappearance of the lost home, though, is not a negative loss. For, in the home’s stead, epistlography assumes a domestic role, granting a space for, and housing, all that he has lost due to the home’s erasure.

Cicero builds a new locus, in place of the domus.113 In this way, within the locus of the letters, wherein Cicero laments his spatial upheaval, Cicero builds a space to renegotiate his relation to place. The locus of letters provides him with a place of stability.114

113 On the healing potential of letter-writing, see Foucault (1994a) and (1994b). In (1994a), he explains that writing letters is a useful and beneficial process. The contents are to be read, re-read, ingested, ‘ensouled’; they capture the already-said, or already-read, and are to be used in the shaping of the self. In (1994b), Foucault describes four models of “technologies of the self” developed out of a ‘take care of yourself’ and a ‘know yourself’ “governmentality” that existed in ancient Greece. He emphasizes the importance of writing when introspecting: for writing helps in the culture of self-care. Danger arises only if the writer includes only the important impersonal stuff, such as political goings-on (as Foucault claims Cicero does).

114 The letters are about chaos and about the lack of locus; yet they are also where chaos is written down, and where locus is recreated. They are themselves a new and stable place, much as the home used to be. Vasaly (1993) explores how Cicero marries “images of place (locus) with assumptions of character” (132); there is in Cicero (and Greek precedents, such as Hippocrates) an important connection between the places people occupy, and the habits and characteristics they assume (see p.144ff). Cicero here constructs a locus (the letters) wherein he accounts for, and reconstructs, personal ethos. For other letters wherein one finds spatial chaos, see Att 3.10, Att 3.14, Att 3.16, and Att 3.19.

91 From Crisis to Suspension

Within his presentation of crisis, Cicero also portrays hope. That sense of hope lies in, and stems from, the disappearance of the home; in particular, it lies in the emerging importance of epistlography on the loss of home. The testimony of crisis is itself a testimony of change. Cicero shows his friends and family that he has sat down and faced the facts. To an extent, those letters cited above already witness a sense of hope and order amidst Cicero’s sadness and his chaotic relation to space.

There are, however, more explicit signs that evidence an ebb in crisis. These signs are apparent in via Cicero’s relation to the home, through his reasoned reflection, and by the articulation of both hope and despair. Each sign of hope presents a certain suspension: Cicero presents both the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ about his circumstances.

Despite the discomfort that suspension might have, it is nevertheless a signal from

Cicero that he has emerged from the depression and panic that consumed his first weeks in exile.

In the first place, Cicero’s explicit relation to the home changes. Earlier on, recall, he was desperate to regain the home, since without it he was nothing. Over time, Cicero still recognizes the importance of the home, but his despair at its loss seems to have waned.115 Att 3.20.2 [4 Oct, 58] reveals: de domo et Curionis oratione ut scribis ita est. in universa salute, si ea modo nobis restituetur, inerunt omnia; ex quibus nihil malo quam domum. Of all things, Cicero cares mostly for his home; if his

115 Att 3.20 was written on 4th October. Cicero was anticipating his return in November; his expectations probably affected the tone in the letters just before this time.

92 home were returned, then everything else would be too. While the home is undoubtedly important in this portrait, it is no longer explicitly tied to Cicero’s being.

Every “thing” and “everything” is or will be fine if the house is restored, but the house is also one thing among many, the thing most to be desired. And, noticeably,

Cicero is himself no longer a thing, a quid. He is here much more his own person than a function of either his things or the house that contains them. He is then, in a sense, self-containing and self-housing. The old logic of “if it the house not restored, how can I be restored?” (Att 3.15.6 [17 Aug 58]) has shifted. Cicero does not panic about his own ability to exist independently of his house. Rather, his recognition of the import of the home seems rather dispassionate. Self and home are now different matters.

The home appears in the next letter as well (Fam 14.2 [5 Oct, 58]). Cicero presents a greater dependence, more aligned with his earlier portrait, but with a crucial difference. He wrote: Quod de domo scribis, hoc est de area, ego vero tum denique mihi videbor restitutus, si illa nobis erit restituta (14.2.3). “Concerning what you [Terentia] write about the home, I mean about the space, I really won’t consider myself restored until such time as it will be restored to us.” The phrase hoc est de area is a rather bitter correction; but Cicero opts out of wallowing. The illa that follows now points to either notion: empty space or home. It both does and does not make a difference which one chooses. And this itself marks a difference in attitude on

Cicero’s part. Cicero presents a sense of suspension: the home is still important, but it no longer seems crucial for his existence.Cicero further signals an ebb in crisis

93 through reasoned reflection about that crisis. His treatment is similar to that of the home: he notes the importance of putting an end to his ranting precisely by ranting, but then catching himself at it. Cicero seems suspended between harping on about the deplorable circumstances he is in, and realizing that reiteration and complaint will not remedy anything. He wants to complain, but he also wants to put an end to that grumbling. This motif appears in Qfr. 1.3 [15 June, 58], Att. 3.15 [17 Aug, 58], and

Att. 3.13 [5 Aug, 58].

Cicero’s ability to acknowledge that the home is no longer essential, that he should not continue to complain, and that he maintains mental capability, shows that he may be grieving, but he is not lost in grief. He seems, rather, suspended between wanting the home, wanting to gripe, and wanting to lapse into madness on the one hand, and wanting to separate the self from the home, put an end to his complaints, and retain clarity of mind on the other. From the initial panic at the loss of the home, through the general despair, Cicero has now turned towards remedying his relation to his crisis. He presents a self that is en route to normalcy.

This sense of change (of waxing reason and writing, and of waning distress) is evident also when Cicero recounts his losses in order to account for them. Rather than simply repeat his list of losses, Cicero sifts through the question of blame. He says that he is to blame at Att 3.8.4 (tamen non tam est ex miseria quam ex culpae nostrae recordatione commotus [29 May, 58]), and at Att 3.14.1 (scio nos nostris multis

94 peccatis in hanc aerumnam incidisse [21 July, 58]). He admits wrongdoing to

Terentia as well.116 Cicero also says that he was betrayed. At Att 3.13 [5 Aug, 58], he laments:

atque utinam tam in periculo fuisset! cum ego iis quibus meam salutem carissimam esse arbitrabar inimicissimis crudelissimisque usus sum; qui, ut me paulum inclinari timore viderunt, sic impulerunt ut omni suo scelere et perfidia abuterentur ad exitium meum (3.13.2).117

Those whom Cicero thought held his safety most dear transpired to be most hostile and wicked; through malice and perfidy, they brought about Cicero’s ruin. Whether the account is accurate or not, Cicero has stepped back far enough to think critically about his exile as an event rather than brood upon it as a state of being.

Cicero suspends himself and his words-on-self between suffering and solution: he relives the experience of loss, but he does so in order to understand the circumstances behind it. He relives in order to relieve.118 There is a productivity to his repetition; this marks a change from the earliest letters wherein Cicero only lamented the sad state of his life. Thus, when Cicero revisits the loss of home, the crisis of exile, and the threat to his mental stability, he simultaneously suffers all over again and (yet) he strives after a cure in so doing. He does this within the space of the

116 See Fam 14.3.1 [29 Nov, 58]; and Fam 14.1.1 [28 Nov, 58].

117 For other recognition of blame, see Qfr 1.4, Att 3.8, 3.9, 3.15, 3.20, and Fam 14,1. In the last two, Cicero acknowledges a joint fault: he is to blame, but so are those who betrayed him.

118 On the therapeutic potential of writing, see Foucault (1994a) and (1994b). See also Andrew Erskine (1997) “Cicero and the Expression of Grief,” in The Passions in Roman Literature and Thought and Literature (ed. S.M. Braund and C. Gill) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 36-47. Claassen (1999) comments on the recurrence of suffering when unhappy remembrance is revisited (“remembrance in an unhappy present of a happier past often sharpens the pain, unless the sufferer has true control over his emotions and attitudes,” 156).

95 letters. By writing, Cicero builds a place wherein he can renegotiate the past, in order to bear the present. The letters again assume a domestic role, harboring Cicero from external distress, and also nurturing him back to health.119

Thus, when Cicero talks about home, he is not all a-panic. The home is still important, but not in an emotionally charged way. In addition, even though Cicero still laments his loss, he recognizes when he is harping on, and puts a stop to it. He notes his losses, but accounts for them. Ultimately, he acknowledges both anxiety and hope. In these regards, Cicero evidences a certain suspension: between relying on the home and freeing himself from it, and between crisis (at loss of the home) and resolution. This marks a change from the earlier letters wherein Cicero dwells on his crisis. In the following section, the extent to which Cicero continues to present his progress is explored.

Testimony of change: Cicero rebuilds self in his new home

The exilic letters mostly evidence Cicero’s crisis, and the process of transforming that crisis into solution. There are a few letters that show the success of this transformation (Att 3.23 and 3.24), but generally speaking, the letters that most clearly witness a change in Cicero were written once he returned to Rome (Att 4.1,

4.2, and 4.3). Att 3.23 was written on 29th November 58 B.C.(when Cicero seems to be on the cusp of returning). In it Cicero responds to three letters from Atticus; his

119 Foucault ((1997) 350-355) argues that the world is like a net that “links points together and creates its own muddle” (352). He is concerned with those spaces that are not only inter-relational, but also with those that “suspend, neutralize or invert the set of relationships designed, reflected or mirrored by themselves” (352, my underlining). Cicero seems to participate in this sort of space, feeling both “rapport” and “contradiction” between the other, inter-relating spaces.

96 responses are methodical and mostly dispassionate. The tone is generally legalistic.

He addresses the second letter in the most detail; the issue is his return. Cicero works systematically through the laws and the various legal clauses pertaining to his case; he directs Atticus to loopholes, and advises him of a course of action. There is no overt emotionality, even when Cicero addresses the possibility that he may not be allowed to return to Rome:

in quo si iam nostra salus cum hac lege desperata erit, velim pro tuo in me amore hanc inanem meam diligentiam miserabilem potius quam ineptam putes, sin est aliquid spei, des operam ut maiore diligentia posthac a nostris magistratibus defendamur (3.23.1).

Cicero will not be lost if his return is not possible; if it is, he wants magisterial support. He fails to mention the return of home. The only emotion in this letter appears at the end. Cicero again considers the prospect of not returning; if this is the case, he asks Atticus to look after the family he has foresaken.120 His concern rests with Terentia and his children rather than with himself. Cicero has demonstrated a restitution of self throughout Att 3.23; he will be fine if he does not return, and if he does not get his home back.

Att 3.24 was written on the 10th December 58 B.C. In this letter, Cicero voices his concern over the legal process of return. (He and Atticus need to gain the support of the magistrates, the consuls, and the tribunes.) There is anxiety within the letter, but not an anxiety over Cicero’s identity or self. His life does not depend on the

120 sin, ut ego perspicio cum tua coniectura tum etiam mea, spei nihil est, oro obtestorque te ut Quintum fratrem ames quem ego miserum misere perdidi neve quid eum patiare gravius consulere de se quam expediat sororis tuae filio, meum Ciceronem quoi nihil misello relinquo praeter invidiam et ignominiam nominis mei tueare quoad poteris, Terentiam, unam omnium aerumnosissimam, sustentes tuis officiis (Att. 3.23.5).

97 success of his case, though he certainly hopes for success.121 Rather, Att 3.24 shows a changed Cicero.122 In both this and the previous letter, Cicero presents an increase in reason, an increase in interest in the legal aspects of return, no chaotic spatial references, no suicidal tendencies, and no life-dependency on the home. In these respects, the later exilic letters evidence a stabilized Cicero.

The post reditum letters substantiate the idea that Cicero has changed.123 In Att

4.1 [Sept, 57] Cicero describes his return to Rome.124 He starts the letter by thanking

Atticus for all the help that he has offered over the past year and a half. Cicero has now returned, and has retrieved all that he had, except for his home. Cicero asks

Atticus for advice as he tries to pick up the pieces of “the family thing”, of his estate more generally even as the rubble of the Palatine home specifically goes unmentioned:

in re autem familiari, quae quem ad modum fracta, dissipata, direpta sit non ignoras, valde laboramus tuarumque non tam facultatum quas ego nostras esse iudico quam consiliorum ad conligendas et constituendas reliquias nostras indigemus (4.1.3).

121 The argument might be made that this is a business letter to Atticus, yet letters of business do not preclude elements of the personal --especially letters to Atticus. For further reading on Cicero, Atticus, and business, see Nicholas Rauh (1980) “Cicero’s Business Friendships: Economics and Politics in the Late Roman Republic,” Aevum 60: 3-30. See also Meyer (2000) 73f.

122 See Narducci (1997): “The theme of exile, more than any other, brings out the completeness of change of direction Cicero, as it seems, wished to effect in his usual way of feeling and thinking,” 71.

123 Riggsby (2002) has written about the post reditum speeches; some of his observations apply to the post reditum letters as well, most notably the issues of history, counter-history, the hidden present, praise and blame, consensus, religion, crime and politics (Riggsby’s categories).

124 Claassen (1999) uses this letter to show that Cicero rewrites history with his excessively jubilant description of his return, p.137; a more extensive analysis is found, pp.158-163. See also Claassen (1992) 31ff (her section “The exile returned: history rewritten”). On Att 4.1, see Meyer (2000) 109- 134.

98 Cicero then describes his return; he takes Atticus on the journey that he himself endured: from Brundisium to the Porta Capena to the Capitol. Once he reached the

Capitol, his political life resumed. Cicero portrays his geographical and political returns. He describes various persons present, speeches made, and laws voted on.

Regarding issues of debate, Cicero holds his tongue; he explains,

nos tacemus et eo magis quod de domo nostra nihil adhuc pontifices responderunt. qui si sustulerint religionem, aream praeclaram habebimus; superficiem consules ex senatus consulto aestimabunt; sin aliter, demolientur, suo nomine locabunt, rem totam aestimabunt (4.1.7).

Concerning his home, the pontifices have yet to reach a decision. If things go well,

Cicero will have a splendid space (area praeclara). If not, he will at least get the value of a site and a house. This passage is important in a couple of ways. First, area here recalls the space referred to at Fam 14.2.3 [5 Oct, 58]. There, Cicero corrected himself when he used domus; he meant area, the empty space where the home used to be. Now, however, the space upon which Cicero depends is not just an empty substitute for home; it is praeclara. It is outstanding in character, in its features, in purpose, in achievement, and in reputation.125 It is outstanding in what it was, what it has become, and what it might yet still be. And it is all of these things precisely because the home no longer stands there. Formerly the question of possibility, of posse, was nightmarish: “Can it be restored? If it can’t, how can I be?” (poteritne

125 Vid. OLD s.v. praeclarus.

99 restitui? aut si non poterit, egomet quo modo potero?, Att. 3.15.6 [17 Aug, 58]). Now emptiness provides the promise of a renaissance of possibility rather than the guarantee of the end of everything.

It is also important to note that Cicero may not get that space back. At this possibility, Cicero no longer presents distress; he no longer presents worry about losing his sense of self. He seems, in fact, to be rather indifferent: he will get the value of the site and home, and build another elsewhere. By this time, then, Cicero shows that he has separated his self from his home. He presents a changed Cicero.

Indeed, he says: alterius vitae quoddam initium ordimur (Att. 4.1.8).

Having described his geographical and political returns, and having only touched upon the home (but in important ways) in Att 4.1 [Sept, 57], Cicero focuses almost exclusively on the home in Att 4.2 [Oct, 57]. He tells Atticus about the de domo speech that he made (he notes the importance of it: acta res est accurate a nobis et, si umquam in dicendo fuimus aliquid aut etiam si numquam alias fuimus, tum profecto doloris magnitudo vim quandam nobis dicendi dedit (4.2.2). The old question of “what/who am I without my home” is transformed yet again. If a first answer to the question was “Cicero the letter-writer”, a second answer is “Cicero the orator”. A third might even be Cicero the one who writes about his oratory. In any case, in speaking about his lost house, Cicero became “something”. If ever he was something in his oratory, it was here, talking about his lost thing that he really turned into who he was/is: Cicero, man of letters.

100 The outcome was successful:

Cum pontifices decressent ita, si neqve popvli ivssv neqve plebis scitv is qvi se dedicasse diceret nominatim ei rei praefectvs esset neqve popvli ivssv aut plebis scitv id facere ivssvs esset videri, posse sine religione eam partem areae mihi restitvi, mihi facta statim est gratulatio (4.2.3).

Yet retrieval was not without a kink: Clodius interrupts the celebration, and makes all sorts of accusations towards Cicero. As a result, Cicero decides to postpone moving back into his home until the senate (in addition to the pontifices) makes a decree. At the senate meeting, Clodius again makes a fool of himself, blathering on continuously until forced to stop. His words proved ineffectual, for the house was returned by the senate. After some further confusion, the decree eventually declared:

deinde consules porticum Catuli restituendam locarunt; illam porticum redemptores statim sunt demoliti libentissimis omnibus. nobis superficiem aedium consules de consili sententia aestimarunt sestertio viciens (4.2.5).

The home (its space and its building) was granted to Cicero. He includes the value of the home (2 million sesterces), and gripes about the value ascribed to his villas at

Tusculum (500, 000) and at Formiae (250, 000).

The home assumes center-stage in Att 4.2, yet Cicero’s relation to it seems rather impersonal: he narrates the circumstances and events that both hindered and led to its restoration. And he describes the home’s monetary value. He does not present any particular joy or emotion at all at the senate’s decision; and he does not seem to feel that he is whole again because of the return. Accordingly, Att 4.2 testifies to

Cicero’s separation of self from the Palatine house. He has moved his ‘being’ to another locus.

101 Cicero’s letter describing his return shows a certain distancing from the home; the letter describing the return of the home verifies that separation. Att 4.3 [24 Nov,

57] confirms this separation. After only a month or so since Cicero’s home was returned, Clodius again rampages the Palatine and has his men plunder and set fire to the newly built homes of Cicero and his brother, Quintus:

armatis hominibus ante diem tertium Nonas Novembris expulsi sunt fabri de area nostra, disturbata porticus Catuli quae ex senatus consulto consulum locatione reficiebatur et ad tectum paene pervenerat, Quinti fratris domus primo fracta coniectu lapidum ex area nostra, deinde inflammata iussu Clodii, inspectante urbe coniectis ignibus, magna querela et gemitu non dicam bonorum, qui nescio an nulli sint, sed plane hominum omnium (4.3.2).

This action is only a symptom of Clodius’ madness. Cicero describes the many ways in which Clodius displays insane criminality: he burns buildings, he loots property, he abandons decent men and gains slaves as his supporters, and he attacks people on the street.126 He even tried to attack Cicero; but Cicero was able to duck into Tettius

Damio’s home, and seek safety therein. The situation reversed: Flaccus ardently pursued Clodius, but Clodius sought refuge in Sulla’s home. Clodius thereafter hid in his own home, and was prosecuted in absentia. Cicero closes the letter with a portrait of the political scene and upcoming elections.

After all that Cicero has endured, his home is once again destroyed. Given this, Cicero is surprisingly unimpaired. He describes the events and notes the citizens’

126 Berg (1997) argues that Cicero and Clodius’ competition for status and political clout was manifested in their competition for physical space (138ff.).

102 lamentation; but then he focuses on Clodius’ madness. Cicero does not dwell on the second loss of home. Here is a confirmation of Cicero’s separation of his self from his home; the loss of home is not a crisis as it was in 58.

The idea that place still matters, but that the locus of domus does not, has been threaded throughout the letters, and throughout this chapter. Place matters, but not the place of the physical building. It is, I argue, the place of the letters that is important.

Letters are a regimen of cure for Cicero; they are a new dwelling place. It is also worth noting that, in a letter where Cicero notes his change of place, there is a veritable proliferation of places: he mentions not only his own home, but also the homes of Quintus, Tettius Damio, Milo, Sulla, and Clodius. People seek refuge time and again in the home. Cicero, however, finds real refuge not in the physical home (as he did before, and as these others do now), but in another, healthful place.

This chapter has chronicled Cicero’s chronicle of exile and the effect it had on his relation to self and to home. At first, Cicero was in crisis; home and life were mutually sustaining. The loss of home and the concomitant loss of self gave rise to a general despair in Cicero. He also assumed a chaotic relation to space, lacking locational stability. Even in crisis, though, Cicero shows an element of control: he is writing about these issues in letters. In order to write coherently, he has had to ponder loss, emotion, identity, and so on. Cicero seems to gain order by placing his crises in letters. The letters erect themselves on a site where the domus has fallen. In these instances, Cicero demonstrates a certain suspension: he wants to harp on about the damage done, and yet he wants also to remedy that damage. In the letters, then,

103 Cicero does both. Despite the sense of suspension, Cicero shows that he has

‘progressed’ emotionally from his initial, teary desperation. Again, the letters provide him with a space for reconstituting self.

By the end of his exile, and upon his return, Cicero has leant to the side of remedy. He has let go of his dependence on the home, he has stopped crying, and continued writing. The letters testify to Cicero’s regimen of cure. Indeed, the letters are his regimen of cure. They are a cure, and they are a space Cicero builds for curing.127 They are like a new home.

Thus, as Cicero’s dependence on the home wanes, his proclivity for letters waxes. The disappearance of the home within the letters transpires to be a positive thing.128 In turn, the erasure of the home on the Palatine is a liberating crisis for

Cicero. For even as the loss seemed to destroy Cicero, it ultimately permitted him to dwell.129 Heidegger’s perception of space and building applies well to the Ciceronian experience. Heidegger argues that to build means to construct and to nurture; when man builds, he creates a place in which to dwell. Dwelling is intimately tied to being.

Indeed ‘building’ and ‘dwelling’ are semantically tied:

127 See Claassen (1999): “The collection [of exilic letters] offers valuable historical documentation of the exile of a Roman consular, but its chief interest lies in its psychological fabric as self-revelation,” p. 183.

128 Claassen (1999) notes that while Cicero was away, his house “is an external evil and harmful only insofar as it symbolises the disgrace and ignominy inflicted upon the state,” 161. As such, its erasure is surely a good thing.

129 It is not as though there is one revelatory moment, presented in one revelatory letter, wherein Cicero realizes who he is, and how that essence is not to be confused or conflated with the home. Rather, Cicero reconstructs himself both over time and by means of letter-writing. It is through this process that he regains his self.

104 Bauen originally means to dwell. Where the word bauen still speaks in its original sense it also says how far the nature of dwelling reaches. That is, bauen, buan, bhu, beo are our word bin in the versions: ich bin, I am, du bist, you are, the imperative form bis, be. What then does ich bin mean? The old word bauen, to which bin belongs, answers: ich bin, du bis mean: I dwell, you dwell. The way in which you are and I am, the manner in which we humans are on earth, is Buan, dwelling. To be a human being means to be on the earth as a mortal. It means to dwell. The old word baeun says that man is insofar as he dwells.130

At the same time, space is a ‘clearing-away’ (‘Raumen’ and ‘room’ are tied).

‘Clearing-away’, Heidegger claims, is to bring forth the free, to release room for man’s original dwelling:

Whereof does it speak in the word ‘space’? Clearing-away (Raumen) is uttered therein. This means: to clear out (roden), to free from wilderness. Clearing-away brings forth the free, the openness for man’s settling and dwelling. When thought in its own special character, clearing-away is the release of places toward which the fate of dwelling man turns in the preserve of the home or in the brokenness of homelessness or in complete indifference to the two. Clearing-away is the release of places…. [It] brings forth locality preparing for dwelling.131

Cicero’s home concealed his dwelling; it concealed his being. The erasure of the home released Cicero from the concealedness of his being. It liberated him, and released the space for him to dwell without home.132 In this free space (area), Cicero

130 Heidegger (1997a) 101. See also Beard (2002), 143; she argues that Book 3 of Cicero’s letters to Atticus should be read “as a book” and as one that “articulates a powerful version of exile as a state of (not-)being.” Beard recognizes the element of being, and belonging. She does not apply Heidegger’s thoughts to the matter, and her project is to point to reading the letters as a book; nevertheless, there is a convergence of perspective: being seems tied to place.

131 Heidegger (1997a) 122. See also Heidegger (1997d) 119-120.

132 Narducci (1997: 55-73) sees the positivity of exile. He argues that it is via exile that we see Cicero turn about in terms of his philosophical self: from the de domo to the Tusculan Disputations, the dolor from temporary absence from the republic becomes indifference, for the state rests in a sort of non- existence. Exile, in this way, “seems to have turned into a ‘good’.”

105 finds the site of letters. This location allows Cicero to build (to construct and to nurture) a dwelling, and then to dwell.133 The process of building letters into epistles

(epistlography) has been a necessary process of transformation for Cicero. In the traditional dwelling he failed to dwell, but in the locus of letters, Cicero built a maison d’être.

In important ways, Cicero’s version of the home both coincides and conflicts with that of Vitruvius in the previous chapter. In de architectura, Vitruvius demonstrated a sociology about the structure and internal goings on of the home; he drew parallels between the home and the human; and the role of language (of writing) was shown to be an important part of the process. We see these same aspects to the home in Cicero’s letters. But in the letters, the human is not only theoretical and abstract: it is Cicero himself. Nor is the home only theoretical and abstract: it is

Cicero’s own place. It is also gone. But, of course, it is also written down. In both cases, though, we see a domus emerging that extends beyond physical confines in order to house as well a commentary on the nature of the Roman self. The house is a site at which a Roman poses and answers, or at least begins to answer, the questions

“So what am I? So who are we?”

133 See Heidegger (1997a) 105. Heidegger shows that a thing (any thing) is a location, and as such, it creates space. Space is “something that has been made room for.” The space allowed by the thing contains a proliferation of places, some near and some far from the thing.

106 CHAPTER 4

THERE’S NO PLACE (NOT) LIKE HOME: DOMESTIC SPACE AND POLITICAL IDENTITY IN CICERO’S DE DOMO SUA

I found myself on the threshold of a new understanding. I discovered that architecture was perhaps the first of all the arts, and that the house was the most perfect expression of the self. Oliver Marc (1977) 8

Introduction

Portraits of the domus in Cicero are by no means limited to just one genre.

From the letters of 58 and 57 BC, I turn now to a speech Cicero made in September of 57. This speech, the de domo sua ad pontifices oratio (henceforth, de domo), was delivered before the high-priests of Rome; its aim was to have Cicero’s Palatine house restored to him at public expense. The details follow. First, however, it is necessary to explain why I have chosen this speech, and how this presentation of the domus ties in with those of the preceding chapters.

Cicero delivered the speech in the month following his return from exile.

Exile, and the experience of homelessness still sit at the fore of Cicero’s life. Given the points of thematic coincidence between this speech and the letters, it makes sense to consider them both individually and in tandem: how does the construction of a

107 grand public narrative of the fate of his private residence compare with the more intimate and often abject portrait of that same loss in the letters? The home figures prominently within this speech; and it figures both qua Palatine home and as symbolic structure.

The post reditum speeches more generally provide a cohesive portrait of

Cicero, his response to his return, and his method of conveying gratitude to Rome while at the same time expressing indignation at Clodius. The issues of exile and home are peppered throughout, but are not given center-stage.134 Rather, Cicero’s necessity to the city’s well-being, and Clodius’ wickedness are the focal points in

Cicero’s rhetoric.135 These other speeches include references to the Palatine and other homes, and some of those references have a broader symbolic value. For example, in the de haruspicum reponsis Cicero spends quite some time on his Palatine house, and the fact that it had no religious liability to it, despite Clodius’ actions. Here especially, we see the importance of the home, of its reputation, and of the pride Cicero seems to present in having the unanimous decision of the senate behind him.

The restoration of the house and of the support of the senate for this project in the wake of Cicero’s arguments about his house implicitly testify to Cicero’s own restoration as home-owner, citizen, and senator. Still, even as Cicero’s presentation of

134 The de haruspicum responsis does attend to the issue of the home in some detail: see sections 11, 14ff., 30ff. most notably.

135 Thus, these speeches are not unuseful to my exploration of Cicero’s identity, and the ways in which that identity rests on a sort of negative version of Clodius; all the same, detailed analysis of these speeches here exceeds the immediate scope of my dissertation. A good future project would investigate the role of identity and belonging in the post reditum speeches.

108 the home in these other speeches has symbolic significance, it is only the de domo that focuses centrally on the home and what that home stands for. Cicero asks of us in this speech that we look back at his house and realize that it did not just stand there on a hill as a piece of property, but rather he wants us to understand that this structure was a stand-in that “housed” a whole wealth of broader concerns.

Before the analysis proper, I would like to address a potential concern. My argument in the preceding chapter claimed that once the home was gone, Cicero established other spaces in which he faced and effaced the crises of loss (of home, family, status, and so on). The letters, I argue, became a place, a replacement if you will, of the Palatine structure. Accordingly, Cicero moved beyond any direct relation between self and home. Yet, in the de domo, we shall spot a sense of equivalence precisely between self and home: Cicero recreates a direct relation between the

Palatine structure and his identity, or being. One might reasonably wonder, then, about the change of the role of the home, or about the change in Cicero’s presentation: how does it benefit Cicero to establish a relation he has spent eighteen months deconstructing? I believe the answer is straightforward. It does not matter whether Cicero believed in a sense of equivalence, or, for that matter, if he did not.

Rather, this relation between self and home was an opportunity that Cicero seized, and used to his advantage, in order to win his case. After all, what good would it do if he were to stand before the pontifices (and later the senate) and claim that his house had no ties with his status and self even as he was trying to get it back?

109 If my reading of the letters emphasized the psychology of the claims implicit in his private communications with those closest to him, I interpret the speech rhetorically. Thus Cicero may well make a claim for the same core ideas in each of the two different venues, but in the context of public oratory one has to entertain the notion that these ideas have been elaborated specifically for rhetorical effect. Thus the

“psychological truth” of the representation of the house within the speech may only be an elaboration upon a once-felt theme. And yet this presentation to the pontifices must nevertheless meet the minimum requirement of plausibility for the audience.

That is, even if Cicero is not necessarily “sincere”, the claims he makes are always to be taken seriously and to be understood as notions that can and should be given weight in Rome.

With a sense of the fit between the two presentations of the home in Cicero’s letters and the de domo speech, I add one more reason to study the de domo, and then explain the methodology of the current chapter. This reason is, simply, that Cicero’s de domo sua has received comparatively little scholarly attention. In other words, even as Cicero asks us to take his home seriously, posterity has not in fact taken him up on his offer. In 1944, Walter Allen wrote an article about Cicero’s house and the shrine of Libertas that came to stand in its place.136 In 1997, Beverly Berg furthered

Allen’s thoughts, with an article that also focused on both the house and the shrine.137

Most often, though, this speech is mentioned in an ancillary way: rarely is it the main

136 W. Allen, Jr. (1944) “Cicero’s House and Libertas,” TAPhA 75: 1-9.

137 B. Berg (1997).

110 attraction. It is cited, for instance, in articles about the domus in general, about the

Cicero/Clodius relationship, or about Cicero’s private or public life.138 An analysis of the speech in its own right is needed.

The objective here, then, is to wedge open a space within this discourse on domus, wherein it becomes possible take seriously the case of “The Case of The

House,” and think through the logic of place and person that it both assumes and espouses. In order to illuminate this logic, three aspects of the speech need to be addressed. First, the conditions—both personal and political—that precede the speech must be briefly contextualized. This entails a quick recollection of Cicero’s ‘real’ home in terms of its location, its history, and Cicero’s acquisition of it. Next, the symbolic aspect of the house must be investigated. This means thinking through such concerns as: what does the domus signify? What does its razing stand for? When it is gone, what supplements that emptiness, both physically and psychically? Finally, the logic that underlies the (w)hole needs to be explored. This requires addressing such questions as: how does Cicero represent the relationship between the real and symbolic structures in this speech? And what might be his objective in so doing?

Cicero's text will project an image of the domus that, in the final analysis, is nothing but an image mobilized as part of a wordy and clever gambit designed to reproduce an irretrievably lost original. But both the process of design and the

138 On the domus in general, see R. Saller (1984) 336-355. On the de domo and its relation to the Cicero/Clodius conflict, see W. Rundell (1979)“Cicero and Clodius: The Question of Credibility,” Historia 28: 301-328; and W.H. Lacey (1974) “Clodius and Cicero: a Question of Dignitas,” Antichthon 8: 85-92. On the de domo and Cicero’s life, see S. Treggiari (1998) “Home and Forum: Cicero between “Public” and “Private”,” TAPhA 128: 1-23. This list is not at all exhaustive; it is meant to give a brief overview of the sort of appearances the de domo speech makes.

111 resultant imago are crucial, as I will show. Consequently, even though Cicero cannot reproduce the original, he can, and does, produce a new, and essentially important version. He does this is in a couple of ways. First, Cicero uses the domus as a medium through which to confront the crisis of exile, and of exclusion from Rome. Second,

Cicero uses words as a medium through which to rebuild his home, and to return fully to Rome. He writes about the home, and thereby writes it back.

The ‘Real’ Home: geography and politics.

In 62 B.C., right after his consulship, Cicero bought the house that is the subject of the de domo, and resided there for several years. He bought it from a

Crassus, who had bought it from M. Livius Drusus. The going price when Cicero made the purchase was HS 3,500,000 (2 million of which he had to borrow).139 The house was located on the Palatine Hill, most probably on the north, or NNE corner. In such a place, the house was highly visible to the Roman public.140 Cicero recognized that by purchasing this house he might have incurred the wrath and perhaps the resentment of several high-flying politicians; for Cicero purchased the house

139 On the cost and previous owners, see W. Allen, Jr. (1944) 2, 6.; and Platner, S. B. and T. Ashby (1929) A Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome London 175. Platner and Ashby discuss which Crassus is most probable. Primary references to previous owners: Vell. 2.14.1; Ps.-Cic. In Sa. 14, 20. Primary references to cost: Cic. Ad Fam 5.6.2; and Gellius 12.12.

140 On the location of Cicero’s domus, see de domo 100: in conspectu prope totius urbis domus est mea. See also Berg (1997) 123-135 especially; B. Tamm (1963) Auditorium and Palatium, Stockholm 28-43; W. Allen, Jr. (1939-40a) “The Location of Cicero’s House on the Palatine Hill,” CJ 35: 134- 143; W. Allen (1939-40b) “Nisbet on the Question of the Location of Cicero’s House,” CJ 35: 291- 295; and M. Royo (1987) “Le quartier républicain du Palatin, nouvelles hypothèses de localisation,” REL 65: 89-114. See also Christer Bruun (1998), p.92 especially; E.M. Steinby (1995) 212-217; L. Richardson (1992); W. Allen, Jr (1944) 2-3; and S. M. Cerutti (1997) “The Location of the Houses of Cicero and Clodius and the Porticus Catuli on the Palatine Hill in Rome,” AJP 118: 417-426.

112 somewhat secretively, which meant other potential buyers were unfairly excluded. In addition, the size, location and pedigree of the house signified the sort of political dignitas that some might find beyond the station of a novus homo. Certainly Clodius later argued as much.141

In 58 B.C., recall, Cicero fled from Rome, essentially exiled by Clodius.142 No sooner had he left, than Clodius dismantled and demolished his domus.143 With this action, Clodius eradicated Cicero by razing his house (by doing away with him house and home). Cicero and his domus are metaphorized into, and as, one another, into one discursive space. There exists a sense of equivalence between Cicero and his home.144

Specifically, no domus meant, so far as Clodius could conceive it, no Cicero, or a repressed Cicero (after all, he is not dead).145 In other words, even if Cicero himself had wished to take the house/self equivalence as a mere metaphor, Clodius was the first to insist on yoking the two and to do so publicly. The de domo thus necessarily

141 See Berg (1997) 124. For Cicero’s own observations on the risk of resentment: Ad Fam 5.6.2. Cicero defends his merit: Ad Att 1.13.6. On Clodius’ scorn: Ad Att 1.16.10

142 Clodius, keen on reform, passed the lex clodia that sent into exile anybody who had condemned citizens without a trial. Cicero, of course, had so done when he executed Catiline’s conspirators. Accordingly, Cicero went into exile. After he had gone, Clodius passed another, personal bill that placed a restraining order on Cicero, who could now not come within 500 miles of the city. Only worsening what was already a terrible move against Cicero, this second bill entitled Clodius to raze Cicero’s Palatine domus. The home, though, was already aflame, as looters and consuls alike had stormed and raided it right after Cicero had left (de domo 62; pro Sest 54). See Berg (1997) 129; W. Lacey (op.cit.); Ph. Moreau (1987) “La lex clodia sur le banissement de Cicéron,” Athenaeum 65: 465- 492; and W. Rundell (op.cit.).

143 See T. Maslowski (1976) “Domus Milonis Oppugnata,” Eos 64: 23-30.

144 Paul MacKendrick ((1995) The Speeches of Cicero: Context, Law, Rhetoric London: Duckworth Press 167) counts 1200 metaphors in the de domo speech, which “at 8.6 per paragraph, is well above the average.”

145 On the possibilities of house as reflective of owner, see below.

113 mirrors and inverts a prior successful case prosecuted against the house by Clodius.

Moreover it is also clear from the Cicero’s letters that this public action against

Cicero’s home also “struck home” in a second sense and affected not just a structure but also Cicero himself.

To be certain that this visible hilltop space would never again be Cicero’s,

Clodius first (and nefariously) imported a statue of Libertas to the site, and then had the area consecrated. For, if this land was consecrated, it could never again belong to, or be retrieved by, Cicero or any other private person.146 Clodius thereby effaced the site of Cicero’s domus, just as he had effaced the sight of Cicero himself, or so he thought.147 As with all things repressed, however, Cicero returned. Returning with him were a revivified energy and oratorical drive that he put to use in the de domo.148

146 See A.M. Tupet (1966) “La ‘palinodie’ de Cicéron et la consécration de sa maison,” REL 45: 238- 253; W. Allen Jr. (1944) 1-9; and B.W. Freier (1978) “Cicero’s Management of his Urban Properties,” CJ 74: 1-6. For more on the statue of Libertas, see section 2 below.

147 An obvious question here might be, Why was Clodius so motivated, so personally motivated, to destroy Cicero? Various suggestions arise, foremost among them (1) that Clodius had been so utterly humiliated by Cicero after the Bona Dea scandal; and (2) that Clodius, steeped in traditional Roman aristocratic blood, despised Cicero’s new-blooded success and its concomitant airs of pretension. One could reread, then: Ad Att 1.16.4; 1.6.10; Pro Sulla 21-22. Elsewhere, see Lacey (1974) 85-92; W. Allen (1944) 3, note 14. For more on the Bona Dea scandal, see D. F. Epstein (1986) “Cicero’s Testimony at the Bona Dea Trial,” CPh 81: 229-235; H. H. J. Brouwer (1989) Bona Dea. The Sources and a Description of the Cult Leiden; W. Jeffrey Tatum (1990) “Cicero and the Bona Dea scandal,” CPh 85: 202-208; Hendrik S. Versnel (1992) “The festival for the Bona Dea and the Thesmophoria,” G&R 39: 31-55.

148 Cicero did not only want to have his house rebuilt at public expense: he aimed also at persuading the pontifices to annul Clodius’ consecration, for the Senate had decreed that if the space were not sacred, then it would be returned to Cicero without offence to state religion. On the possibilities of undoing a consecration, see de domo 127-131, and 136-137; on the effects of Cicero’s appeal to precedence, see Ad Att 4.2.3 and 4.1.7; on the consequences to the consecration’s annulment, and the return to Cicero of Cicero’s house, see Ad Att 4.2.5, and Ad Fam. 5.6.2. See also Berg (1997) 133-134; and MacKendrick (1995) 159-160.

114 Already, then, Cicero and the domus seem mutually implicated, embroiled in an ambit of law, religion, politics, self-presentation, speech, liberty, and finance. They are embroiled, that is, or confined within the textual image that is Cicero’s home.

Cicero’s speech represents, as it reproduces, this inter-relationality. Cicero manifests deeds, relations and concepts that have already been mobilized by history. It will be evident that, in his speech, within the context of life, and under the text of ‘restore my house’, is a house that is a substantive vehicle mobilizing all things Roman even as it masquerades as a single domestic unit of a private individual. Cicero makes this happen. He repeatedly situates his domus at the metaphorical heart of things political; he theorizes the state from out of the home, and from out of this text on home.

The ‘real’ situation, that is, joins house to self. Context places Cicero and his home in one conceptual field: ‘domus = Cicero’ is a proposition that Clodius had already propagated. Text proper will articulate it as well: return of domus = return of

Cicero. Between the text and context we see that the house is always also a stand-in for something else. Furthermore, there is a subtext that produces the substance of the text, some foundational quality about the home: a domus that is not only in Rome, but that houses all things Roman. All aspects of the text internalize Rome’s internal affairs into a bound unit, and into the space of the domus. But as we move in to the text, into the space that is domestic, we realize that we can only ever theorize the state from out of this very texted space. Thus we are forced (Cicero forces us) ever to

115 oscillate between internal and external affairs, between inside the home and out into

Rome, and we are forced to play this game of a ‘here and there’ that is neither here nor there as we grapple with what the de domo is really trying to tell us.

The Symbolic Home

Since even in the preceding account of the “real house” the symbolic dimension of this edifice could not be avoided, it becomes necessary now to investigate this very symbolic dimension, and try to work out what the house signifies, what its erasure signifies, and what its replacement means in light of it all.

First, then, what does Cicero’s house signify? Consideration of the ‘real’ house answered this in part (home and political dignitas are mutually reflective: Cicero, his house, and Rome are at times equivalent). There too, a razed house signified an erased Cicero. In addition, Cicero himself renders the metaphorical relation between home and self explicit (return of home = return of me).149

Though important, such observations hit only upon the surface. If we are to understand not only that the house is symbolic, but also how it is, and how important this is, we must use these surface glimpses as a springboard. We must look at the stakes of this speech: Cicero’s home is lost; Cicero and his home implicate one another; therefore, Cicero is lost. This is no small matter: it is not just that Cicero is

149 de domo 100 (nam si vos me in meis aedibus conlocatis…video me plane ac sentio restitutum); see also 143, 147. We find the same thing in the letters: Ad Att 14.2.3, 3.20.2. On Cicero’s return and the concomitant return of the Roman state, and on exilic epistolography, see C. Edwards (1996) Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 114-116. On exilic literature more generally, see Jo-Marie Claassen (1999) Displaced Persons: The Literature of Exile from Cicero to Boethius Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

116 gone, but all that he represents as well. In order to gauge the gravity of the loss of

Cicero, we must understand the importance of the presence of Cicero. To this end, I turn next to the placement and (self-)presentation of Cicero, and in so doing situate him as central to it all (text, Rome, and domus).

But this is only part of the task. For, once Cicero is gone, his void is itself voided by a new presence. From a cursory reading of the text, it is clear that this replacement is a terrible mistake. But, as before, further analysis is necessary. Thus, in order to understand the mistake of the replacement, we must look at the replacement, Clodius, and understand just who this Clodius is, what it is that he has done, and what the effects of such action are. To this end, Cicero’s placement of

Clodius as the replacement, as a figure central yet ever marginal to it all, will be explored.

It is important always to bear in mind that Cicero was a strategist; hence I appreciate that he seizes upon the house-as-self relation for persuasive ends. In addition, the Cicero and the Clodius whom we see in the de domo are Cicero’s constructs. The actual mental states of Cicero and Clodius are not as important as the portrait of them within this speech. “How does Cicero use these figures in order to achieve his goal, and retrieve his home?” becomes the crucial question. And yet it is also clear that even where we cannot say “X really thought Y about Z”, we nevertheless can come to appreciate who can be expected to take what seriously and so also when and why they should act or feel in a given manner.

117 (I) The Subject that is Cicero

Cicero presents himself as an essential subject both at and for Rome: subject to the city, subject of it, the only subject who is essential to the city, and indeed, the subject whose essence constructs, reflects, and preserves the city.150 He provides his audience with several positive images of himself: as guardian, as Citizen-of-all- citizens, as savior, and as the single parent. First, then, Cicero calls himself the custodem defensoremque Capitoli templorumque omnium (7).151 Cicero invests himself in the practice of politics, and in the politics of practice, as he and city become mutually implicated and dependent.152 The text is about the house, and custos can refer to the keeper or master of the domus. Thus, the use of custos, and of defensor, recall both the home, and the text that is about the home.153 In this way,

Cicero, Rome and home become, textually interwoven and interrelated. Defined, and housed, within the confines of the de domo, then, Cicero is the custos of the city, of the domus, and of the text.

150 This aspect of the de domo invites a psychoanalytic reading; in which event, see Jacques Lacan (1982) Feminine Sexuality (ed. J. Mitchell and J. Rose) New York: W. W. Norton & Co., especially pp. 31-33.

151 All in-text citations are of de domo; the number in paragraphs denotes the section in the speech. I have used the OCT: M. Tulli Ciceronis Orationes V (ed. W. Peterson) Oxford: Clarendon Press (1911).

152 On Cicero casting self and state as one and the same, see footnote 154 below.

153 Custos pertains to the “one who protects (persons, places, conditions, etc.),” OLD s.v. custos. Not unimportant is that in all definitions, the custos is there because of a threat of disturbance. In lieu of this (as it were), Cicero protects himself (the person), his home and the state (the places), and the effects of his exile (the conditions), all of which are on the brink of collapse. Likewise, a defensor is one who “exerts force, authority, etc., to afford protection, a protector, a defender,” OLD s.v. defensor; again, then, there is some sort of external danger against which the defensor acts.

118 But he is more than just a guardian: he is also the self-inscribed citizen sine qua non.154 The whole Senate, even in his absence, recognizes Cicero as a most illustrious man –as the civis of all cives—who has conferred the greatest services upon the republic:155

Denique universus senatus…gratias agendas censuit civitatibus iis quae M. Tullium—tantumne? immo etiam—civem optime de re publica meritum, recepissent. Et tu unus pestifer civis eum restitutum negas esse civem quem eiectum universus senatus non modo civem, sed etiam egregium civem semper putavit? (85)

Cicero stands out (egregium) from inside the text even as he stands out from the vulgar grex of Romans. By means of his words, Cicero is shepherded out of the private domesticity of the text, and into the public civic world, as the citizen above and beyond all others. Oddly enough, though, he is already (contextually) ejected

(eiectum) from the city. He is, all at once, within the text, standing out from the text, herded out of the home into the city, yet already thrown out of the city. Where is he exactly? Nowhere, but everywhere: the ever present, ever the ubiquitously absent subject, governing state and city from wherever.156

154 Cicero is the state; so no Cicero means no respublica. Mackendrick (1995) notes the self-as-state relationship too: see p. 175 especially. So does Emanuele Narducci ((1997) “Perceptions of Exile in Cicero: The Philosophical Interpretation of a Real Experience,” AJP 118.1: 55-73); Narducci notes that, if Cicero = state, then when Cicero is gone, he cannot be in exile, since there is no longer any state in Rome.

155 It is important to note that Cicero presents the Senate and their views. We are not to worry much about the risk of exaggeration, though, because Cicero presented this speech in front of the pontifices: he is unlikely to have made excessively extravagant claims amidst people who were ‘in the know’ on all things public.

156 Note that Cicero’s language plays (and so forces us to play) with in and out –hence, e/iectum, e/gregium. We shall spy this throughout.

119 But Cicero is not only the guardian of the city, nor only the civis exemplar. He is the savior of the city, the necessary salve and strongest link, who anticipates a speedy restitution from exile. He claims he saved the city: nec intellegebam fieri diutius posse ut mihi non liceret esse in ea re publica quam ipse servassem (64). And he was right. How could the state deny the savior’s return any longer? It needed him.

Indeed, it was quite literally starving as it awaited his return. Corn prices were sky-rocketing, as supplies were waning, and a fames (10) was seeping into the city: a hunger, and a desire for something missing, and for nourishment. The famine was real: res erat non in opinione dubia, sed in praesenti atque ante oculos proposito periculo, neque id coniectura prospiciebamus, sed iam experti videbamus (11). At the same time, it was symbolic. Cicero suggests that the famine was not just a famine, but also a pretext for sedition: sin causa fuit annona, seditionis quidem instimulator et concitator tu fuisti… (11).157 It also signified a displaced desire, and evoked a broader context: the ‘actual’ famine became a symptom that manifested an unconscious desire for that lost object/subject that was Cicero. Whether real, symbolic, or both, was there not a need for some salve, some medicina quae et illud nativum et hoc inlatum malum sanare posset (12)? Who better than Cicero? After all, he was the object of the city’s symbolic desire; and he was the nourishing custos. If his absence were the cause for

157 Cicero ipse is encouraging us to elicit or extract multiple meanings from within the text: the real fames exists not only in some historical context; it is a pretextual symptom of that context, a sign of a revolting (because starving) grex, in need of food and in need of a shepherd. In this way, Cicero engages us here as well in the game of discovering meanings lying latent below the text.

120 starvation, his return should mean salvation. But he was gone. And in his absence, not only could he not remedy Rome’s sickness, he could do nothing but add to the fames, for he too was now absent and desired.

If we translate all of this into the terms of Vitruvius 6.5.2 for a moment, we can see that with the loss of the house of the eloquent man that could have received gatherings (ad conventus excipiundos), the houses of the lowly citizens suddenly find that their granaries and larders are empty (ad fructus servandos). The spectacular public works program (publicorum operum magnificentia) instituted by Clodius on the site of Cicero’s house in fact upsets the salutary “economy” of the relative positions of various spaces at Rome. Thereupon we can invoke the biological dimension of Vitruvius’ thought and recall how unhealthy spaces produce sickness more generally. In short, the Ciceronian subtext plays with the same sort of social, medical, and architectural mix as is constructed in Vitruvius’s text.

So when the Senate met in order to return to Cicero his dignitas, suddenly the price of corn, previously outlandishly expensive, went down (14ff.). Some said, and

Cicero concurs, that it was a divine sign of approval for Cicero’s reditus: erant qui deos immortalis--id quod ego sentio--numine suo reditum meum dicerent comprobasse. Others said that Cicero was the only hope for calm and concord (15).

Either way, it was only by means of his return, and by being once again home-bound,

121 that the city could assuage its starving self. Cicero’s nomen (14; nominabant, 14; nominabar, nominatim, 15) incites divine numen incites nourishment to the city.158 As

Cicero puts it:

Itaque sive hunc di immortales fructum mei reditus populo Romani tribuunt, ut, quem ad modum discessu meo frugum inopia, fames, vastitas, caedes, incendia, rapinae, scelerum impunitas, fuga, formido, discordia fuisset, sic reditu ubertas agrorum, frugum copia, spes oti, tranquillitas animorum, iudicia, leges, concordia populi, senatus auctoritas mecum simul reducta videantur… (17).

Steeped in issues of law, religion, and politics (all represented by the return of one man), Cicero begins with a vision of despair and suffering, and builds up to an almost utopian landscape of peace and abundance, rooted in Catonian agri-politics. In all this, Cicero nurtures a nurturing Cicero: he writes himself in as the medicina of the state, and as necessary to the city’s health and well-being. Rome suffers a real and a symbolic eating disorder in Cicero’s absence, and quite starves for his return.

Cicero’s presence marks a cure: a return of health not only to the city, but also to its economy, its constitution, and even to its soul.159

Cicero’s fourth self-portrait is that of the sole parent. He does not belabor the claim, but he does make it; and in so doing he swaddles the state, and the well-being of the state, in the embrace of his parenthood:160

158 On the importance of naming, see Saller (1984) 348.

159 In this regard, and for general (self-promotional) portraits of self, compare the Catilinarian speeches.

160 Cicero joins private with public here: parenthood is thought to be part of the domestic economy (oikonomia), whereas the state of the state is part of the public world. Cicero’s domestic role is tied up in important ways with Rome’s public role. Again, then, he theorizes the state out of the home, even as the home houses the state.

122 Ego vero etiam rei publicae semper interesse putavi me illius pulcherrimi facti, quod ex auctoritate senatus concensu bonorum omnium pro salute patriae gessissem, splendorem verbis dignitatemque retinere, praesertim cum mihi uni in hac re publica audiente populo Romano opera mea hanc urbem et hanc rem publicam esse salvam iurato dicere fas fuisset. Exstinctum est iam illud maledictum crudelitatis, quod me non ut crudelem tyrannum, sed ut mitissimum parentem omnium civium studiis desideratum, repetitum, arcessitum vident (94).

Cicero is the person whose words will be an example for the safety of the city

(salute hearkens back to the savior Cicero). He is the one and only (mihi uni) person who can claim to have saved the city (salvam acts like salute). Such responsibility and acts of protection are certainly parental. But Cicero makes it clear that this is his role, when he articulates the change from tyrant to parent, the mellowest, mildest, maturest parent (mitissimum parentem).

These, then, are the self-portraits that Cicero presents. From these, it is possible to understand better just “who” it is that is missing.161 To an extent, though,

Cicero’s importance to the city is realized most clearly when he is in exile; the necessity of his presence is apparent mostly via his absence; and the salve he brings is evidenced by way of the sickness Rome suffers without him. Cicero institutes, as he inscribes, a mutual dependence: Rome needs him inasmuch as he needs Rome. He is the one-and-only essential subject, who metaphorizes home and state into, and as, one another. He invests in domestic and political currencies, and thereby both invents himself as the guardian pater of the domestic and political families at Rome, and

161 I recognize that “who” Cicero is is Cicero’s “who”, i.e. that Cicero is responsible for presenting us with this portrait of Cicero. The notion of subject (who is missing) and of object (whom do we (not) see?) is complicated enough when there’s a 3rd person involved in the presentation. In self- presentation, it is no less complicated. For more on this, see the final section of this chapter.

123 plugs himself into the network of metaphorical relations. When Cicero is home-bound

(returning home, and bound within domus discourse) he is also Rome-bound; being a

Rome-body, he becomes a necessary and all-important somebody.162 In this regard, we have come to understand not only “who” it is that is missing (when the house is razed), but also how completely grave it is to the State that he is missing: can the city even exist without a guardian, a role model, a savior, or a parent?

With a notion that Cicero is the all-important subject not only of Rome, but of home and text too, we shall now examine just who it is that replaces him, and just how serious a mistake this is.

(II) The Supplemental Subject that is Clodius

As stated earlier, if we are to understand as fully as possible what it means to claim that the domus is symbolic, we need first to look at who it is that the house replaces. We need to realize the importance of this “who”, especially if we are to grasp the significance of the loss of the domus, and what that loss in turn signifies. In addition, we need to explore the replacement of razed domus, and of exiled “who”; in particular we need to see not only who supplemented these voids, but also what measures he took to fill the emptiness, and what the effects of his actions were. Then we can work towards a more foundational grasp of the ways in which Cicero

162 Heidegger (1997a) claims that man’s Being is inextricably bound up with and in dwelling. See also Heidegger (1997c) “Art and Space,” in Rethinking Architecture (ed. N. Leach) London: Routledge, pp. 121-124: here, Heidegger argues space = clearing away (raumen). Clearing away brings forth the free; it is release, and as such brings forth “locality preparing for dwelling.” I apply this theory in Chapter 3 below.

124 manipulates his speech based on using the domus as symbol. So, enter Clodius not simply to the fray, but as the fray, for Clodius is the new “who” who supplements the gap left by Cicero’s disappearance.

As noted, Cicero’s presence is understood by way of his absence, and his role as medicus is understood by way of the city’s sickness. Cicero seems to be negotiating and renegotiating his roles and relationships through a system of binary opposites. Indeed, the de domo speech is woven with oppositions; the speech thereby becomes a discursive space wherein all sorts of boundaries are defined, refined, produced, and disseminated. However, no sooner do we note that distinctions come manifestly to the fore in de domo than we recognize that these oppositions are themselves inevitably bound together, both symbolically and literally.163

In this way, Cicero creates the funambulist’s haven. Bound within the circle of oppositions are:

Cicero/Clodius present/absent public/private ordered/extra ordinem external/internal word/deed sacred/profane named/not-named libertas/confinement legitimate/transgressive old/new original/replacement speaking/silent master/slave sick/salubrious subject/object

163 Just think of what we have already noted: absence is stressed via presence, its opposite; health via sickness, its opposite; and so on. This system of binary opposites is found generally in the work of Structuralists (such as F. de Saussure, C. Levi-Strauss, R. Jakobsen, or R. Barthes). See also Cicero’s own words: “What a great and difficult thing it is to maintain in public life the mask of a leader, which must be slave to the hearts as well as the eyes of our fellow citizens” (Phil. 8.29). Compare Treggiari (1998) 23 on this passage. The master/slave relationship is important here; but so too is the “mask”, the suggestion that there are (at least) two levels, two faces—the one shown, the other latent. So it is, then, with much of Cicero’s language: fames, domus, libertas (as we shall see), and more.

125 The key opposition within the de domo, however, is that between Cicero and Clodius, also figured as house and ruins/statue. This opposition embraces, embodies, articulates, and reproduces many of those oppositions listed above; at the same time, it serves well as a conceptual framework of ‘opposites’ into which other relations can be plugged and understood. The Cicero/Clodius conflict is a paradigm that mobilizes all these tropological formulae. This series of oppositions is just another point at which we may observe Cicero as a strategist at work: he constructs his self and

Clodius, and ties their relation to home/no home, and to Rome/Rome-in-crisis, and so on. His listeners are asked to accept this elaborate network of oppositions even as the network qua network is never explicitly articulated. However the arguments adduced relative to each separate antithesis tend to strengthen the sense of the “rightness” of all of the others. Ultimately the set of analogies becomes irresistible and the case as a whole feels persuasive.164

The importance of the Cicero/Clodius pair within this chapter, though, lies in its use for further investigating the symbolic role of the domus within this speech. So, who is this Clodius? Throughout the speech, Cicero posits Clodius outside of the symbolic, domestic, and every type of order, in a sort of non-space, as a sort of non- entity. From the beginning, he confesses: omittam ordinem dicendi meum (3), for this is Cicero’s only way of responding to that demens Clodius’ non-speech (non oratio,

164 See Althusser (1971) “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (Notes Towards an Investigation),” in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. New York: Monthly Review Press, pp. 127-186, under “Irresistable analogy” 200 ff.

126 3). Cicero repeatedly drives home Clodius’ extra-ordinariness. His motivation seems to stem from the fact that, just when Cicero claims to have saved the city (rem maximam fuisse summique periculi, non solum a fame, sed etiam a caede indendiis vastitate, nemo negat, 18), Clodius appears, fretting that all of Cicero’s actions were done in a most unorthodox fashion. Clodius’ complaint is that Cicero did what he did against the norm, and because of this, all of his actions are somehow invalid.165

Clodius negat oportuisse quicquam uni extra ordinem decerni (18). Cicero next rushes upon Clodius with an onslaught of order, and of all that lies outside of it: extra ordinem (also, extraordinariis) appears fourteen times in the next eight sections.166

And in so doing, Cicero not only denies that he was out of order (indeed, the onslaught of ordo reinvests Cicero with order), but, in an ironic turn of events, he even turns this very charge of extra ordinem against Clodius.

Cicero’s first point is to charge Clodius with inconsistency. First, he defends himself against Clodius’ initial charge by arguing that many great things have been done extra ordinem, and recognized as great nevertheless (18). Second, Cicero inverts

Clodius’ claims, and says that it is Clodius more than anybody else who is guilty of acting outside of the norm, and outside of legitimacy. For it was extra ordinem that

Clodius had the property of Ptolemy confiscated (20), had Cato appointed for the job

165 See MacKendrick (1995) 148, 157. Clodius was upset that Cicero had handed over extraordinary (= undue) responsibilities to Pompey during the corn-crisis. It is worth noting here a certain irony, to be assessed later: Cicero is about to turn Clodius’ charge against him, and thereby invert Clodius’ inversion. Since Clodius is ever presented as failing, might we infer that Cicero too is doomed to failure, precisely because he has adopted Clodius’ m.o.?

166 Extra ordinem appears twice in 18, 19, 21, and 26; once in 20, 23, 24, and 25; extraordinariis appears once in 22, and 24.

127 (22), transferred Cilicia to the praetor (23), assigned the provinces without lot not to the consuls, but to the pests of the republic (24), and put an end to his father, brother, and sister (24) (to name only some of the transgressions of Clodius). The conclusion is simply that nothing is pleasing to Clodius unless it is done outside the ordinary: the line extra ordinem ferri nihil placet Clodio (26) is used as a springboard for an indignant series of counter-examples.

So, up to this point, this “who” who counters Cicero is out of the ordinary, out of order, and out of line. In this respect, Clodius’ extra-ordinariness counters, even as it accentuates, Cicero’s strong hold on order. Thus, as the domus stands for Cicero and order, so the erased domus stands for Clodius and outside-of-order. But there is more to this non-order that is Clodius: for, not only does Cicero locate Clodius on the outside of ordo, he also allocates a certain non-ness to Clodius generally. Clodius is a non-entity; and this is manifest in several ways.

First, as noted, Cicero responds to the non oratio (3) of Clodius. Indeed,

Clodius is always without speech, and always without voice, in the de domo. Clodius cannot speak, and cannot do oratory; he can only speak artificially either by constructing a reproach (convicium, 3), or by being voiced or paraphrased by

Cicero.167 In 4 and 5, Cicero voices Clodius (by anticipating what he might say), all in order to silence him with counter-arguments. Clodius, all the while, says nothing: he is shut up within the text, and shut up by the text. He is impotently tacitus.

167 On voicelessness as representative of place/non-place in a social hierarchy, see G. C. Spivak (1994) “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Colonial Discourse and Postcolonian Theory: a Reader (ed. P. Williams and L. Chrisman) New York: Columbia University Press, 66-111.

128 But non-speech is not where Clodius’ non-being ends. Cicero even renders void any and all of those charges that this nobody ‘Clodius’ makes. For, any charges exacted against Cicero are always already invalid, precisely because they are charges laid according to Clodius’ laws, which means that they are charges made according to non-laws, which means they are not really charges at all. What Clodius bears upon

Cicero and Rome is, in Cicero’s words, non legem sed nefarium privilegium (26).168

Indeed, whatever he does has nothing whatsoever to do with the law: te omnino nihil gessisse iure (34). Why? Because, Cicero claims, Clodius is a non-tribune

(non…tribunum plebis, 34), and because any legislation passed after his adoption cannot be legal, since the adoption itself was not a legal procedure: in illa adoptatione legitime factum est nihil (77). In short, even as Clodius tries to uproot Cicero, house and all (even the trees are taken: etiam arbores transferebantur, 62), Cicero annihilates Clodius and all of his actions, also from the roots up: videsne me non radicitus evellere omnis actiones tuas (34)?169

168 The use of privilegium is not unimportant: from privus and lex, it comes to mean (in Cicero’s time) a law passed against an individual (vid. OLD). Privus has the sense not only of uniqueness but also of destitution, of being devoid in something (OLD s.v.). So privilegium becomes a law that is no law, a law embracing deprivation (privare). In this way, Clodius bears upon Rome not a law, but a nefarious non-law; which means that, by depriving Cicero of his private residence, Clodius negates Cicero with a negation.

169 Note: an actio is also a speech. Actio can mean public actions as well as judiciary pleading (speech of prosecutor) and delivery/gesticulation, and it can mean the action/plot of a play. Thus, in this illusio, Cicero uproots Clodius’ actions, speech, legal performance, and performance in general. He takes him out of all Roman space; sets him extra ordinem. For further reading on the non-ness of Clodius, see A. Riggsby (2002) “The Post Reditum Speeches,” in Brill’s Companion to Cicero: Oratory and Rhetoric (ed. J. M. May) Leiden: Brill, pp.168-169.

129 Cicero’s speech systematically dismantles Clodius, and posits the fragmented pieces outside of all Roman ordo. Clodius is extraordinary: out of the ordinary, and all about nothingness. By way of the non-adoption, he brings with him inversion of religion, politics, law, families, and Rome. In turn, he comes to represent all such inversions. Things are such that, if Clodius sets the precedent, everything will fall apart:

Ita populus Romanus brevi tempore neque regem sacrorum neque flamines nec Salios habebit, nec ex parte dimidia reliquos sacerdotes neque auctores centuriatorum et comitiorum, auspiciaque populi Romani, si magistratus patricii creati non sint, intereant necesse est, cum interrex nullus sit, quod et ipsum patricium esse et a patriciis prodi necesse est. Dixi apud pontifices istam adoptionem nullo decreto huius conlegi probatam, contra omne pontificum ius factam, pro nihilo esse habendam; qua sublata intellegis totum tribunatum tuum concidisse (38).

If Clodius sets the precedent, all things will become non-things; everything will be negated, even Roman religion, tradition, and law. Cicero drives this home in two ways: first, he fills his text with lots of negatives. Second, he places concepts and practices sacred to Rome under the jurisdiction of Clodius right after he has undermined Clodius’ very essence (37). If the high-priests were not yet persuaded of

Clodius’ non-adoption, then they will surely listen when the sanctity of the state

(religion) is tied directly to him.

Thus, the “who” that is Clodius is out-of-order, a non-speaking, illegitimate non-tribune making non-laws and threatening the most sacred tie that binds Rome together (religio). He is the anti-Cicero: where Cicero represents the Roman republic, and all things good, Clodius represents the complete inversion, a non-version at that, undone and out of Cicero’s circle. To take the relationship back to the domus: the

130 house that stood on the Palatine hill stood for Cicero, order, oratory, being, and legitimacy; but the no-longer-standing house stands for Clodius, non-order, non- speech, non-being, and illegitimacy. Which is to say that, all that could stand in where the domus had stood was, precisely, nothing.

But Clodius has no desire to be a non-entity (suppressed by or within Cicero’s speech). Like an oozing pustule popping out from a sore (in hoc ulcere tamquam inguen exsisteres, 12), he wants to be part of the circle of ordo that is Cicero’s.170 If

Clodius is to become a subject within Cicero’s paradigm, he must burst out

(erumpebat, 63; furor, 63), and violently (vis appears five times in 63 and 64).171 In so doing, Clodius releases desires long pent up (diu conlectam, 63). As Cicero’s domus was burning (ardebat), and as the consuls were feasting (epulabantur) in the conspiracy (despite the people’s fames), Cicero suffered Clodius’ violence on his own body:172

170 This sentence, though clearly technical and clinical in its primary sense, uses vocabulary that is evocative of further horrors; inguen is: a swelling on the groin; (the part of the body around) the sexual organs; and the place on the stem or trunk of a plant where a branch is joined. An ulcus is a sore, or ulcer on the body, or an excrescence on a tree; morbid sexual craving; and a canker, or sore. So, not only is Clodius penetrating, he is using the appropriate ‘stuff’ too; only, his stuff is infected, like an oozing boil. OLD s.v. inguen. Definition 3 of inguen, though less sexy, is pertinent too, given Cicero’s claim to uproot Clodius in this speech.

171 Vis appears 4 times in 63 (vim, vim, vi, vim), and once in 64 (vim). This is an appropriate, though somewhat oblique, word for sexual violence. Indeed, erumpebat can be somewhat orgasmic, and furor a frenzied and urgent sexual irrationality.

172 Cicero may wish to evoke a heroic and martial image, but given the rest of the passage, a sexual reading here is more than available. The passion, violent passion, is manifested in the language: see the OLD s.v. ardeo; fames; erumpo (this word also refers to the bursting of a boil –think back to inguen; it also refers to the sudden and violent breaking of silence –think back to the previously voiceless Clodius); furor; and impetus. It is worth noticing too that, as the adage goes, “where there’s feast, there’s famine;” such do we see here. Cicero is ever drawing opposites together, making them oppose and (yet) coalesce.

131 Hanc ego vim, pontifices, hoc scelus, hunc furorem meo corpore opposito ab omnium bonorum cervicibus depuli, omnemque impetum discordiarum, omnem diu conlectam vim improborum, quae inveterata compresso odio atque tacito iam erumpebat nancta tam audacis duces, excepi meo corpore. In me uno consulares faces iactae manibus tribuniciis, in me omnia, quae ego quondam rettuderam, coniurationis nefaria tela adhaeserunt (63).

With violence, wickedness, and mad-frenzy at the fore (vis, scelus, furor), Cicero sets the scene, and lays forceful foundations. Following closely is Cicero’s own body

(meo corpore), his body alone (in me uno), and he takes all the blows (in me omnia), blows not only long pent up, but silent too (tacita). This is a Clodian silence, no doubt. Conspiracy’s sacrilegious weapons have stuck into (adhaeserunt) Cicero’s now helpless body.173

Thus, as Clodius crosses the line, he transgresses the boundary of propriety:

Clodium esse qui contra leges faceret (48). In so doing, he brings with him his troubled, and illegitimate pollution. In other words, as Clodius throws liminality to the wind, as he forces his way over the boundary of legitimacy in to Cicero’s ordered space, he imports an inordinate amount of extraordinariness. As external becomes internal, as extraordinary weaves its way into what was order, as illegitimacy assumes authority, the tale of Cicero’s Rome gets twisted into a tale of indecency.

So, Cicero tells, Clodius ousted Cicero from his position of authority: hunc…domo et patria…cedere coegisti (5). Out Cicero had to go, compelled by vis

(56). How could he conceive of staying in such a corrupt place, such an extraordinary

173 Of course, Cicero is making a most noble self-sacrifice; in the rest of 63 he says he could have fought back (with equal force), but that such action would result in the collapse of the state. On the dolor that Cicero suffers, on behalf of, or because of the sacrifice he made for the state, see Narducci (1997).

132 locus of perversion, inversion and illegality? So, with Cicero absent, Clodius huffed and puffed, and finally blew the house down—or, rather, had the house blown down.

He had Cicero’s walls, pillars, roof, trees all transferred to the consuls (60-62), not because of some hunger for material gain (fames, 61), but because of a lingering hatred that he harbored for Cicero; about human nature, Cicero explains: quod, in quos…inflammatae mentes nostrae fuerunt, cum horum etiam tectis et sedibus residere aliquod bellum semper videtur (61).174

Clodius, then, cannot himself even do the deed he most wants (namely, tear down the house). In fact, all he can do is bluster. Clodius, it was noted, cannot speak; he is that un-speaking non-subject. So all he can do is blow about a lot of air.175 As it happens, though, Clodius’ efforts are always already in vain, for there is no permanent place for new injury; Cicero says:

Itaque infractus furor tuus inanis faciebat impetus; omnem enim vim omnium sceleratorum acerbitas mei casus exceperat; non erat in tam immani iniuria tantisque ruinis novae crudelitati locus (64).

174 In a way, then, the matter of the house is immaterial; it does not matter save for the fact that the house becomes matterless under Clodius. It is the immaterial (the ideological) that matters most. It is worth noting, however, the references to the home, as in tectis and sedes. Thus, destruction of the home is important in terms of overcoming the foe.

175 Compare Cicero and his booming voice (quam possum maxima voce dico), plus all the variations of dico in 96. David Konstan ((1993) “Rhetoric and the Crisis of Legitimacy in Cicero’s Catiline Orations,” 11-30 in Rethinking the History of Rhetoric: Multidisciplinary Essays on the Rhetorical Tradition (ed. T. Poulakis) Boulder: Westview Press, Inc.) notes the dangers of voiced and silent arguments; talking about Cicero and Catiline and their fight for legitimacy, Konstan writes: “If things may be their opposites, who is to judge what the silence means? What happens [during silence] to the oppositions between public and private, openness and secrecy? The valences that have served to distinguish Cicero from Catiline, public good from individual will, threaten to collapse” (17). This is especially pertinent to my own argument, where silence fits in with the general scheme of coalescing oppositions.

133 Clodius’ furor may have driven Cicero out, but his irruption is exhausted and useless, and can only ever be an interruption, a momentary (and extraordinary) lapse of order, filling in for a momentary lack of Cicero.

So, it is now clear who filled the gap left by Cicero. It is also clear just what this non-entity Clodius was up to. And it is evident that the domus, its presence, its erasure, and its replacement, are central to the articulation of the Cicero/Clodius relationship. Now we turn to the effects of Cicero’s departure, and the effects of

Clodius’ assumption of order. First, all out comes in, and all positives are negated.

The discursive circle gets overloaded: its space becomes cramped as all opposites are collapsed into, and are articulated within, the domus-speech. But it is not just opposites that coalesce: all Roman narratives (personal, political, religious, and legal) do. After its forceful entry, the illegitimate takes over. It becomes the new legitimacy, and in so doing replaces what was Rome. There is no more Rome. Once Cicero is gone, so is everything Roman. He says so himself: …si vicissem, tenuis rei publicae reliquas, si victus essem, nullas futuras (96). He reiterates: …remque publicam concidere unius discessu quam omnium interitu occidere malui (96). That is, the state fell at his departure.176 No Cicero = no republic. Indeed, if Clodius is a non-entity, then it is really quite true that some nobody (nullus) will be there in the place that was

176 And besides, even if there were anything left post Cicero’s departure, Clodius would have killed it off. For, as we see, the best men in the state said that (A) the republic was murdered by Clodius’ motion to drive Cicero out (clarissim[i] vir[i]…cum tua rogatione funere elatam rem publicam esse dicerent… 42), and (B) Clodius’ actions had made a deadly wound upon the state (quod de me civi ita de re publica merito tulisses, funus te indixisse rei publicae…. 42).

134 Cicero’s. This is ironic. Clodius was so desperate to get in; he does, but he is on his own in that space, which is surely now a non-space. He is a nobody, with no family, presiding illegally over the non-remains (nullas reliquas) of the State.

Second, Clodius ushers in, along with his polluted self, a desire for the now- absent, now lost object, Cicero. When he ousts Cicero, Clodius ensures a split between the city and its father. Cicero feels this split as he recounts the pain he felt:

Accepi, pontifices, magnum atque incredibilem dolorem: non nego, neque istam mihi adscisco sapientiam quam non nulli in me requirebant, qui me animo nimis fracto esse atque adflicto loquebantur (97). His heart and soul are fractured (fractus) and dashed (adflictus). The tripartite subject of Cicero/domus/Rome has been broken; consequently, we see a lost object, a lack, and a desire. For it is only by means of

Cicero’s absence that the republic can constitute its own self, and thereby recognize itself as a subject. It assumes subjectivity as it relegates that missing subject as object, object of desire, and object worth suffering fames for. And so we again return, as does the text, to Cicero’s role as savior. His return marks, time and again, the return to health for the city.177

Again, this is ironic, for Clodius’ plans to assume paternal authority backfire.

He attempts to lay claim to, and mastery over, Cicero and his place; for, even though he had others exact his actiones, still it was clear that what Clodius was really after

177 Num igitur in hoc officio, quod fuit praecipue meum, sententia mea reprehenditur? Rem maximam fuisse summique periculi, non solum a fame, sed etiam a caede incendiis vastitate, nemo negat…(18). We spy again Cicero’s compulsive repetition of self as savior. We also see the contrast between Cicero (the savior) and Clodius, iste speculator communium miserarium, qui semper ex rei publicae malis sceleris sui faces inflammaret (18).

135 was to snatch away all things Cicero. Cicero shows that he is aware of, and mocks,

Clodius’ intentions: nominis inscriptio tibi num aliud videtur esse ac meorum bonorum direptio? (51) He seems even to want to replace Cicero with his own name

(nomen), and to rename Rome as he assumes it as his; so, as he subjects Rome to a new authority (his authority) he inscribes (inscriptio) his name, and thereby rewrites proprietorship. Yet, as already noted, Rome suffers in Cicero’s absence; it wilts away, starving for his return. Rome’s eating disorder reflects the lack of order in the city.

Ultimately, this frustrates Clodius’ assumptive aims.178

Cicero describes a third effect of the ousting occurred when Clodius filled one part of the spatial void –where Cicero’s house had stood—with a statue of Liberty.179

Not that there had to be anything wrong with that: Romans commonly erected statues of, and shrines to, their favorite household gods. Cicero himself articulates the strength of the sacred in an individual’s home (109).180 But when Clodius erected

Libertas, there was definitely something wrong. First, Libertas represented the

178 Regarding inscriptio: how can Clodius expect to be able to write himself in to a (con)text which Cicero determines, structures, and controls? Clodius cannot speak, and he cannot do anything legally given his non-ness. Writing should be impossible. He is texted; but note he does not write himself in –he gets written in. Path(et)ic. Cicero inscribes Clodius’ name in this text and snatches him away in the same gesture.

179 For factual spatial information on this shrine, see W. Allen, Jr. (1944) 4. See also Berg (1997) 130- 131, who includes a plan of the new space.

180 See also Berg (1997) 132-133, who provides examples of the practice of erecting statues, indeed of erecting a statue to Libertas. For a detailed study on the politics of Libertas, see C. Wirszubski (1950) Libertas as a Political Idea at Rome During the Late Republic and Early Principate Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; pp.79-86 deal especially with Cicero, freedom, and government. For a more specific and literary-oriented report on libertas, see C.N. Johnson (1980) Libertas and res publica in Cicero and Tacitus New York: Columbia University; H. P. Kohns (1977) “Libertas populi und libertas civium in Ciceros Schrift De re publica,” in Bonner Festgabe Johannes Straub zum 65. Geburtstag am 18. Oktober Rheinland-Verl., 201-211.

136 conflict between Cicero and Clodius: provision of freedom to the state was something

Cicero had been laying claim to (or claiming to strive after), but something Clodius had been claiming Cicero had rendered impossible.181 In other words, before materializing, Libertas had already been flitting between these two, even caught between the two, and torn between them even as she bound them together.

A greater problem with this statue, though, was that this good goddess (a bona dea) was imported contra religionem (109). She was profane because, Cicero claims, she was a polluted, pilfered prostitute from outside Rome.182 Accordingly, she signified the very opposite of religio: sacrilegious and stolen, she came to represent the very opposite of freedom too. Cicero writes: at quae dea est? bonam esse oportet, quoniam quidem est abs te dedicata “libertas,” inquit, “est.” tu igitur domi meae conlocasti, quam ex urbe tota sustulisti (110). She is not freedom; she is slavery.183

Her physical self and her symbolic self serve only to perpetuate, and represent,

Clodius’ ridiculousness, his gaucheness, and his complete lack of understanding.184 In a third assumptive attempt, Clodius’ plan again backfires: his institution of Freedom

181 Clodius had called Cicero tyrranum atque ereptorem libertatis (Cic pro Sest. 109); vid. also Allen, Jr. (1944) 8, footnote 43 especially. Tyrants were not thought to bring libertas, but slavery.

182 de domo 111: Cicero describes how it was stolen, and in so doing presents a story of depravity and moral lapse. See also Berg (1997) 138, who suspects Cicero’s tale is a clever “invention”. It is interesting that Allen makes no mention at all of Cicero’s description of this stolen statue.

183 See also 130-131, where Cicero refers again to the slavery of this Libertas.

184 Allen (1944) argues that the shrine, so far as Clodius was concerned, was an explicit recall of Cicero’s tyrannical ways: “a shrine which implied Cicero’s public life had been treasonable, to put it mildly” (9); thus the shrine “attacked not only Cicero’s pride but also his political creed” (ibid.). Berg (1997) notes the symbolism too: “The shrine of Liberty becomes in Cicero’s oration an emblem of depravity and death,” one which contrasts strongly the religious steadfastness of Cicero and most Romans (137).

137 serves only to signify the loss of freedom, and at the same time, the inculcation of slavery. Again, Cicero seems to goad us into reading more deeply. The statue is more than just a physical object: it is steeped in underlying issues and concepts. The same thing holds with the domus then: relations are encoded in objects. Things are not so black-and-white, including leadership and slavery. But at the least, we must realize that Clodius’ importation of this statue is doomed to be ironic, given that he is a non- entity, making non-laws, contrary to religion, and so on. The statue cannot be the exception.185

And so, it is clear now “who” it is who replaces Cicero (Clodius), what it is that replaces Cicero’s home (the statue), and what some of the implications and effects of this are. Clodius is the pestifer, the non-civis, and the non-Cicero extra- ordinaire. Cicero and Clodius are opposites: the one is father, phallus, absolute authority, moral, in control, promoter of legitimacy, libertas, and order. The other is a bastard son, infected boil, lacking both phallus and authority, immoral, frenzied, pusher of polluted laws and polluted libertas; he is extra-ordinary. Nevertheless, delimited as he is within de domo, Clodius is a crucial player. For, even though

Clodius is steeped and drowning in an extraordinary and polluted psychosis, and even

185 Tied to this, see Treggiari’s article (1998). An additional, and important, concern arises here: to raze Cicero’s house, and to institute a shrine in its place constitutes a grand gesture. In so doing, does not Clodius bring Cicero more to the mind of the watchful citizens, than if he indifferently, casually, ignored the site, or sold it to some other person? Clodius’ actions speak against him; his plan backfires yet again.

138 though his violence drives Cicero out, it is precisely these conditions that allow

Cicero to be the vir bonus that he is, and allow the state to realize just how much it needs Cicero.

Cicero’s deconstructed house, then, leads to, even as it houses, a landslide of destruction: the domus becomes the vehicle that destabilizes, and thereby enables fluid movement between, all opposites. This includes the dichotomy of real and symbolic: by presenting a real and symbolic home, and by writing both homes away and then back again, Cicero makes us read into the text, look into the house, look into what the house signifies, and explore what its deconstruction and reconstruction in turn signify. He invites a certain voyeurism. So, while it is right to claim that there is more to the domus than concrete and mortar, it is wrong to stop at that surface. By engaging the text, we can realize how the home becomes a symbol, as well as how important this is. To lose the home is to lose Cicero; and to lose Cicero is of great consequence for all Rome. The severity of this situation comes manifestly to the fore when we see who it is that replaces Cicero, and what a dangerous mistake that is to the State.

What remains now is to take a step out from the text, and try to work out how

Cicero engages the real and the symbolic (and all that gets housed therein), as well as why he does so. What is his logic?

The Logic of the (W)hole

I shall now explore the ways in which Cicero uses and represents the loss of his home, and how he presents the significance of that loss in terms both of the

139 destruction of property, and of the psychical ramifications of that destruction. One way in which Cicero presents and uses the loss of home is by reinstating a sense of equivalence between home and self. He concurrently uses the lack of home to play up another sense of equivalence (which Clodius in fact sets up) between the empty space and Clodius, both of which factors are harmful. Cicero develops the missing house as a dangerous and unhealthy non-space (especially when the home is replaced by a stolen prostitute), under the control of a dangerous man acting contrary to state law and religion. In other words, Cicero links the negative effects of the lost home with the negative impact that that loss has on Rome. It is in his interests to emphasize these correlations in order to persuade his audience of the importance of regaining the home.

From these relations, we understand that the domus is a symbol of Cicero.

From his own presentation, Cicero’s presence in the city is the symbol of Rome’s health and safety. Thus we are asked to draw the broader conclusion towards which the speech continually argues: all things fall apart when Cicero is gone. But in August of 57, Cicero has returned. Even if Cicero himself is a key member of the network of signification, though, his return is insufficient to restore the sound economy of a host of opposing terms like sickness and health, inside and outside, and freedom and slavery.

It may seem superfluous to mention that, in addition to the various relations that Cicero uses, he uses language to build his case and rebuild his home. But words are an important factor of Cicero’s logic. For, inasmuch as the home symbolizes

140 Cicero, or the loss of home is associated with Clodius, these relations are only possible via words.186 Cicero, after all, needs to compensate for loss-cum-distance, for losing Rome, house, and self. Through language, Cicero writes away his concerns, and at the same time reconstructs that which is gone. He writes his home back, from hole to whole, by words. This is his logic: logoi.187

A counter-arguer may come up with another critical point here; namely, that there is little safety to be culled from words. The new home, and all that it signifies

(i.e. the reconstituted ego) is still only symbolic, since the words themselves are symbols. Any salve or reconstitution, then, can also only ever be symbolic. 188 There are two counters to counter this objection. First, the words were effective, they did effect the real reconstitution of the domus: Cicero won the case, and his house (really) was rebuilt. Second, even if the house were only rebuilt in words (i.e. if Cicero had lost the case), the process –of logical encoding—was nevertheless a crucial one.

For, during the process of writing, Cicero spins a web of mutually supporting and interacting opposites. He places himself in that web, caught between ordo and extra ordinem, between absence and presence, between word and deed, and so on. In several examples, interacting opposites are the thread that hold Cicero’s wordy web

186 Writing is a sort of therapy; for more on this, see M. Foucault (1994b) “Technologies of the Self,” in Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth (ed. P. Rabinow) New York: The New York Press, 223-252.

187 This works, then, for both a speech (as it was delivered) and a text (as it remains): constituted by words.

188 This perspective stems from Derrida’s discussion of “…That Dangerous Supplement…” ((1974) 141-164). See especially 153-154, culminating with: “The sign, the image, the representation, which come to supplement the absent presence, are the illusions that sidetrack us.”

141 together. The process, of writing and of presenting all that seems to have destroyed and opposed him, proves ultimately to be a very crucial and productive means by which Cicero weaves self and home together again. A rebuilt home (rebuilt in words, that is) signifies a fully returned Cicero.189

It seems clear that Cicero uses both words, and the home to make and win his case. We need now to ask why he uses the home, why use the home to articulate the importance of self? For one, it is important not to forget that the home is not always a mere symbol for Cicero. Cicero does in fact want his actual house (the real Palatine structure) back, so he will clearly talk both explicitly and directly about the house.

Beyond this, though, there are two principal reasons for encoding himself into his house: safety in metaphor, and the power of an image.

There is a safety in Cicero’s adoption of the house as metaphor for self. I say

‘safety’ because, while it may be possible to take away the real, it is not possible to take away what the real represents. Cicero will always be master of the metaphorized domus. But ‘safety’ also because once the self is encoded as home, a distance arises between Cicero and what he is really talking about (namely, Cicero). That distance enables him to present his situation from with-out, from afar, distanced and therefore demanding to be seen through another’s lens, through an objective lens, no less, for

189 Gianni Vattimo (1997) 155-164 argues that that which truly is is “not the centre which is opposed to the periphery, nor is it the essence which is opposed to appearance, nor is it what endures as opposed to the accidental and the mutable, not is it the certainty of the obiectum given to the subject as opposed to the vagueness and imprecision of the horizon of the world. The occurrence of Being is rather…an unnoticed and marginal background event.” This hits the nail on the head in terms of Cicero, Clodius, and how Cicero needs Clodius to be there (even if on the margin) in order to realize and reconstitute his being, his self, his identity.

142 now he is an objectified object to be looked at neutrally, and un-self-invested.190

Domus, as metaphor for self, houses that self, shields it from the introspecting subject and on-looking audience, and thereby demands to be objectified.

A counter-argument might here be made: namely, that there is little safety to be culled from this distance. For the distance is self-created; it is the product of the very subject who is attempting to view himself from with-out. Accordingly, any perspective that Cicero takes will inevitably be too steeped in his own self to permit any ‘real’, substantive distance –no matter how abstracted. For the subject is always surrounded by, even constituted in, so many social and individual conditions that any attempt to render himself separate from himself is impossible.191

To this, however, there are two counter-counters. First, the impossibility and futility of Cicero’s self-objectification can only be determined as such by an outsider, an uninvested (but assessing) onlooker. Cicero cannot access that outside perspective; the counter-argument claimed as much. Besides, Cicero has no need to be concerned with the impossibility of self-distancing or with the futility of self-objectification. He

190 Think of the oft-heard situation: “I have a friend who…” really means “I”. By the removal of one, the very one removes the problem of his (myopic) subjective lens. Here we find: “I had a house that…”.

191 On (the dangers of) writing history, especially one’s own history, as one retrospects, see J-M. Claassen (1) (1999) pp. 158-204; and (2) (1992) “Cicero’s Banishment: Tempora et Mores,” Acta Classica 35: 19-47. On Cicero’s self-fashioning, see J. Dugan (2001) “How to Make (and Break) a Cicero: Epideixis, Textuality, and Self-fashioning in the Pro Archia and In Pisonem,” CA 20: 35-77. More generally, on (the problems of) self-presentation, see T. Habinek (1998); E. Leach (1990) “The Politics of Self-Presentation: Pliny’s Letters and Roman Portrait Sculpture,” CA 9: 14-39; A. Riggsby (1995) “Pliny on Cicero and Oratory: Self-fashioning in the Public Eye,” AJP 116: 123-135. More generally yet: M. Foucault (1994a) “Self-Writing,” in Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth (ed. P. Rabinow) New York: The New Press, 207-222; especially pertinent to this paper is Foucault’s argument that writing and the body are equivalent: the role of writing is to constitute a body, and is a process of embodying. In this way, Cicero writes a body of text that (re)constitutes his body (in Rome).

143 need only be concerned with winning his case. So at most all he has to do is seem to believe in the distance he has created, and believe in the objective rationality of this distance. So long as he does this, Cicero grants himself the space in which he can direct his audience to associate the home and Cicero, and to glean the importance of rebuilding the schism that Clodius had tried to enforce. The other way to counter the counter-argument is by stating, simply, that even if it were impossible for Cicero to establish an objective distance, the process of what he is doing is, nevertheless, invaluable and effective. For the very act of talking through, of presenting in speech, the loss of the home is the first step towards the solution of that loss. In short, we should not discount metaphors as “mere metaphors” or mistake the practical efficacy of verbal representations.

Cicero used the home because he was aware, as most Romans were, of the power of images.192 The home was a concrete way (albeit a missing one!) for people to understand, to see, the importance and stability of Cicero. They could, more specifically, witness the tie between the Palatine structure and the fate of Rome: when they could no longer see that house, they could readily witness the decline in Rome’s health. They are asked to care for the house that is no longer standing precisely because they really do care for what that house supposedly “stood for”. Cicero invites

192 On the power of images during Augustan times, see Paul Zanker (1990) The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. See also Vasaly (1993), who argues for the potency of physical structures when referred to in Cicero’s speeches.

144 his audience to appreciate the connections between ideas and the objects that house them, to appreciate, that is, the connection between a house and the other ideas that a house houses.

It becomes evident, then, that it does not matter if, or that Cicero no longer

‘really’ associated his self with the Palatine structure, and that by 57 his letters are detached and no longer despondent when it comes to thinking through the loss of the house. The intimate relation home-and-Cicero is nevertheless revivified in this speech. The vitality of this connection is forged anew in order to plead a case for the reality of the house as a concrete manifestation of more than just mere concrete.

Cicero goes back to this line of thinking in order to get back more than a mere idea, but instead to recover both the idea and the thing, his house. Ultimately, then, Cicero uses both real and symbolic structures in order to present losses incurred in each register. And, even though somebody might argue that he does so only with words, the fact remains that these words are effective. Thus, Cicero’s domus discourse is indeed an illusive game of political and domestic currencies; but it is a game that

Cicero wins. For within this game physical and psychical, real and imagined crises are negotiated and renegotiated, viewed and reviewed, faced and effaced, written down and written off.

The presentation of the domus in the de domo bears resemblance to the presentations in the preceding chapters; at the same time, it bears its unique stamp. In de architectura, words build both home and man, and there is a direct relation between the two. So too do we witness this relation in the speech. The core

145 difference, though, is that the home and the man in de architectura are only abstract theoretical structures, whereas in the speech (as in the letters), both the house and the man are both abstract and real.

In the letters, house and self, as well as homelessness and chaos, were tightly bound together; so too in the speech. The difference between the speech and the letters, though, is that in the letters Cicero eventually does away with the relation, and replaces all things domestic within the letters. He creates another space. In the speech, however, Cicero reconstitutes this relationship in order to create another space in a real sense: he can rebuild his actual house if he successfully returns to the idea of the self/house relationship and represents that relationship not just to his friends but to his

Roman countrymen.

In all presentations so far, we see interesting and novel ways to think about the domus. It is important to consider these perspectives in addition to those culled from archaeological remains and scientific measurements. The home was not simply comprised of concrete; it was not simply a place where public and private interactions occurred. The literature testifies to this. Instead of merely digging through the area where a house once stood, Cicero pleads with us that we turn instead to the idea of the house more generally in order to make a first step towards rebuilding it in its concrete reality as both structure and symbol.

146 CHAPTER 5

CICERO, PHILOSOPHY, AND A NEW HOME: THE ILLUSION OF PHILOSOPHICAL SOLUTION

To build a house is to create an area of peace, calm, and security, a replica of our own mother’s womb, where we can leave the world and listen to our own rhythm; it is to create a place of our very own, safe from danger. For once we have crossed the threshold and shut the door behind us, we can be at one with ourselves. Oliver Marc (1977) 14

Introduction:

In the chapters immediately preceding this, two presentations of home have emerged: first, an epistolary, then an oratorical one. Each has a chronological correlate: the epistolary domus surfaced during his exile, and the domus in oratory when Cicero was first back at Rome. In addition, each domus is imbued with real and symbolic qualities: the home is both a physical structure on the Palatine, a conceptual token of status, and a locus of and for being. As a token of status, the domus is not only an emblem of Cicero’s public and political clout, but also a measure of his personal identity. In the letters, Cicero does away with any direct relation between the house and self; in the speech, however, Cicero ‘makes a case’ for just such a relationship, and argues that the community as a whole should take it seriously.

147 More often that not, the domus appeared in order to demarcate what Cicero had lost. For instance, in the letters, Cicero equates his absence from home with a concurrent loss of family, political power, and personal identity; in the de domo speech, he identifies the demolition of his house with a simultaneous loss of self and downfall of the republic. Inasmuch as the domus is a physical structure and a token of status, it is also –perhaps more so—a measure of no longer being a physical entity, and being an emblem of lost status.

But is the sense of home that Cicero produced on one occasion one that is limited merely to that occasion? Is it in fact limited to those genres? After that unhappy episode has been resolved and now that the home is not gone, does that portrait get forgotten? The answer to all of these questions is, “no”. The story of the house gets retold in the period of 46-44 BC. That is, Cicero revisits these issues several years after the exile, when he no longer lacks a physical home. This necessarily presents a new relation to, and perception of, the domus. There is also a new genre: philosophy. By exploring a philosophical representation of the domus, a more thorough version of the literary home will emerge. This chapter, then, is an investigation of the domus in Cicero’s philosophical texts where it subsists as a specifically literary trope that animates the discussion. The home is once again metaphorical. And here the home coordinates, even as it complicates, the intersection between philosophical abstraction and individual biography.

The first part of this chapter will present a brief portrait of Cicero and his engagement with philosophy. Though in some ways Cicero assumes a rather eclectic

148 philosophical palate, the focus here will rest in his adoption of Stoicism, especially in his use of the Stoic theory of oikeiosis as he reconceptualizes space and self in his later years. With a sense of Cicero’s philosophical history, this chapter turns next to a specifically Stoic reflection, found in the Paradoxa Stoicorum (henceforth, PS).

I have chosen the PS for several reasons. For one, as its title suggests, this text is directly (more so than any other extant philosophical text) engaged with Stoicism.

As such, it will provide a special picture of Cicero and his application of, or attention to that philosophical school. In addition, by pursuing Cicero’s presentation of

Stoicism, useful ties to Vitruvius can be made, since Vitruvius also expressed a knowledge of, and interest in, Stoic philosophy and its relation to space and language.

For the Stoics were especially intrigued by space (indeed their name is derived from the ancient Stoa, where philosophers met for discussion). They developed a spatial theory (oikeiosis) that was centered on the oikos. I will investigate this below; but it should be apparent immediately that there are ties that link the oikos, oikeiosis, and

Stoicism with both the domus, and the ways in which Cicero makes use of, and portrays home. Besides these reasons, I have chosen to explore the PS because in it we find the same factors as in the letters and the speech: exile, home, homelessness,

Clodius, the state of the state, and Cicero himself all reappear. The coincidence of factors renders the PS a relevant selection for further, comparative investigation of

Cicero’s construction and use of the domus as a relatively durable figure of thought over a broad spectrum of his writings.

149 Outside of the PS, the domus does make interesting appearances in the other philosophical texts as well. For instance, in the texts of the 50’s, specifically in the de republica and the de legibus, the home is compared with the polis, with the laws of the polis, and with the gods of the polis.193 In the philosophical texts of the 40’s, one finds associations between the home and the law, and between the home and religion as well. In addition, the home is often tied to more ethereal or abstract constructs, like the soul, or harmony.194 These presentations of the home certainly merit further investigation, for they are important, especially if one were to research Cicero’s philosophical domus exclusively. Such a project exceeds the scope of this dissertation, which is specifically interested in the convergence of the biographical, the historical, and the philosophical aspects of the house in the PS as against these other more general passages.

In the PS Cicero engages explicitly with philosophy; he inspects six Stoic paradoxes, and works through them as he presents them within a rhetorical setting.

Though philosophical in theme and rhetorical in form, the PS are rather personal in content. In the fourth paradox especially, Cicero explores abstract philosophical arguments by introducing a deeply personal element; he revisits the crises he faced during exile some eleven years previously. The maudlin and autobiographical tenor of

193 Comparison of the home with the polis: de rep. 1.61ff; with the laws: de rep. 1.67; de leg. 2.31, 2.42; with the gods: de rep. 6.25, 3.14; de leg. 2.26. This list is not exhaustive.

194 Home and law: de nat deor. 3.85; home and religion: de nat deor. 2.90ff, 2.154, 2.17ff. Home and soul: TD 1.51. Home and harmony de fin. 5.65. This list is not exhaustive.

150 the text raises flags: one expects of an orthodox Stoic presentation either impassivity or a claim that the emotional dimension of an event has been overcome, not that it is ongoing.

If the letters and the speeches of Cicero from years before outline various versions of overcoming the crisis of the house, the return of the house in crisis ought to be presented from a certain perspective. One would expect Cicero to resume his old arguments while perhaps translating them into a more specifically philosophical idiom. Thus the portrait would be of a past success and a past triumph, of a case made and won, of a letter signed, sealed, and successfully delivered. That Cicero is still harping on about the same old issues shows that the old solutions were more seeming than actual. Cicero is rearguing a case that is apparently not closed.

Cicero’s options (and what he does with them) are explored following my presentation of the PS. It becomes apparent that Cicero makes a radical turn into himself; he uses Stoic philosophy to help him find solace within, and to reject the external world along with all the grief it has brought upon him. But Cicero does not only move himself into himself; he moves all things into this sublime space. He creates an internal space –an internal domus—that closely represents real life, but is ultimately safe from any external threat. This space will be explored. It will appear that philosophy seems to present Cicero with a new and long-awaited solution. At home in his mind, Cicero seems to find order by constructing a new space over which he is master.

151 But, in the final part of this chapter, it becomes evident that Cicero’s mastery is only ever illusory. For even though his new portrait of space is pure, safe, and abstract, it is uncomfortably, indeed excessively so. For, even as Cicero uses

Stoicism, he misuses it. Specifically, in the midst of re-placing and re-ordering all things within himself, Cicero loses sight of the essential and essentializing space, wherein and through which self, society and sanity are constructed, inter-related, and realized: namely, the domus. His new internal space does not align with the Stoic model; indeed it causes the model to crumble. In the end, despite its impenetrability, the new home is an impossible non-space that can only ever fail to let Cicero overcome the naggings of years gone by.

Cicero as Philosopher: a brief portrait

Until relatively recently, scholars have paid little attention to Cicero’s philosophical writings. Indeed, some have even claimed that Cicero’s philosophy fails to merit close scholarly attention.195 Fortunately, there is a growing number of

Classicists working closely with Cicero’s philosophical works.196 Within this number, however, there is little agreement in terms of where Cicero’s allegiance lay: some say

195 See, for instance, A.E. Douglas (1965) “Cicero the Philosopher,” in Cicero (ed. T.A. Dorey) London, pp. 135-170. See also J.G.F. Powell, who provides a concise presentation of scholarly attention to Cicero and his philosophy: (1995) “Introduction: Cicero’s Philosophical Works and their background,” in Cicero the Philosopher: Twelve Papers (ed. J.G.F. Powell) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp.1-36 (especially p.1-3).

196 Powell (1995) op.cit. P.L. Schmidt (1979) “Cicero’s Place in Roman Philosophy: A Study of his Prefaces,” CJ 74.2: 115-127. P. MacKendrick (1989) The Philosophical Works of Cicero New York: St. Martin’s Press. J. Glucker (1988) “Cicero’s Philosophical Affiliations,” in The Question of “Eclecticism;” Studies in Later Greek Philosophy (ed. J.M. Dillon and A.A. Long) Berkeley: University of California Press, pp.34-69. Douglas (1965) 135-170.

152 he preferred the Academics, others the Peripatetics, still others the Stoics.197 The difficulty in determining Cicero’s philosophical inclinations arises for a few reasons.

First, Cicero received a wide range of philosophical input: during his early days, he came under the instruction of an Epicurean (Phaedrus), a Stoic (Diodotus), and an

Academic (Philo). In addition, his social circle was comprised of men with varying philosophical orientations.198

Second, Cicero’s philosophical output entailed an enormous corpus of works

(most of which appeared in a short span of time, between 46 and 44 B.C.), whose contents reflected several philosophical schools. Indeed, within this corpus, there is such a wide range of sentiments that pinpointing adherence to one school is impossible.199 Still, multiform as his portraits are, Cicero’s philosophical texts, and

197 For an analysis of Cicero’s philosophical allegiances, see J. Glucker (1988) pp.34-69. See also J.C. Davies (1971) “The Originality of Cicero’s Philosophical Works,” Latomus 30: 105ff. Those arguing for Cicero’s steadfast adherence to the Academy include W. Gorler (1995) “Silencing the Trouble- Maker: De Legibus I.39 and the Continuity of Cicero’s Scepticism,” in Cicero the Philosopher (ed. J.G.F. Powell) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 85-114. Robert Gaines seems to suggest that even if Cicero’s dominant lean changed, he nevertheless maintained a continuous adherence to Academic philosophy throughout his grown life: (2002) “Cicero’s Partitiones Oratoriae and Topica: Rhetorical Philosophy and Philosophical Rhetoric,” in Brill’s Companion to Cicero: Oratory and Rhetoric (ed. J. M. May) Leiden: Brill Press, pp.445-480, especially 458-459. Powell (1995) presents the different philosophical tendencies within individual works, p.4-11.

198 For comment on Cicero’s multiformed friends, see Schmidt (1979) 119. For Cicero’s philosophical training, see Powell (1995) 17-32.

199 Perhaps Cicero’s inclusion of so many philosophical versions was deliberate: either he aimed at promoting philosophy in general at Rome (which required getting philosophy as much exposure as possible), or he was too curious and too skeptical to (want to) place himself in any one school for very long. Powell (1995) argues that “in an age when much philosophical exposition as dogmatic, technical, and sectarian, Cicero stands out as one who commits himself to no single position and at the same time is ready to examine the issues fully,” 3.

153 eclectic philosophical sympathies, have been scoured in terms of what they tell us of ancient philosophy, and in terms of what they say about Cicero and his perception of the world.200

Cicero’s philosophical output occurred in two phases: between 55 and 51

B.C., when he wrote the De Oratore, De Republica, and the De Legibus, and then between 46 and 44. The latter years have been coined his anni mirabilis, for in this short span of time, he wrote the Brutus, Paradoxa Stoicorum, Laus Catonis, Orator,

Partitiones Oratoriae, Consolatio, Hortensius, Academica, De Finibus Deorum et malorum, Timaeus, Protagoras, Tusculanae Disputationes, De Natura Deorum, De

Divinatione, De Fato, De Senectute, De Amicitia, De Gloria, Topica, De Officiis, as well as some other non-philosophical works. A generally waning political career combined with the loss of his daughter Tullia, are arguably what drove Cicero to conduct the philosophical research and writing that he did during these years.201 He certainly claimed to seek solace in philosophy.202

200 Cicero’s eclecticism, and the extent to which his work is derivative will not be focused on within this chapter. For reflection on Cicero’s originality; see Ronnick (1991) Cicero’s Paradoxa Stoicorum: A Commentary, an Interpretation and a Study of Its Influence Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 19, 21 (“A polymath in philosophy, Cicero showed tolerance for…and interest in all sects”); Schmidt (1979) 119; J.C. Davies (1971) 105ff.

201 See Ad Fam 9.2.5. Cicero’s withdrawal from public, political life was, in large part, due to Caesar. See W. Englert (1990) “Bringing Philosophy to the Light: Cicero’s Paradoxa Stoicorum,” in The Poetics of Therapy: Hellenistic Ethics in its Rhetorical and Literary Context (ed. M. Nussbaum) Edmonton: Academic Printing and Publishing, 124ff.

202 See de nat deor. 1.9, and the letters from this time. Scholarship includes: S.A. White (1995) “Cicero and the Therapists,” in Cicero the Philosopher: Twelve Papers (ed. J.G.F. Powell) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 219-246; Erskine (1997) 36-47; Englert (1990) 119ff.; E. Rawson (1975) Cicero London, 222-229; Mitchell (1991) Cicero, the Senior Statesman New Haven 263-288. J.P.V.D. Balsdon ((1964) “Cicero the man,” in Cicero (ed. T.A. Dory) London) claims that Cicero’s melancholy is mostly due to his age: Cicero suffers from “the emotionally instability which besets the sexaginarian,” 173.

154 While several schools appealed variously to Cicero, there were certain features of Stoicism to which he probably felt a natural affinity. Foremost, Stoicism called for an active participation in, and a duty to, politics.203 In this regard, it aligned well with the general Roman perception of the tie between self and community, and with Cicero’s own engagement with politics.204 But in addition to the political appeal,

Stoicism was also concerned with the self: most especially with self-sufficiency and self-preservation.205 Stoicism was a life-long process wherein the individual strove to become wise. The wise man was self-aware, free of struggle (both internally and in his relation to the outside world), and equipped with the psychological make-up to

203 See Colish (1985) 38-41; Englert (1990); Nussbaum (1994) The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 319f.; Wisse (2002) “De oratore: Rhetoric, Philosophy, and the Making of the Ideal Orator,” in Brill’s Companion to Cicero: Oratory and Rhetoric (ed. J.M. May) Leiden: Brill Press, 375-400 (though Wisse’s study focuses on the de orat; still, there is much that may apply to the general picture of philosophy and rhetoric). M. Griffin discusses the popularity and appeal of various philosophical schools at Rome ((1989) “Philosophy, Politics, and Politicians at Rome,” in Philosophia Togata (ed. M. Griffin and J. Barnes) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 1-37); she notes that individuals, amongst them Cicero, would ally themselves with different schools at different times in their careers (see especially p.31, and generally 22ff.). In terms of Cicero’s conjoining of politics and philosophy, see A.A. Long (1995) “Cicero’s Politics in de officiis,” in Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium Hellenisticum (ed. A. Laks and M. Schofield) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp.213-240. Long remarks that Cicero’s analysis of philosophy in terms of ‘what went wrong’ is helpful precisely because there was no immediate, or intended application of the philosophy to the real political world. For general scholarship on Stoicism and politics, see Sandbach (1994), especially 140-148; and Inwood (1985) Ethics and Human Action in Early Stoicism Oxford: Clarendon Press, especially 42-101.

204 Cicero’s natural inclination to the republic accounts for a rejection of Epicureanism which turned away from the polis in pursuit of pleasure. Cicero did not wholly reject Epicureanism though; this will be evident throughout this chapter, when emphasis is laid more on the physical aspects of the world and mind. For a general sense of Stoicism and its reception at Rome, see E.V. Arnold (1911) Roman Stoicism Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

205 On Cicero, self-love (and oikeiosis), see M.R. Wright (1995) “Cicero on Self-Love and Love of Humanity in De Finibus 3,” in Cicero the Philosopher: Twelve Papers (ed. J.G.F. Powell) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 171-196.

155 preserve the conditions of his wisdom.206 Given Cicero’s crises (of exile and his daughter’s death) and the effect they seem to have had on him psychologically, an immersion in Stoicism would have especial appeal.207

The political and personal elements of Stoic philosophy probably attracted

Cicero, and at the same time afforded him the opportunity to confront the reality that confronted him. There was a practicality to his pursuit of this study. But Stoicism would have appealed in more theoretical ways as well. The structure of Stoic philosophy on the one hand, and of the Stoic universe on the other, provided a neat and consistent system within which Cicero could reconstruct not only his inner self, but also his relation to the outside world. Since the rest of this chapter presents the ways in which Cicero seems to make use of the Stoic system of structuring, it is necessary to present, briefly, what that system entailed.

In Chapter 2, I provided the following portrait of how the Stoics divided philosophy into three parts: logic, ethics, and physics.208 Diogenes Laertius presented their perceptions metaphorically:

206 Generally, see G. Striker (1983) “The Role of oikeiosis in Stoic Ethics,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 1: 145-146; see also Striker (1991) “Following Nature: A Study in Stoic Ethics,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 9: 1-73. See also N.P. White (1979) “The Basis of Stoic Ethics,” HSCP 83: 143-178. The notion of self-awareness and mastery was known as hegemonikon; for more on this, see below, and see Inwood (1985) 28-41; Frede (1999) “On the Stoic Conception of the Good,” in Topics in Stoic Philosophy (ed. K. Ierodiakonou) Oxford: Oxford University Press, 71-94; Colish (1985) 51ff.

207 See Colish (1985) 61ff; and Nussbaum (1994) 316-358, who talks about the “toning up of the soul” (317). Claassen (1992, p. 19. 31. &c) identifies Stoic elements to Cicero’s de domo speech.

208 The scope of this paper is such that it cannot do justice to Stoicism; for more detailed analyses, see Schmidt (1979) 120. Colish (1985): physics (23ff.), ethics (36ff.), logic (50ff). Sandbach (1994): physics (69-94), ethics (28-68), logic (95-100). See Sambursky (1959) for a general portrait of physics. For Vitruvius and Stoicism, see Chapter 2 of this dissertation.

156 Philosophy, they say, is like an animal: Logic corresponding to the bones and sinews, Ethics to the fleshy parts, Physics to the soul. Another simile they use is that of an egg: the shell is Logic, next comes the white, Ethics, and the yolk in the centre is the Physics. Or again, they liken philosophy to a fertile field: Logic being the encircling fence, Ethics the crop, Physics the soil or the trees. Or again, to a city strongly walled and governed by reason.209

I turn again to this passage, this time to pursue it in more detail, and in order to investigate Cicero’s (Stoic) presentation of things. Stoics believed that the universe was comprised of three parts: logos, pneuma, and tonos. Like the logic of their philosophy, logos was the rational structure of the universe; like ethics, pneuma was the firey breath that created life; and like physics, tonos was the “vital tension” that held all things together in harmony.210 The structure of the universe was reflected in the structure of cities, and of individuals within a city. In fact, all parts of nature

(which included the city as well as philosophical practice) were consubstantial with the universe; the structure of the cosmos was the paradigm, and at the same time, that which produced all of nature. Thus it is, that the cosmos was sometimes identified as a city, and the city as cosmos.211

209 Diog Laert. 7.40 For a general but helpful overview, see Peter Roots. These metaphors are rich, despite their simplicity. That they pertain to nature is not unimportant. Further investigation of the role and type of metaphor would benefit, but is not necessary within this analysis.

210 See Colish (1985) 23ff.; Engberg-Pederson (1990) The Stoic Theory of Oikeiosis: Moral Development and Social Interpretation in Early Stoic Philosophy Denmark: Aarhus University Press; Sambursky (1959) on pneuma 21-48.

211 See Cicero, de nat. deor. 2.154. See also D. Obbink (1999) “The Stoic Sage in the Cosmic City,” in Topics in Stoic Philosophy (ed. K. Ierodiakonou) Oxford: Oxford University Press, 190. In addition, the prominence of the polis works nicely in terms of the public place of the Stoa, as well as the call to political engagement.

157 Naturally, the tonos of the universe ensured harmony: there was harmony between the three components of the universe, and there was harmony between the numerous components of nature within that universe. The relationship between the parts and the whole was central to Stoic ethics (ethics itself was at the center!). Stoic philosophers made it their goal to understand the coherence of the fractions, and to experience the whole by way of those parts. The wise man, in his quest for virtue and happiness, looked to produce harmonic flow between all elements.212

While there was flow between the elements, movement between any and all of them was not random. Just as logic was the outer shell, ethics the egg white, and physics the yolk in the egg metaphor, so too was all nature structured in this outer- central-inner way. So, earth sat at the center of the cosmos, and the divine One enveloped it. So too, the city was a center, enveloped by its walls. So too does the self sit at the center of the individual. This specific ordering of things takes us to the Stoic theory of oikeiosis.213

Within the system of order, each part of the universe occupies a specific place

(on a continuous line). In turn, each part has a natural and appropriate attachment to the part next to it in the sequence. The Stoic theory of oikeiosis appeals to this process

212 Sambursky (1959) 81-113 (especially 108-113).

213 Cicero presents his own version of oikeiosis: Lael; de off.1.12; 1.158-159; de fin. 3.63, and 3.16; de leg. 1.7.22-23. Other primary sources on oikeiosis include Chrysippus (DL 7.85-86), Seneca (Ep 121), Plutarch (Stoic rep 1038b), Hierocles (1-11), and Stobaeus (2.116-12). Secondary scholarship includes, primarily, A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley (1987). But see also Sandbach (1994) 34-35; Colish (1985) 99- 100; Ronnick (1991) 23; Inwood (1985) 182-201; Schofield (1995) “Two Stoic Approaches to Justice,” in Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium Hellenisticum (ed. A. Laks and M. Schofield) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 195ff; Enberg-Pederson (1990) is generally worth reading, though quite technical; his analysis of de fin. 3.16 (on pp.66ff.) is especially bright.

158 of attachment. Mostly applied to the individual, oikeiosis is the means by which man accesses the external world: he establishes natural attachments that link him, eventually, to the divine logos. As an infant, the individual attaches himself to immediate self-preservation: he seeks food and shelter. As he matures, he reasons that he has other appropriate and natural affections: first for his home (the house and the family unit within the house), then for the city (the space and the people within the space), and so on, until his inner logic ties him to the divine.

Hierocles, a later Stoic, presented the theory of oikeiosis pictorially: he drew a series of concentric circles. At the center was the individual; closest to him was the oikos, then the city, other cities, the country, the human race, and the world. Hierocles suggested that an individual try to contract the circles, with the eventual aim of making all men part of his oikos. Thus, oikeiosis is not only a process of moving out via attachments, it is also a system of appropriation. In a sense, then, man works his way out into the world precisely by appropriating them within himself. By bringing the circles closer to his center, by means of oikeiosis, man dwells in the world.

The importance of the home within this theory should be evident. On the one hand, man accesses the external world by means of the home; on the other hand, he welcomes the world into his home once he has made an appropriate attachment with

159 it. The home plays a vital mediary role. In addition, of course, the theory itself is named after the oikos: home, family, relatives, and those people and places for which an individual maintains affection (he brings into his oikos).214

This, then, is a brief presentation of Cicero’ philosophical history, of Stoicism and its appeal to Cicero, and of the theory of oikeiosis. Now it is time to explore the ways in which Cicero applied Stoicism in his world. What follows, then, is a synopsis of one particular philosophical treatise in which Cicero engages Stoicism directly.

Following that will be an analysis of what Cicero does with Stoic philosophy and space.

The Paradoxa Stoicorum and Crisis

While Stoicism appears within and throughout Cicero’s philosophical works, it is in the PS that Cicero engages Stoic philosophy directly. The PS were written in

46 B.C., eleven years after Cicero’s exile. In the Paradoxa Cicero explores six Stoic paradoxes, and works through them as he represents them within a rhetorical setting.215 The paradoxes Cicero addresses are:

214 The logic of the logos that is oikeiosis! See de nat deor. 2.154, where Cicero presents the universe as the domus for gods and men. Julia Annas has written about houses, Stoicism, and Cicero in her article (1989) “Cicero on Stoic Moral Philosophy and Private Property,” in Philosophia Togata (ed. M. Griffin and J. Barnes) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 151-173 (especially 169f.). Annas does not engage analysis of the importance of the home as a philosophical entity (she discusses the moral obligations when selling a home); nevertheless, the coalescence of homes and Stoicism, especially by way of Cicero is worth investigating precisely in terms of the philosophical property of the home.

215 Cicero refers to the PS in several letters of 46: Ad fam. 5.21; 7.3; 9.6; 9.16; 9.17. For secondary scholarship on the PS, see Ronnick (1991); Englert (1990); and J. Molager (1971) Ciceron: Les Paradoxes des Stoiciens Paris: Bude.

160 1. that only what is morally noble is good: quod honestum sit id solum bonum esse 2. that the possession of virtue is sufficient for happiness: in quo virtus sit et nihil deesse ad beate vivendum 3. that transgressions are equal and right actions equal: aequalia esse peccata et recte facta 4. that every foolish man is mad: omnem stultum insanire 5. that only the wise man is free, and that every foolish man is a slave: solum sapientem esse liberum, et omnem stultum servum 6. that the wise man alone is rich: solum sapientem esse divitem.

Two aspects in particular surface. First, Cicero does not give uniform attention to each of the paradoxes. For instance, Cicero’s treatment of the second paradox is noticeably short, whereas his analysis of the fifth is long and detailed. Second, although Cicero explores one particular paradox at a time, he sometimes loses sight of that paradox. In PS 2, for example Cicero is derailed when he becomes emotionally invested in his argument. For, in the process of exploring virtue and happiness, Cicero remembers his exile and the role that Clodius played. From then on, he makes his argument from the negative: he shows that the man without virtue is wretched. He fails to return to his central argument until the very end.

Cicero’s varying methodology, along with his sporadic lapses in focus, present an ironically disjointed hodgepodge rather than a cohesive whole. For this reason, scholars have argued that the PS should not be included as real philosophy in practice; after all, an unharmonious collection of parts presents no adherence to the

Stoic model.216 Scholars may also fail to take the PS seriously because Cicero himself

216 Indeed, Powell (1995) asserts “The Paradoxa Stoicorum, though their subject-matter is derived from philosophy, should not really be counted among the philosophical works,” p.7; Powell’s decision stems from Cicero’s own exclusion of the PS in his list of philosophical works in Div. 2. See also Englert, 130-135, who, noting that there is “no continuous narrative” (130), claims that the PS are “too

161 says in the preface that he is just playing about: ego tibi illa ipsa quae vix in gymnasiis et in otio Stoici probant ludens conieci in communes locos (Praef. 3).

Cicero pretends to throw these doctrines out to the public just for the heck of it, to see if philosophical doctrines can have public, or real, appeal. However if all of this is play, it is not mere play, it is a serious game with a studied quality to it: leisured Stoic mental gymnastics translated, but not transformed. Translated indeed, into rhetoric: having noted a general incompatibility between (Stoic) philosophy and oratory,217

Cicero goes on to claim that philosophy and oratory are not as mutually exclusive as they seem. For in fact philosophy gave birth to oratory,218 and its doctrines are not so distinct from those of everyday thought. Besides, Cicero continues, oratory can make anything –even plain speech and thought—splendid.219

rich, like listening to six of the most spirited passages from Beethoven’s symphonies in isolation from their contexts, played one after another. They are beautiful individually, but do not fit together terribly well” (132). McClutcheon ((1985) “More’s Utopia and Cicero’s Paradoxa Stoicorum,” Morena 86: 3- 22) notes that there is a lot going on, but she also sees a system of binaries (i.e. some order) to the PS as well, 5. Structure aside, it seems accurate generally, however, to note that the emotionality is not very Stoic; see below for more; for more on this, see Inwood (1985) 127-181.

217 Animadverti, Brute, saepe Catonem avunculum tuum cum in senatu sententiam diceret locos graves ex philosophia tractare abhorrentes ab hoc usu forensi et publico (praef. 1). Heavy-going philosophical issues are not commonly applied to, or practiced in, the legal oratorical sphere. Cicero gives the reasons for this incompatibility: in the first place, Stoic tenets are not the same as (i.e. they will not appeal to) those of the masses. Second, the Stoic mode of argumentation is not –as is the legal, oratorical mode—one of ornamentation: Cato autem…et ea sentit quae non sane probantur in vulgus et in ea haeresi quae nullum sequitur florem orationis neque dilatat argumentum sed minutis interrogatiunculis quasi punctis quod proposuit efficit (praef. 2).

218 Philosophy is that quae peperit dicendi copiam et in qua dicuntur ea quae non multum discrepant ab opinione populari (praef. 2)

219 nihil [est] tam horridum tam incultum quod non splendescat oratione et tamquam excolatur (praef. 3). See Ronnick (1991) 3, 5. See also de orat. 3.20.74-77; and Orat. 2.7.

162 To this end, in the preface to the PS Cicero says he has attempted two things: first, he has written a book of exercises on how to translate philosophy to oratory:220

Second, he has transformed the Stoic paradoxes into everyday public-speak.221 Cicero claims to be enlightening (in lucem) the public Roman world about the very practice that promises to enlighten. He brings to light not only philosophy, but also how philosophy and oratory can circulate in the same discursive register.222 It seems unnecessary to point out that rhetoric was not something Cicero took lightly. That he unites the two practices bespeaks, if anything, a sense that the PS is not all fun and games. These doctrines qua paradoxes, then, necessarily present both a philosophical and a rhetorical challenge: they are, Cicero claims, by far the truest ones of all

(longeque verissima, Praef. 5), but no one is inclined to accept them as such.

Accordingly these seemingly artless efforts are in the end compared with nothing so much as high art itself: even if this is not Phidias’ Minerva, says Cicero, it is nevertheless from the same workshop.223

220 et degustabis genus exercitationum earum quibus uti consuevi, cum ea quae dicuntur in scholis thetikos ad nostrum hoc oratorium transfero dicendi genus (praef. 5).

221 tentare volui possentne proferri in lucem, [id est in forum] et ita dici ut probarentur, an alia quaedam esset erudita alia popularis oratio (praef. 4).

222 Compare TD 5.6, where Cicero argues that those who are uninstructed in philosophy suffer a mental darkness in their souls. What is pleasing about this passage is not simply the contrast between dark and light and its analogous contrast between ignorance and (philosophical) enlightenment. For, as Cicero makes this contrast, he explains that the ignorant are in the dark precisely because they have failed to look back far enough into their past: sed, ut opinor, hic error et haec indoctorum animis offusa caligo est, quod tam longe retro respicere non possunt. In other words, the light to which one proceeds is accessed only when one recedes in to the past (in se): philosophy is again both the ultimate goal, and the origin of all things (just as the order of things claims). See also Ronnick (1991) 35.

223 Hoc tamen opus in acceptum ut referas nihil postulo; non enim est tale ut in arce poni posit quasi Minerva illa Phidiae, sed tamen ut ex eadem officina exisse appareat (Praef. 5).

163 Cicero’s presentation of the paradoxa is to be taken seriously after all. Sure, they are jokes; but they are also not jokes at all. One thinks of satire perhaps with its underhanded jabs and veiled (or not) criticisms. There are certainly signs of cruel humor in the PS; as Rackham notes:

[Cicero] illustrates [the paradoxes] with anecdotes from history and even with allusions to contemporary life, especially to its extravagant display of wealth. No. IV is a hardly veiled attack on Clodius, who is doubtless also in mind in No. II. No. V satirizes costly luxury and affectation of connoisseurship in collecting works of art: Cicero here probably aims at Lucullus who fought against Mithridates; and he doubtless elsewhere has in mind his rival at the bar, Hortensius, the champion of the optimates. No. VI has been supposed to be an exposure of the methods of Licinius Crassus the triumvir and multimillionaire who speculated in contracts for public works….224

There is a grain of truth in the paradoxa, though one should also read them with a grain of salt. These playful yet truthful, pedestrian yet lofty paradoxes merit further exploration qua philosophy, and qua social commentary. Paradoxically, then, it would be foolish and hence mad to think that these games are unwise: ‘Only the playful author is serious.’ To the seeming paradox of the ‘playful’ genre of the

Paradoxa Stoicorum, compare then the themes of the paradoxes themselves: everything is the opposite of what is seems.

If we are going to think through the challenge presented by the PS more generally, we will find once again the challenge presented by the house within

Cicero’s thought. In light of the portraits of both Stoic philosophy and oikeiosis

(above), and in light of my pursuit of Cicero’s presentation of the domus, the PS

224 H. Rackham (1988) Cicero: volume 4 Harvard: Loeb Classical Library

164 deserves attention here. In particular, PS 4 merits closer inspection. For, in the midst of the PS as a whole, and in the midst of this specific paradox sits Cicero’s domus.

In PS 4, Cicero explores the Stoic paradox that ‘every fool’s a mad man’.

From the start, the text becomes both personal and emotionally intense: ego and tu are pitted against one another. This is a case of ‘I’, Cicero, versus ‘you’, Clodius. And

Clodius is non improbum ut semper, sed dementem esse et insanire. He is steeped in madness. Contrasting his madness is the wise man’s mind (sapientis animus, i.e. the ego) that is fortified by several virtues (magnitudine consilii, tolerantia fortunae, rerum humanarum contemptione, virtutibus denique omnibus ut moenibus saeptum).

From the portrait of ‘I’ versus ‘you’, expressed as ‘sane’ versus ‘mad’, Cicero addresses exile: exile relates to the state (civitas) and to the law (leges). He argues that citizenship and exile are not about geographical location, but about behavior that is either in harmony with the law or in contradistinction to it.225

The resurgence of exile, especially within a personal context, is important:

Cicero is revisiting his exile from 58. In fact, he next argues that he acted always in accordance with the law; therefore, not only is he impervious to exile, he is always a citizen (even when away from Rome). So it is, that Cicero, Clodius, and exile all return. This is a foreboding collection of past issues. Despite the evocation of lusus in the preface, it is hard to read about these issues lightly, or with humor alone, given

Cicero’s real experiences 11 years ago. In place, the PS feels more like a late defense than a joke.

225 See PS 4.27

165 The house also enters the fray. In a sarcastic comment, Cicero mocks Clodius

(for) supposing that Clodius’ demolition of his Palatine house really damaged the orator: iactam et immissam a te nefariam in me iniuriam semper duxi, pervenisse ad me numquam putavi, nisi forte cum parietes disturbabas aut cum tectis sceleratas faces inferebas meorum aliquid ruere aut deflagrare arbitrabare.226 The sarcasm is thick here: ‘you thought you could hurt me by hurting my house, but you were a mad fool to think so.’ Paradoxically, though, Cicero himself in both the letters and his de domo speech entertained the very same equivalence of man and house. Thus behind the player’s mask is a man still justifying, still excusing, or defending his past. The philosophical sport may be playing here, but he is also playing fast and loose with history, rewriting and revising it, turning ‘my sentiments’ into ‘your foolish beliefs’.

Who is the madman here? To what extent does yesterday’s Cicero resemble Clodius himself? Cicero once asked himself if he was anything without his house, but now that is a foolish proposition.

After the house, Cicero discusses citizenship, the law, and Clodius more closely. He says that, in contrast to himself, Clodius is a wicked man acting in wicked ways; Clodius cannot ever be a citizen, and he must always be in exile (even when in

Rome) because he always acts against the law. Any law that Clodius follows is an anti-law.227 At this point, PS 4 ends.

226 PS 4.28-29

227 This issue of the impossibility of exile for Cicero, and the necessity of exile for Clodius is explored in more detail below. Meantime, it is worth noting that the polarization of Clodius and Cicero closely resembles Cicero’s presentation in the de domo speech.

166 It is worth noting that despite its choppiness and sarcastic vitriol, there is a rather neat structure to the paradox that can be represented in the following way;

Madness State/Citizenship Law Exile Domus State/Citizenship Law Exile

According to this structure, one might expect a return to madness at the end, not only to preserve the pattern of the structure, but also to redress and prove the paradox (that every fool is mad). Yet Cicero fails to return to madness explicitly. This suggests that

Cicero has lost sight of his philosophical project, and has lapsed into personal diatribe. In this case, it seems appropriate that there is no structured closure to the piece: Cicero has found no closure to the issue in his mind. The structure reflects

Cicero’s reality. In other words, Cicero seems unable to shake once and for all the

‘foolish proposition’ now attributed to Clodius that man and house are profoundly connected and that an injury done to the one really does touch the other to the quick.

The very same issues that caused Cicero’s distress in 58 surround the home again.228 Indeed, the reappearance of Clodius, self, exile, and the law in the first place serve to build up to the return of the home. Cicero has written back his house, as he had hoped; but in so doing, he has written back the whole gamut of crises that were associated with it back in 58. This is disconcerting. To make things worse, though,

228 Cicero could certainly hold a grudge. As Ronnick notes (1991, 36), Cicero still feels (and presents) intense loathing for Crassus in his PS 6, even though Crassus has been dead some nine years.

167 these issues not only build up to the home, they reappear after the home as well. That is, they fail to go away, even after the home has been restored. This structural presentation again would seem to align well with Cicero’s reality: here he is, several years after the exile, still betraying anxiety about it.

The resurgence of the home in the PS, along with the resurfacing emotion, show that the therapy sought in writing, all those years ago, has failed to do away with the house that was done away with. Which is to say that writing about the home, and even retrieving the physical home, has not provided Cicero with the cure-all that he imagined it would.229 In a sense, then, the home in PS 4 stands as a negative version of oikeiosis: the home is at the center, but as soon as Cicero appropriates it, he lapses into emotional distress, and harps on about the same old crises. Along with the home, crisis reappears.

The Solution: Philosophy and Internal Space

The narrative of the PS evidences the shortcomings of yesteryear’s solution sought through writing. Despite this failure, the fact that Cicero is revisiting the same crises within philosophy is important: it suggests that he stakes some faith in the discipline as a means of redressing and (finally) working through things.230 For in philosophy Cicero carves a new space for renegotiating his crises. The question

229 Cicero seems to intuit that the therapy of writing has not succeeded. For instance, in two letters sent to his friend, Atticus, Cicero senses the insufficiencies of writing: Ad Att. 12.14 and 12.16. See also de nat.. deor. 1.9. See also Schmidt (1979) 117. Erskine (1997, 44ff.) argues that curing the soul was, for Cicero, an “ideal solution” towards which Cicero worked; he shows that Cicero pursued a practical application of Stoic doctrine on grief.

230 Cicero’s hopes for philosophy appear, amidst alia, at de nat deor. 1.9. Schmidt’s insights are worth reading (1979) 122-123.

168 arises, why does Cicero have confidence in philosophy as a therapeutic means?231

And what is it that philosophy offers that writing (letters) has not?232 In order to answer these questions, it is necessary first to glean Cicero’s own perception of philosophy, then to grasp the construct(ion) of philosophy, before finally seeing how he put philosophy to use.233

(I) Perception of Philosophy

Cicero presents several portraits of, and attitudes towards philosophy. Early on in his life, before he assumes earnest pursuit of this study, he can be found not taking philosophy too seriously, and sometimes poking fun at both the practice and the practitioners.234 Cicero’s attitude changes once he assumes the task of thinking and writing philosophically.235 Even then, though, several perceptions appear, and it is hard to align them all within one consistent frame. One broadly applicable, as well as

231 On the therapeutic aspect of philosophy, see Nussbaum (1994) Cicero himself recognizes this, at Ad Att. 12.14: sed omnem consolationem vincit dolor. Quin etiam feci quod profecto ante me nemo ut ipse me per litteras consolarer. Quem librum ad te mittam… adfirmo tibi nullam consolationem esse talem.

232 It is important to note that philosophy was not new to Cicero. See de nat. deor. 1.6; also, Schmidt (1979) 116. The difference is that he is now applying it to his reality. See Erskine (1997).

233 In the portrait of Cicero as philosopher, the features of Stoicism that would appeal to Cicero were laid out. Now we see what Cicero himself said about philosophy, what he did with it, whether his presentation aligned with the Stoic tenets, and how (ultimately) his portrait figures in light of the recurring crisis of home.

234 For instance, Cicero teases Cato the Younger (calls him a stiff codger), only to revere him later on. De fin. 4.78. See also Powell (1995) 23; Ronnick (1991) 8 n.35, 10.

235 Cicero refers to the seriousness with which he assumes and pursues philosophy; see Ad Att. 13.20. Is the difference that he now needs it? It is no longer just a study, but one with practical, therapeutic applications?

169 developed and varied portrait appears in the Tusculan Disputations (TD), published in

45 B.C. The perception Cicero presents here is one that represents well the general later attitude that he adopts. For this reason, the portrait in the TD will be the one of focus.236

This portrait is comprised of several images of philosophy, each one of which deserves some attention. At the start of TD 5.5, Cicero describes philosophy as the

(only) remedy for faults and vices: sed et huius culpae et ceterorum vitiorum peccatorumque nostrorum omnis a philosophia petenda correctio est. Philosophy must be sought if transgressions are to be remedied. Philosophy is salubrious.237

Beyond its role as salve, philosophy is presented as a guide to life (vitae…dux), as an explorer of virtue (virtutis indagatrix), as an expeller of vice (expultrix vitiorum), and as the creator of cities (tu urbes peperisti). In all these images, philosophy is perceived as healthful and protective, and in the last instance, generative. In some ways, philosophy is maternal: it produces life, and produces lives lived virtuously and vice-free.238 In other ways, it is paternal: a militaristic leader, a pillar of strength.

Philosophy is parental, then (vitae paren[s], TD 5.6).

236 I make no claims to be an expert on Cicero’s philosophical texts in toto. It seems accurate enough, however, to say that texts such as de finibus, de natura deorum, de senctute, de amicitia (to an extent), de divinatione, and de officiis present similar (yet varied) perceptions of philosophy. I choose the TD for reasons just stated; but also because these discussions supposedly took place very soon after Tullia’s death and the concomitant blow suffered by Cicero’s oikos. The intensity of emotions and the dependent turn to, and absorption in philosophy would presumably be raw and authentic.

237 Cicero sees the ratio that philosophy offers as the means to consolation; for instance, Ad Att 12.10.

238 See TD 1.26.64: philosophy is omnium mater artium.

170 This parental version of philosophy is key, for philosophy is that which established all social life, and put that social life in (an) order. Addressing philosophy, Cicero claims:

Tu dissipatos homines in societatem vitae convocasti, tu eos inter se primo domiciliis, deinde coniugiis, tum litterarum et vocum communione iunxisti….

Men were scattered; philosophy called them together into some sort of communal living and camaraderie (societas). First it joined men to one another by means of the domus; next by means of the marital yoke; then by means of literature and speech.239

And as philosophy brought all things together, so too did it order those things: subtly, yet explicitly, Cicero provides that order of things. From top down:

Philosophy Domus and domesticity Marriage Language

Cicero presents philosophy as transcendent, and at the same time all-embracing; philosophy defines boundaries for all that it creates, and then both orders and confines everything within that order.240 In addition, Cicero presents domesticity (home and home-life) as that which mediates between philosophy and philosophical expression

239 The image of man-in-nature, and of civilization emerging, is striking in its similarity to the portrait in the Vitruvius chapter (2). The order of things if different though: in Vitruvius, language precedes domesticity. Lucretius provides a similar, but more complicated 5-stage analysis of social development: DRN 5.925-1145. For further consideration of Lucretius and politics, see D. Fowler (1989) “Lucretius and Politics,” in Philosophia Togata: essays on Philosophy and Roman Society (ed. M. Griffin and J. Barnes) Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp.120-150 (but especially 141-143).

240 In terms of the ‘all-embracing’ aspect of philosophy, one need look no further than the passages cited above, where various versions of ‘togetherness’ appear: societatem, convocasti, inter se, domiciliis, coniugiis, and communione.

171 (i.e. language). Indeed, for the Stoics, language and philosophy were very closely interconnected: at one and the same time, they used logos to refer to the practice of philosophy (through ratio), and to the expression of it (through rhetorical argumentation, or logoi).241

Thus the domus, sitting between one logos and the other, demarcates both the similarities and the differences between the two Stoic modes. This sense of the domus, as mediary, fits in well with the oikeiosis model, where the domus mediates between self and society. In addition, Cicero’s portrait of philosophy aligns nicely with the oikeiosis model. By presenting philosophy in a parental capacity, Cicero conjures up an association between philosophy and the domus (the oikos).242 In a sense, Cicero has appropriated philosophy into the domestic circle. According to the oikeiosis theory, he forms a natural attachment to it, and seeks comfort in that bond.

With a picture of philosophy such as Cicero here provides, it should be clear that Cicero would seek solace within this study.243 As the primary origin of things, philosophy becomes the ultimate goal. In a way, Cicero has always already been working back to his roots. He has always been engaged with language; the previous chapters have shown that he has been engaged with the domus and domesticity too.

Thus it is reasonable to suppose that Cicero would turn wholeheartedly to philosophy.

241 See Baltzly (2000) s.v. Stoicism 4-6.

242 On Stoic oikeiosis and the parental role, see W.M. Blundell (1990) 201-242.

243 See de div. 2.7: Cicero explains why he decided to write philosophy.

172 In the process, he can engage in politics, engage his intellect, engage language, and think more about the domus and domesticity, qua the penultimate step back to philosophy and its healthfulness.

Furthermore this position helps to explain why Clodius’ attack on the house cannot be written off as mere folly: living with philosophy means being at home with it. And here the idea of the self/home connection cannot be dismissed as a mere idea even if one ultimately accepts that the idealized and sublimated house is the one which houses the true self (as enlightened animus) as opposed to the mere bodily self

(which both houses the soul and is itself housed in a concrete domus). The real philosophical content of the oikeiosis metaphor cannot be once and for all unyoked from the reality to which it appeals any more than the soul itself can be detached from the body without death necessarily ensuing.244

(II) Philosophy as Construct(ion)

Cicero pictures philosophy as a healthful and nurturing point of origin. In addition, he presents philosophy spatially. He metaphorizes philosophy into, and as, four spaces in particular: a harbor, a wall, a home, and a lap. The similarities between philosophy and the home are already apparent: philosophy has the property of nurturing mother and of stalwart father, both of whom are central within the domestic

244 This line of thinking will be resumed below with the discussion of the turn in se.

173 realm. Furthermore, like the home, philosophy is an originary space back to which one retreats; at the same time, it is the space from which one ventures outwards.245

Cicero presents philosophy’s homey properties implicitly, but he associates the other three spaces with philosophy directly. At TD 5.5, Cicero describes philosophy as both a lap (in sinum)246 and a harbor (in portum) into which he flees

(confugimus) during times of trouble.247 But this lap, and this harbor are not arbitrary havens of escape; they are the very same havens from which he originated (cum a primis temporibus aetatis nostra voluntas studiumque nos compulisset, and ex quo eramus egressi, magna iactati tempestate). In other words, the point of refuge where philosophy lies is originary. As such, the spaces that Cicero uses to present philosophy fit well with the salutary and parental perceptions described above. The images of a harbor and a lap work nicely with the image of philosophy as a place out of which to venture forth and into which to flee, since harbors and laps function in similar ways. Furthermore, the dynamism of these spaces is important: for the sense of drawing in and moving out coincides with the dynamism of the oikeiosis model.

Philosophy has the properties of home, harbor and lap; in addition, it is like the wall of a city.248 At PS 4.2, Cicero describes the mind of the wise man (the

245 Further similarities will appear below.

246 Sinus most commonly refers to a lap or a fold in the toga; but it also is used to refer to any (place of) refuge (s.v.3), and at times a bay or gulf (s.v.11, in which instance, there is again a sense of harbor).

247 In the letters from this time we see Cicero presenting philosophy as a refuge: Ad Fam. 7.30.2

248 For the Stoic metaphor presenting philosophy as wall, see Diogenes Laertius (7.40); Ronnick (1991) 30; and Baltzly (2000) 13.

174 philosopher) as moenibus saeptus; it is built up and walled in. It is constructed, spatial, liminal, and confining.249 Its fortification is not built of bricks and mortar, though, since this structure is not a concrete matter. Rather, its fortification comes magnitudine consilii, tolerantia fortunae, rerum humanarum contemptione, virtutibus denique omnibus.250 Thus fortified, the mind of the philosopher is impervious to capture and battle (vincetur et expugnabitur).

The same image appears in the TD. At 5.41 Cicero describes the ideal conditions for a happy man: volumus enim eum, qui beatus sit, tutum esse, inexpugnabilem, saeptum atque munitum, non ut parvo metu praeditus sit, sed ut nullo. The happy man is safe, impenetrable, walled and fortified. Like a city under attack from inside and out, the happy man (who is really the philosopher) must construct a strong wall behind and within which he can hide, or rather, seek refuge.

Safety, then, is a construct.251

The language in both passages is strikingly similar, as is the image presented.

Philosophy in each is at once safe and confining, freeing its refugee from external threats but doing so by shutting its refugee up in its walls, holdings its dwellers in its protective embrace but granting them access to venture out. Whether freeing or

249 The notion of a mind as confining may seem counter-intuitive. Nevertheless, if the mind is analogous to a wall, it has this confining element. On the other hand, much like the port and the lap, so too is the wall simultaneously that which protects (shuts in) and that which ushers forth (releases).

250 There are parallels with Plato’s city-soul metaphor. It is also worth noting that the mind is fortified also both by and within the walls that are Cicero’s words. Again, then, by means of language (logoi), Cicero moves to the internal domus where he is housed and protected. On language and logic in Stoicism, see Englert (1990) 122ff.

251 In another’s words (Baltzly (2000) 13) “Stoicism provided a psychological fortress which was secure from bad fortune.”

175 confining, limited or limitless, philosophy is imbued with spatial qualities.252

Philosophy is a space both of and for dwelling; its spatiality, arguably, is what allows dwelling.253 It is also a space that ushers in and, at the same time, ushers out (this is the case with the harbor, the lap, the home, and the walls). Accordingly, the four spaces used to describe philosophy fit nicely into the Stoic theory of oikeiosis. They fit even better if we line them up sequentially: from the outside in, one moves through harbor, and the walls, into the home, and onto the lap. Thus, Cicero’s philosophy is simultaneously a non-space and the space sine qua non. It embraces the process of oikeiosis, even as it resembles all of the component parts.

(III) Putting philosophy into practice

That Cicero was motivated to seek philosophy’s comfort is clear. What must now be explored is how he put philosophy to use. I have already mentioned Cicero’s claim to bring philosophical concepts to the light (in lucem, PS praef.4).254 In fact the spurious gloss inserted into the text (proferri in lucem, [id est in forum]) already makes a spatial translation of this image: from the dark and into the light implies

252 As a fortified wall, it demarcates space by marking off spaces even as the wall itself occupies space. And, as a ‘walled’ space, philosophy presents a line, a liminal space that grants or denies access. Inappropriate crossing of that line is, Cicero claims, transgressive: si quidem est peccare tamquam transire lineas, quod cum feceris culpa commissa est (PS 3.20). Lineas is spatial. Like the wall, the property of the line that marks off (private) property is one of space.

253 See Heidegger (1997), and Chapter 3.

254 See footnote 221 above.

176 philosophy emerging out from the domestic, private realm and into public space.255

Taking Cicero’s argument’s more broadly, one can infer that he is more than justified in bringing forth into the public sphere the very philosophy that in fact brought society itself together (see TD 5.6 above). What these observations suggest is this: in order to publicize philosophy, Cicero has withdrawn from public life (of oratory), entered domestic life, found philosophy therein, and then introduced it to the light of the public.256

But this movement is less a perversity of erudition begging to be taken seriously than a result that can be anticipated from the topology of logos/ratio within the Stoic theory of oikeiosis. This implicit logic aligns well with the order of things presented earlier, where the domus sat between philosophia and language. In addition,

Cicero’s translation of philosophy fits nicely with Stoic oikeiosis: as Cicero brings together the privacy of philosophy and the publicity of oratory, he contracts the concentric circles wherein each element lies. He mediates between them even as he reduces their differences.257

255 One might note as well, then, that domus itself can mean “philosophical sect”.

256 It seems relevant to note here that, by Cicero’s lights, Socrates brought philosophy down from the heavens into people’s homes: Socrates autem primus philosophiam devocavit e caelo et…in domus…introduxit (TD 5.10) Note also the echoes of Lucretius (in terms of enlightenment).

257 By way of support, Cicero notes the role of rhetoric in philosophy at TD 5.1; he claims that the language that is needed when philosophy tends to the issue of grief is gravius magnificentiusque. Such language recalls well that of rhetoric.

177 Equipped with a philosophical apparatus such as this, Cicero puts philosophy to use: he makes a radical move inwards, to his inner self.258 By way of philosophy, that is, Cicero leaves the physical and enters the sublime realm. The process of justifying his moving in se is bipartite. First, Cicero promotes the positive qualities of the internal world. Second, he presents the shortcomings of the external world so he can ultimately reject all things material. Cicero provides several textual portraits that illuminate the (virtues of the) internalization process.

In order to promote the internal world, Cicero presents several promising statements throughout the philosophical texts:

1. The man who moves into himself, and who places everything within himself, is alone the most happy: nemo potest non beatissimus esse qui est totus aptus ex sese quique in se uno sua ponit omnia (PS 2.17)

2. The mind (which is within) is the most excellent and most divine thing given to man: animum quo nihil est praestantius neque divinius (PS 1.14)

3. The best quality a man can have is a wise and good mind: quid est autem in homine sagaci ac bona mente melius? (TD 5.67)

4. Provided a man has good internal qualities –such as virtue, dignity, loyalty and greatness of mind—he is impervious to external, physical harm: Nec vero ego M. Regulum aerumnosum nec infelicem nec miserum umquam putavi; non enim magnitudo animi eius excruciabatur a Poenis, non gravitas non fides non constantia non ulla virtus, non denique animus ipse, qui tot virtutum praesidio tantoque comitatu, cum corpus eius caperetur, capi certe ipse non potuit (PS 2.16)259

258 The move into the self is not unique to Cicero; many philosophers sought the inner realm. Nonetheless, Cicero’s approach, his presentation, and his motives are unique. As Erskine (1997) notes, Cicero seems to put philosophy to a real, practical use, beyond intellectual analysis.

259 Note the portrait of self (ipse) versus body (corpus), and the parallel in se versus the world.

178 Whether the mental realm is the route to happiness, a divine gift, the greatest quality, or a space safe from external threats, it is consistently a desirable space.260

In the event, though, that the positive portrait alone fails to suffice, Cicero describes the shortcomings of the external world via a series of premises:261

1. Madness lies in not knowing: nescis, insane, nescis quantas vires virtus habeat; nomen tantum virtutis usurpas, quid ipsa valeat ignoras (PS 2.17)

2. The physical world is oppressive: material things are the bonds, that make man mad: pari stultitia sunt quos signa quos tabulae quos caelatum argentum quos Corinthia opera quos aedifica magnifica nimio opere delectant…. Obsecro te, ita venusta habeantur ista non ut vincula virorum sint sed ut oblectamenta puerorum (PS 5.36, 38)

Therefore, material things inhibit, or impair, knowledge. Put otherwise, madness, as

‘not knowing’ and as part of the physical world, is directly opposed to intellect, which is ‘knowing’ and is part of the mental world. The turn into oneself is thus also a species of building a new sort of home in which to reside, a metaphorical space in which to house and shelter the soul.

In fact, in the TD, Cicero shows the shortcomings of (those who rely on) the physical world; he argues that physical space, and all the physical interactions within that space, is for the paranoid madman. At 5.58ff, Cicero presents a portrait of the tyrant Dionysios: though powerful, this man is unscrupulous (maleficum), unjust

(iniustum), in pursuit of despotism (iniustum dominatus cupiditatem), and completely

260 The benefits of the internal realm are promoted throughout the philosophical texts; this brief list of statements should serve as representative of the gamut, and it should serve well to show that Cicero promotes internal space even as he heads there.

261 See Nussbaum (1994) 357-358

179 lacking in trust (credebat…nemini). In fact, Cicero says, Dionysios was so suspicious of others’ malintent, that he practically created a prison for himself (in carcerem quodam modo ipse se includerat).

Two examples illustrate the confining results of Dionysios’ paranoia. First, he took extreme precautions when visiting either of his two wives at night:

Sic noctu ad eas ventitabat, ut omnia specularetur et perscrutaretur ante; et cum fossam latam transitum cubiculari lecto circumdedisset eiusque fossae transitum ponticulo ligneo coniunxisset, eum ipse, cum forem cubiculi clauserat, detorquebat.

Here, the language contributes: noctu conjures up mystery and not-seeing, which in turn conjure up the image of the unknowing mad man. Circumdedisset is spatial:

Dionysios contracts, but at the same time he severs, the concentric circles emanating out from the home. This seems to be an unhealthy version of oikeiosis. Coniunxisset confirms this inference: coniugo is typically used to refer to marriages between persons. Even though this passage is indeed about Dionysios and his wives, coniugo here refers to Dionysios’ marriage to spaces. In order to join his wives and (thereby) cut himself off from the external world, Dionysios first marries spaces (by way of the bridge) only to cut them off (also by way of the bridge). Dionysios’ reliance on the material world, in order to avoid the material world, is a misapplication of oikeiosis.262

Second, Dionysios was so wary of public malevolence that he would address the people only from a lofty tower: idemque cum in communibus suggestis consistere

262 As such, this misuse of oikeiosis recalls PS 4 (supra).

180 non auderet, contionari ex turri alta solebat.263 In each of these illustrations, it becomes apparent that the mad man is tied to the material world. Specifically, he has a mad relation to space itself. He reifies, and perpetuates the sick state of his mind, by means of his insane relationship to architecture; he creates impenetrable spaces around him.264 The tyrant, in other words, stands in direct contrast to the sage: the wise man dwells contentedly in internal space, where the physical world is of no consequence, whereas the insane man dwells anxiously in a troubled interior. The tyrant’s move into the material inside becomes a means of hiding from the world; at the same time, the turn reveals his troubled relationship to it.

Conversely, by promoting the internal world, and by rejecting the external,

Cicero justifies his claim that moving into himself, which he can accomplish through philosophy, is the only route to true happiness, freedom from care, and protection against madness. The move inwards works well in light of the portrait of philosophy as a space of refuge, safe from external threats. The home too is often thought of as a safe, private space removed from the chaos of the public realm. In this respect,

Cicero transforms the domus into and as the philosopher’s mind. In a sense, Cicero moves home. This new home is a home of self; it is a place sine qua non, an internal, private, and safe space that can replace the Palatine structure. At the same time, this

263 It is likely that contionari is ironic: contiones were typically rather intimate affairs that went on in the rostra. For tyranny and towers, see B. Potter (forthcoming) “Constructing Manliness.” Does the turris of Dionysios parallel the “psychological fortress” of Stoic philosophy? An unsettling notion, that is explored below. For a brief, but insightful comment (with decent bibliographic references), on Cicero versus Caesar (good exemplum versus bad exemplum) and the relation of that relation to Stoicism, see A.A. Long (1995) 224-233.

264 Lucretius (DRN 4.509ff.) notes that deficiencies of the mind are reflected in the home that it builds.

181 interior and sublime place houses all that now matters, namely character, virtue, wisdom, intellect, sanity, and safety. It is appropriate to use the term and the concept of domus, not only because of analogous impressions. For the domus entails –indeed, it mediates between— both concrete and abstract, both public and private, and both internal and external. And that is what this new space of philosophy does: it appropriates the concrete, public and external worlds into its abstract, private and internal space (in se).

Furthermore, this internal home has an added benefit: it is free from any sort of threat. The domus cannot be damaged because it matters neither in terms of its physicality nor in terms of the social status that it usually represents. For, Cicero’s new space does not symbolize status as it pertains to, or arises in, the real, physical world. Rather, it represents those internal qualities of the owner. Character, Cicero argues, is what makes the man; character is (in) the new home.265 So in one instance, even as the domus is that internal space in se, it is also that which houses and reflects the self-same, indestructible se.266

Cicero has structured his world such that he is now impervious to any and all threats because of the nature of the space he occupies: it is abstract, intangible, pure, and under Cicero’s control. But even though the internal world is abstract, it is no

265 Accordingly, Cicero praises Curius whose home was filled not with splendid belongings, but with his character: revivescat M. Curius aut eorum aliquis quorum in villa ac domo nihil splendidum nihil ornatum fuit praeter ipsos (PS 5.38). The plain unadorned house is to be revered, but what about language? Cicero is in the midst of presenting the unadorned (unsophisticated) logos of philosophy in the adorned and eloquent logos of oratory. There seems to be a conflict of value.

266 An exilic letter presents a similar sense: in Ad Att. 3.5, Cicero says that his enemies can take away his things, but he will always remain.

182 empty space. On the one hand, Cicero endows the internal world of philosophy with real spatial properties. In addition, having constructed an inner space on the model of the home, he will fill it up with the various trappings of domesticity: masters and slaves, wealth and status, belongings (which include both property and goods), and identity. But that is not all that he imports: for, as the earlier chapters indicated, the domus is closely connected to public relations as well as to personal ones. So it is, that Cicero brings issues of exile, law, and citizenship into his internal realm as well.

In terms of domestic relations, Cicero abstracts these aspects of home-life as he imports them. First, there is the issue of servitude and freedom. When servitude

(an essential component of Roman domestic life) appears in the philosophical texts, it is only ever figurative. At PS 5.35, servitude is presented as a state of mind, not of social standing: Servi igitur omnes improbi, servi!… si servitus sit, sicut est, obedientia fracti animi et abiecti et arbitrio carentis suo, quis negat omnes leves omnes cupidos omnes denique improbos esse servos? Cicero appropriates a social structure, and builds it into the mind; he incorporates servitude in his philosophical

(discourse on) space, but he transforms it into a purely abstract quality.267

Freedom is also transported in to philosophical space, and as it is moved, it too is rendered abstract. To the question quid est enim libertas? Cicero replies that

267 And at PS 5.41, Cicero critiques a speech made by Crassus: An non est omnis metus servitus?…’Eripite nos ex servitute’: quae est ista servitus tam claro homini tamque nobili? Omnis animi debilitati et humilis et fracti timiditas servitus est. ‘Nolite sinere nos cuiquam servire’: in libertatem vindicari vult? Minime. Cicero goes on to say that those of lofty and high mind, and of virtue, ought not and cannot be slaves of any sort. Again, the servitude of real life social relations is not of such consequence as that of the philosophical realm. Literal servitude has been translated into its figurative equivalent, and that is how it is important: still a domestic relation, but an internal and conceptual one, housed in philosophy. On slavery and Stoicism, see Colish (1985) 36ff.

183 freedom is the power to live as you will: potestas vivendi ut velis (PS 5.34). After a brief description of the free man, Cicero puts his thoughts in a nutshell: illud tamen et breve et confitendum est, nisi qui ita sit affectus esse liberum neminem (PS 5.35).

Freedom is about internal will and disposition.268

Thus, Cicero recasts servitude and freedom such that they too fit in to the internalized world of philosophy. He recasts another aspect of domestic life as well, namely that of wealth. Like freedom, material wealth was an essential component of domestic relations. Wealth, indeed, was put on display both by and in the home. It purchased goods that in turn showed (off) that wealth in material ways. But, argues

Cicero, material riches are no longer any good, since undeserving men can have them: omitto divitias, quas cum quivis quamvis indignus habere possit, in bonis non numero (TD 5.46). Rather, true wealth is not a reflection of material domestic life; it is an internal and abstract aspect of the internal philosophical domus. Accordingly,

Cicero claims that one is rich in terms of the mind, not in terms of cash flow: animus hominis dives, non arca appellari solet (PS 6.44).269 Riches exist in virtue: dubitet

268 On Stoicism and free will, see Engberg-Pederson (1990) 207-234. On will and self-possession, see Kaaster (2002) 137. Cicero describes this condition as totum in eo est, ut tibi imperes; see Inv Rhet 2.163; Part Orat. 77; TD 2.32; de Fato. For general portrait of libertas in Republican Rome, see Nicolet (1980) The World of the Citizen in Republican Rome (transl. P.S. Falla) London: Batsford Academic and Educational Ltd., 317-342.

269 One is rich in mind, not in terms of neighbor’s gossip, and not in terms of one’s belongings: animus hominis dives, non arca appellari solet: quamvis illa sit plena, dum te inanem videbo, divitem non putabo (PS 6.43).

184 quin in virtute divitiae sint (PS 6.48). Thus, Cicero presents riches in much the same way as he did servitude and freedom: as conceptual, abstract, and belonging to internal socio-domestic relations.

The same practice appears in light of Cicero’s treatment of the third domestic relation, belongings. Included as ‘belongings’ are property (possessiones) as well as goods (bona). In terms of property, Cicero claims that the value of virtue, which cannot be destroyed, supersedes the value of physical property, which can:

Etenim si isti callidi rerum aestimatores prata et areas quasdam magno aestimant quod ei generi possessionum minime quasi noceri potest, quanti est aestimanda virtus quae nec eripi nec subripi potest umquam, neques naufragio neque incensio amittitur, nec vi tempestatum nec temporum perturbatione mutatur! Qua praediti qui sunt soli sunt divites, soli enim possident res et fructuosas et sempiternas (PS 6.51-52).

Cicero draws material and mental properties into direct contrast, and in so doing, he privileges the internal. Possessing virtue –i.e. owning internal property—is alone sufficient for the wise man.270

In terms of goods, Cicero presents real life goods as the vincla virorum (PS

5.38), and as transient and unreliable (imbecilla et commutabilia, PS 1.7). In contrast

270 The sufficiency of the internal home contrasts well with the physical home that can be stormed, robbed, looted, and torn down. It contrasts well, in other words, with Dionysios’ tower, and with Cicero’s Palatine home which Clodius did indeed loot and destroy. Philosophy is doing away (a different kind of tearing down?) this sort of vulnerable domus. Nevertheless, this is a complex passage vis-à-vis Stoicism the sage –a vir bonus, and a man virtutis—is a man at one with nature. Here, though, nature is like the market: storms in either area are destructive. Where does the sage stand in relation to nature if (A) nature has such destructive potential, and (B) virtue alone is that which maximizes profit (to use market-talk)? For some thoughts on property ownership, the individual, and the community, see A.A. Long (1995) 233-240.

185 to earthly goods are the mental goods of the sage. He carries everything with him, in his mind; his belongings, then, cannot be lost or destroyed. Cicero contrasts goods material with goods mental:

Neque ego umquam bona perdidisse dicam si qui pecus aut supellectilem amiserit, neque non saepe laudabo sapientem illum, Biantem ut opinor … cuius cum patriam Prienen cepisset hostis ceterique ita fugerent ut multa de suis rebus secum asportarent, cum esset admonitus a quodam ut idem ipse faceret, ‘Ego vero,’ inquit, ‘facio, nam omnia mecum porto mea.’ Ille haec ludibria fortunae ne sua quidem putavit quae nos appellamus etiam bona (PS 1.8-9).271

As Cicero translates material goods into an internal domestic economy, he argues not only that material goods do not matter, but that not wanting such goods is, ultimately, the sign of the good man. Indeed, the good man, Bias, takes his house and its riches with him wherever he goes. He is never without his possessions.272 Not only is it good not to want these things, but there is a certain freedom in not worrying about them either (see TD 5.43).

Encoded within this portrait of Bias is the history of Cicero and his relationship to goods: the Cicero of yesteryear (of 58 especially) placed great import in his belongings: in his house, his possessions, and all that came with it (most

271 Compare Vitruvius de arch 6.praef., discussed in Chapter 2. See also TD 5.51. Compare Seneca Ep 5.35. See also Ronnick (1991) 32-33. Natali ((1995) pp.95-128) also discusses oikonomia, but within Hellenistic thought; nevertheless there are applications to Cicero, especially at p.100 (q.v.). In addition, it is worth noting that bona is missing from Bias’ words just like his material goods are non-existent; Cicero’s ellipsis of bona is appropriate.

272 In the following portrait, Cicero contrasts bona with bonus: Veniant igitur isti irrisores huius orationis ac sententiae, et iam vel ipsi iudicent utrum se eorum alicuius qui marmoereis tectis ebore et auro fulgentibus qui signis qui tabulis qui caelato auro et argento qui Corinthiis operibus abundant, an C. Fabricii qui nihil eorum habuit nihil habere voluit, similes esse malint (PS 1.13). On the Stoic notion of ‘good’ see Frede (1999) 74-76 especially: the acquisition of the good is “crucial in the Stoic account of development.”

186 notably, political prestige). But he lost those goods. And so the Cicero of the present

(of 46 and 45) has rebuilt his house, and relocated his goods: now, both the home and the belongings are in se and –importantly—portable. Cicero fashions himself as that

Bias; he has gone from having bona to being bonus.

Thus, in as much as the domus is internalized and conceptual, so too are domestic relations. Cicero exchanges the currency of real life –of servitude, wealth, and ownership—into the currency of the internal domestic world, as he transports all things inside. The economy of the internal philosophical domus is a much more stable market.

In addition to private relations, Cicero also imports public relations to his inner ambit. Specifically, he recasts and incorporates issues of exile, law, and citizenship. In the philosophical reflections, Cicero meditates on exile, and in so doing, he presents two arguments aimed at rendering exile impossible. In the first argument, Cicero nullifies his exile by way of the law: he argues that exile is not about bounded space; rather, it is about (it is housed in) legitimacy.273 The only reason to fear exile is if it is perceived as (depriving one of) bounded, physical space: exilium autem [terribilis est] illis quibus quasi circumscriptus est habitandi locus, non eis qui omnem orbem terrarum unam urbem esse ducunt (PS 2.17). If, however, one understands that the whole world (orbs terrarum) is one city (una urbs), then exile is

273 On Cicero, law, politics, and philosophy, see J.-L. Ferrary (1995) “The Statesman and the Law in the Political Philosophy of Cicero,” in Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy Proceedings of the Sixth Symposium Hellenisticum (ed. A. Laks and M. Schofield) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp.48-73.

187 no longer terribilis. This is the cosmos polis of Stoic ethical and physical theory. It is the sage who has progressed enough to contract the orbs terrarum into and as una urbs.274

Alternatively, exile is a punishment for crime: exilium scelerum esse poenam

(PS 4.30). Since Cicero has committed no crime, he cannot experience exile, even when he is outside of Rome: all he experiences is a ‘trip’—meum illud iter ob praeclarissimas res a me gestas esse susceptum.275 In addition, since Clodius has committed almost every crime (PS 4.31), he is ever an exile, even when he is in the city: sed quid ego communes leges profero, quibus omnibus es exul? The language of philosophy, when applied to the law, provides Cicero with the tools he needs not only to render his exile void, but even to transfer that exile to his nemesis.

In the second argument against exile, Cicero contends that there are two important features to this ‘exile’. First, this sort of exile is really more like a permanent vacation: iam vero exsilium, si rerum naturam, non ignominiam nominis quaerimus, quantum tandem a perpetua peregrinatione differt? (TD 5.107. Cicero even describes his time away from Rome in 58 at a ‘trip’: iter PS.276) More

274 Indeed, the city, argues Cicero (de leg. 3.30-32), is a reflection of the character of its prominent men. Man and city converge.

275 Since the whole world is one city, any trip is only ever within that same city: there is no way out. This is not quite the portrait of his travels that Cicero wrote of in his letters from 58.

276 Mackendrick (1989) discusses Cicero’s denial of exile by ever referring to his time away as a ‘trip’. Andrew Riggsby (2002) also discusses Cicero’s use of iter when he talks about exile; Cicero seems to avoid using the term ‘exile’; this may be a way of avoiding that he was even banished.

188 importantly, though, Cicero claims that the wise man is impervious to the shame of exile since he cannot suffer (shame); therefore, the wise man cannot suffer exile.277

In two moves, Cicero does away with exile. But he has had to abstract exile into the unbounded internal space of refuge –the space wherein the philosophical domus lies. That Cicero has to revisit exile bespeaks the inefficacy of his previous attempts to efface the problem: if the letters lamented it and the speech pleaded against it, the philosophy conjures it away by redefining it. In the philosophical mode, he can render the material matter of the home unimportant, which in turn renders exile from the material world unimportant as well.

Cicero’s treatment of the state and citizenship is almost identical to his treatment of exile: he again presents two arguments. Cicero first ties citizenship to the law: he claims that citizenship and the concept of state are not about geographical location: Quae enim civitas? Omnisne conventus etiam ferorum et immanium?

Omnisne etiam fugitivorum ac latronum congregata unum in locum multitudo? Certe negabis (PS 4.27 and 4.29). Rather, citizenship is about behavior, about the externalization of internal traits: Cicero asks rhetorically an tu civem ab hoste natura ac loco, non animo factisque distinguis? (4.29-30). Specifically, citizenship is about behavior according to the law. Since Cicero acts according to the law, he is always a citizen: ergo ego semper civis (PS 4.29). And since Clodius acts contrary to the law, he is never a citizen: tu ne nunc quidem, nisi forte idem esse hostis et civis potest (PS

4.27, 4.30).

277 See TD 5.108. See also Ronnick (1991) 31, and n. 62. See also S.A. White (1995) 226-232.

189 In the second argument, Cicero claims simply that the philosopher is the citizen not of a city, but of the world (see TD 5.108; recall PS 2.18).278 So it is that in both regards, Cicero approaches citizenship just as he approached exile. State and citizenship are spatial, but not physical. They belong to legitimacy and order, in the internal space that is the wise man’s mind. And they are externalized by way of the wise man’s behavior. In order to get to this point, then, Cicero transported real life public relations in se, so as to revisit them, and process them for the last time. In other words, he made them part of his trip back through language and the home, en route to philosophy’s safe lap.279

As Cicero appropriates all real-life relations (domestic and public) into himself, he abstracts those relations, in order to incorporate them in the non-space of mind. On the other hand, by including these relations within the new home, Cicero renders his inner space increasingly similar to the external domus. For in the physical world, the home was steeped in relations both public and private; it was the space that both stood at the intersection of public and private, and functioned simultaneously to unite and separate these two aspects of the world. The internal space that Cicero has structured stands and functions in the same liminal and mediary way. As such, like the real home, it closely resembles the home in the Stoic theory of oikeiosis. The

278 There is a knot here: Cicero’s claim, that the philosopher is a citizen of the world renders any specific place relatively unimportant, weakens his otherwise strong attachment to the city. The knot either shows the process of change that one undergoes while turning into the self, or it shows that Cicero’s attempts to withdraw are not working quite as well as he planned.

279 For a general portrait of civitas in Republican Rome, see Nicolet (1980) 18-42; see also 384ff.

190 primary differences between the real and sublime homes are, of course, that this new space is safe from any and all threats, and, though comprised of the same relations, it is fully abstract.

It is apparent, now, that with philosophy’s aid, Cicero has made a radical turn into himself, wherein he sets all things into a new order. Within this internal space

(which is really a proliferation of several, metaphorical spaces), Cicero seems to have found a way to solve the long-lasting problems of the past. By assuming them all within the safe space of inside, he concomitantly assumes control over everything. He is the master of this inner dominion, and so he can approach all things with an assurance of safety. In a sense, Cicero has arrived at the harbor, traveled through the walls, moved into a new homey space, and landed on philosophy’s lap.280 He has turned into himself, and attained Stoic hegemonikon, via what seems to be the right route, namely by embracing the Stoic theory of oikeiosis. In fact, we might argue, that

Cicero has performed oikeiosis. He moves through the system even as he appropriates it into himself.281

But Cicero does not just perform oikeiosis. It seems that he even produces an oikeiosis of oikeiosis itself. This is evident if we consider Cicero’s relation to

280 A similar argument can be made for Cicero’s description of his home-coming in Ad Att. 4.1. Cicero performs, he enacts, oikeiosis as he moves back to the oikos. (There may be pursuable parallels with Odysseus and his nostos: issues of identity, belonging, home, &c.)

281 See Englert (1990) 139: “The Paradoxa is a strange work, stranded somewhere between philosophical schools and the forum.” The work is stuck in the middle; Cicero is there, mediating. Although: the ‘stranded’ is a little ominous. Indeed, Englert also notes (138): “It is impossible to bring the Stoic paradoxes into the forum. Speaking in the de Finibus as Cato’s opponent in a philosophical debate, Cicero argues that the Stoics are stuck.” For more on this problem, see also Colish (1985) 131: Cicero does but weave between the political and the personal.

191 philosophy. In order to use philosophy, Cicero first publicizes Stoicism, by translating it into the public-speak of oratory. Then when he uses philosophy, he privatizes it, by turning everything inwards. According to Stoic theory, Cicero attaches himself to both realms (he contracts both public and private towards himself), and then appropriates them. By publicizing and privatizing philosophy at one and the same time, Cicero has structured a space for himself (for his practice) that itself closely resembles the domus in the Stoic model: for, like the home, that space is both liminal and mediary. It is an essential space that affords cohesion, movement, and harmony between all parts. It is the necessary link in a fluid, yet ordered system. This is what

Cicero has done for Stoicism. It is also what he has done with Stoicism. So it is, then that Cicero has appropriated the Stoic theory of oikeiosis, and has put it into practice on itself.

Through philosophy, Cicero has discovered what he claims will be the final solution to all of his problems. Every which way we look, oikeiosis applies: Cicero attaches philosophy to various places on the oikeiosis model. In this way, philosophy is parental (it is part of the oikos circle); at the same time, it sits on, and thereby conjoins, the four contiguous spaces of harbor, wall, home, and lap. In addition, philosophy is part of the public sphere, and it is part of the private sphere. At the same time, philosophy provides Cicero the space to appropriate all things, and, ultimately, become the master of those things. Ultimately, he has used a theory centered around domestic relations (around self and society, around private and public, and around mastery) in order to re-center those same relations within the new

192 and abstract home of mind. Cicero’s approach is as pure, safe, and abstract as the space into which he has moved. Everything, it would seem, fits together very neatly.

The Illusion of Solution

It may be so, that Cicero has structured a purely abstract and impenetrable space wherein he confines and controls all that once controlled him; but there are some significant problems in this apparently clever solution. In the first place, as

Cicero radically internalizes all things, and as he structures everything within the impenetrable and walled house of mind, Cicero creates a microcosm that bears uncanny resemblance to Dionysios’ fortified world. Dionysios hides in space created for the self; he disconnects his self from others. So does Cicero. Dionysios does this in order to avoid the dangers of the external world. So does Cicero. Dionysios’ actions betray his troubled relation to architecture. So do Cicero’s. Dionysios collapses the orbs terrarum and the urbs into confining (prison-like) spaces of solitude. So does Cicero. So it is, that Cicero’s internal realm is the mere psychic equivalent to the physical domain of the tyrant.282 Is the Stoic hegemonikon in fact a tyrannos? Thus the potential for solution that the internalization process offered is

282 It is worth noting that in a letter to Atticus (written in exile, no less), Cicero says that if he is to visit Atticus’ house, it will have to be a fortified castle (Ad Att. 3.7). Like Dionysios, Cicero fears that somebody will take his life; the extra physical protection is necessary. There is, I believe, a paranoia that pervades the exilic letters (see earlier chapter).

193 troubled by the serious psychological consequences that are likely to result from such radical and paranoid hermitude. The neatness and safety of the inner ambit unravel.283

Second, it was noted that domestic relations (of mastery, slavery, belongings, and self) were imported to the inner realm, and that public relations (issues of state, citizenship, exile, and politics) were also all imported. Yet many of these relations were precisely what Cicero was trying to avoid, especially in the case of state, law, and Clodius. Furthermore, as Cicero imported all of these relations, he rendered his internal space more similar to the real-life domus. Yet it was the real-life domus that had failed to help Cicero reconstitute himself. It was the real-life domus that Cicero was trying to get beyond, eleven years earlier. It seems, therefore, that by importing civic and personal relations, Cicero has reproduced the same conditions that had failed him in the first place. He should harbor little hope that the same conditions, constituted in the same relations to self and home, will now save him.

Third, amidst the internalization process, the house itself goes missing. While the general argument is that the inner world is now the new space that stands in as the home, and that that world bares certain resemblances to the real home, nevertheless, the home itself as itself is not included. The ellipsis of the domus is key: for the home is the space that sits both at and as the intersection of all intersections. Its exclusion signifies an important break in the Stoic model; indeed the model crumbles when the

283 Mackendrick (1989) 14 describes philosophers as “ivory tower recluses.” This metaphor is especially interesting vis-à-vis Dionysios and his turris of hyper-safety, and Baltzly’s image of Stoicism as a “psychological fortress” (2000, 13).

194 domus is no longer there, and no longer mediating. It seems that Cicero’s philosophical eclecticism is here tripping him up: his attempts to pursue Stoicism in one instance show only that he fails in his ability to do so. 284

The solution, then, that Cicero seems to have sought through philosophical reflection and in himself proves ultimately to be only illusory. Cicero shows a proclivity to transport all things internal; and in a way, such a move is the natural sequel to past attempts at presenting and reconstructing the loss of home. Indeed,

Cicero should expect to derive a certain comfort within the safe confines of this inner space. But woven into his portrait of the (benefits of the) internal are some arguments that ultimately argue against the main thread. Thus, while the philosophical home within the self is a natural sequel, it is a troubled space: it is both a space that cannot uphold the Stoicism it is supposed to reproduce, and a non-space that is too radically constructed, and over-loaded, to be ultimately effective.

In each of the two preceding chapters, we have both seen the house, and noticed that it is missing. And in each, the missing home produced disruptive effects

(at least initially). In the letters, the missing house at first caused Cicero rather severe sadness: he could not write, and he could find no consolation. Over time, though, the missing home transpired to be a ‘positive clearing-away’ (as Heidegger might put it).

The real Palatine structure was replaced with an abstract practice: epistlography (and

284 Writes Ronnick (1991) 43: “the Paradoxa Stoicorum stands alone…as a work whose design has no single model and one that, for centuries, did not inspire any imitations.” See also Powell (1995) 3, 25. Cicero’s eclecticism makes him a ‘jack of all trades, but master of none’ even as he makes every effort to become the master of self.

195 the therapeutic potential of it) stood in the missing home’s stead, as a new place that housed all things. But, by the time of the de domo speech, Cicero had again to entertain the sense of house as self, if only to win his case. In the speech, the home assumed center-stage, and its retrieval (Cicero argued) was central not only to

Cicero’s survival, but to that of the republic as well. Its absence was full of damaging potential.

In both of these chapters, we see that the missing home at some point disrupts both the self and the state. And, it seems accurate to note, each chapter shows the impossibility of erasing the home and trying to make a virtue of its necessary absence. Such is the case too, in this chapter: the positive effects of the missing home are only flawed and would-be effects. Instead, and this applies to all of Cicero’s presentations, we see that there is a sociological, biological, and philosophical necessity that houses exist both in fact and as an idea. Thinking of the home as only real, or only abstract will ultimately prove to be an ineffective approach. This is a higher truth of the house that emerges from all of the homes we have seen even if this explicit formulation frequently eludes our authors as they attempt to negotiate the place of place in both thought and reality.

196 CONCLUSION

In the preceding chapters, I have undertaken two principal projects. I have explored the literary presentation of the domus through the lenses of an architect

(Vitruvius) and an orator (Cicero). And I have considered the subjective, psychic aspects of the home, in order both to supplement previous studies where the focus was on the objective, physical aspects, and to enhance recent studies that have started exploring the social, religious, gendered, and philosophical relations about the home.

In the process, several interesting discoveries have been made. For one, we have seen that houses exist both as facts and as ideas; or, they exist in reality and in theory. Both Cicero and Vitruvius discuss the domus in its actuality: for Vitruvius, that means depicting specific structures, such as a Roman villa or a Greek house, and for Cicero, that means talking about his Palatine house. In addition, both discuss the home in its imaginary, or imagined state. In de architectura Vitruvius talks of the birth and socialization of the home, and he prescribes the home’s spaces in ways that mirror a human body. In the de domo, Cicero presents his home as having the power and auctoritas of its owner, or perhaps even of the republic. In the letters, the letters themselves are imagined to be (because they are presented as) a new home, housing

197 important relations of the public and private sort. Much the same can be said for the philosophical texts, where philosophy itself was constructed as the safe new haven of home.

Yet the representation of the home as a fact and as an idea is not so simple.

For in its more abstract and theoretical renditions, real relations are (re)negotiated; and in its more concrete portraits, imaginary relations are faced and thought through.

In terms of the former, Vitruvius’ model homes in 6.5.2, and 6.7 reproduce and reinforce the reality of social difference and gendered hierarchies. In Cicero’s texts, political and personal facts are confronted by way of the area where, Cicero remembers, the domus used to stand. On the other hand, Cicero (in the de domo in particular) uses the actual Palatine structure as a physical manifestation of the state of the state, and the state of the self. The home that is, is more than a home. And its loss signifies more than physical collapse: for instance, the area is a physical way for

Romans to see (both literally and figuratively) the downfall of the republic.

The conditions under which the domus is presented by the architect and by the orator are quite different: Vitruvius includes the home within his meditation on architectura, whereas Cicero discusses the home as he faces the reality of its loss.

Their projects are consequently also quite different: put simply, Vitruvius is concerned with building a house, while Cicero faces the lost home. In theory at least.

Both men seem actually to be negotiating self and place by means of the domus. The house, in all instances then, is a site where Romans face and reflect on questions of identity and belonging. Thus, the questions “What am I? What potential do I have if

198 there is no home?” that Cicero explicitly ask in his letters can be transferred to his other writing, and even to Vitruvius’ as well. In this way, the subject of the home, the subject that the home reflects, and the subject that presents the home (i.e. the text and the author of the text) are tightly intertwined and mutually sustaining constructs.

So it is, then, that we revisit now the role of the text. Language, I noted throughout, is an essential feature of the construction process. There is indeed a coincidence of construction between text and home. For instance, as Vitruvius built the home, he built the text-on-home; as he gave life to the home, he gave life to his text. In addition, his underlying message, that it was knowledge about architecture

(more than the practice itself) that mattered, added a certain currency to the importance of text. For Cicero, writing about the home was important in a multitude of ways. Most notably, it was by writing about the loss of the home (in letters) that

Cicero was able to construct a portrait of the self that was built out of the rubble of the Palatine structure and yet ultimately distinct from that concrete house.

Alternatively, in the de domo speech, it was through language (written or delivered speech) that Cicero was able to win his case and win back his home. In all of the above, the role of writing proved crucial: it granted the space for realizing and articulating the close connection between subject and home, notably between the construction of both within the construction of writing.

Finally, is it clear that the abstract, subjective perspective that the literary record offers is undoubtedly valuable. The subject is presupposed by space (the subject is itself architectural), and it is presupposed by text. To lose sight of the

199 subject is to diminish the room for a more comprehensive understanding of the home.

It is important to consider the subject along with the text, and space, for these three elements are inextricably interwoven and mutually sustaining.

Consequent to my research, several avenues for further investigation are available. One might pursue more fully the domus as Cicero presents it, or pursue the domus as other Roman authors present it. Avenues for further exploring the home and its relation to mind would be a profitable undertaking. More generally, one might investigate more thoroughly the importance of the metaphor of home: besides the self, what else does the home stand in for? How might we understand the multiplicity of metaphors? Alternatively, one might probe further into the Stoic theory of oikeiosis and see places where space and self interrelate within the philosophical texts.

More generally still, there is space for further attempts at synthesizing the objective archaeological and the subjective literary homes, and identifying the benefits of engaging these two methodologies simultaneously. Extensions of these thoughts on the Roman domus can readily be made, for the close relation between self and home is not unique to ancient Roman society. A cross-cultural or a cross- temporal study of literary representations of the home would constitute a fascinating project with appeal that extends beyond the realm of Classicists and architects.

200 APPENDIX

CICERO’S LETTERS: THE DATES OF COMPOSITION

Cicero’s exilic letters are listed below in chronological order.

Letters of 58 BC Letters of 57 BC

Ad Att. 3.3 April Ad Att. 3.26 January Ad Att. 3.2 April Ad Att. 3.27 25th January Ad Att. 3.4 April Ad Fam. 5.4 January Ad Att. 3.1 April Ad Att. 4.1 September Ad Att. 3.5 10th April Ad Att. 4.2 October Ad Att. 3.6 April Ad Att. 4.3 24th November Ad Fam. 14.4 29th April Q. Fr. 2.1 10th December Ad Att. 3.7 29th April Ad Fam. 7.26 December Ad Att. 3.8 29th May Ad Att. 3.9 13th June Q. Fr. 1.3 15th June Ad Att. 3.10 17th June Ad Att. 3.11 27th June Ad Att. 3.12 17th July Ad Att. 3.14 21st July Ad Att. 3.13 5th August Q. Fr. 1.4 August Ad Att. 3.15 17th August Ad Att. 3.16 19th August Ad Att. 3.17 4th September Ad Att. 3.18 September Ad Att. 3.19 15th Sepctember Ad Att. 3.20 4th October Ad Fam. 14.2 5th October Ad Att. 3.21 28th October

201 Ad Att. 3.22 27th November Ad Fam. 14.1 28th November Ad Att. 3.23 29th November Ad Fam. 14.3 29th November Ad Att. 3.24 10th December Ad Att. 3.25 December

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