Good morning and welcome to LLT121 Classical Mythology. In our last class, we were examining the concept of the Ages of Humankind. Hesiod was the first to write it down, circa 750 BC. Remember that Hesiod also had other theories about the creation of humankind. Who can forget that Pandora, the first woman, was created as a punishment for mankind? Now Hesiod springs version number two on us, the so-called Ages of Humankind. To sum up briefly, with the help of a chart that I have just designed, Hesiod posits a sequence of five eras each—not each of them—based on a series of metals. The first stage is the Golden Age. Out of ten I would give it a 9.5. They weren’t quite gods. They might be giants, but I’m not sure whether they really deserve a ten. Zeus destroyed the golden race of humans because he had just come to power and they were not his people.
The Silver Age I arbitrarily assign an 8 to. You see the same downward trend that people have been getting up on soapboxes and proclaiming for centuries. The world is going down the tubes and your generation is to blame. The Bronze Age is another step down. Although the humans had come up with an advance in the form of bronze implements, bronze plowshares, bronze swords, they used these implements for the wrong things. They used them for war. Good God! What was it good for? It was good for getting them killed. This generation succeeded in wiping itself off of the face of the earth, according to Hesiod.
Then we’ve got Heroes. This is the rather embarrassing up blip with which we ended our last class. When I think of Hesiod, the Greek poet Hesiod, I think of a fellow standing up on a soapbox complaining about everything and saying that the main problem is that you people do not worship and respect Zeus sufficiently. Certainly, the Iron Age, in which Hesiod believes himself to live, is really pretty pitiful. Zero out of zero. How do you explain the Heroes? These are the heroes of ancient Greek mythology such as Heracles, such as Achilles, such as Agamemnon, and Ulysses. They did represent an up blip. But don’t worry, says Hesiod, now that we’re in the Iron Age, we’re hitting the skids and moving downward.
750 years later, the Roman poet, Ovid, takes the same basic schema and gives us his own take on the quote unquote Ages of Humankind. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times; the weltanschauung of a civilization is, in large part, determined by its own situation in the world at the time. Life was nasty, brutish and short in 750 BC, ancient Greece. It had become much kinder, and gentler. The life expectancy had gone up. Creature comforts had multiplied by 1 AD. This viewpoint is going to be reflected in Ovid’s poetry. I’ll tell you right off the bat, it is going to be more optimistic than is Hesiod’s version of the same myth. Sure, Ovid is taking a story of the Ages of Humankind. We can bust Ovid for plagiarism. However, I think that Ovid has done something novel and exciting with the Ages of Humankind. Ovid has the same ages to start out with, Gold, Silver, Bronze. He skips the Age of Heroes. If anybody can give me a good reason why Ovid skips the Age of Heroes, he or she can put their head down on the desk and sleep—and even snore—for the rest of the class period. Your name is? Yeah. That’s pretty good, but it’s not right. Mark? Thank you. Put your head down, have a graham cracker and go to sleep. Hesiod’s a Greek, whereas Ovid is a Roman. What does he care about Greek heroes? So he skips the Age of Heroes and goes to the Iron Age. Right at the end of Hesiod’s account of the Ages of Humankind, he makes the statement that Zeus will destroy this Iron Age, too, when it comes to pass that father gets angry at son and so on and so forth. In Ovid’s account of the Iron Age, Zeus—actually, to give him his Roman name, Jupiter, does destroy the whole world by the ever-popular motif of flood. I teach comparative mythology at this university, also. By this point in the semester, we usually have encountered three or four flood myths. I’ve gone for three weeks without a flood myth, and I’m really having a tough time with it, so we’ll have a flood myth. But, before we discuss the flood myth, as reported to us by Ovid, I want to give you a little note about names of gods and goddesses.
The Greek god Zeus is spelled Z-E-U-S. That’s the only way it’s spelled. Anybody who spells it any other way will fry. Okay, has the Roman equivalent god of Jupiter. Zeus’s wife’s name is Hera in Greek. It’s Juno in Latin. One of the things I’m going to require you to know for your test—actually this is good for the entire semester—is that the major Greek gods also have Roman names. The same studly looking, roving-eyed god, author of the world’s worst pickup line, with a slightly receding hairline and stuff—the leader of the universe—was known to the ancient Greeks as Zeus and to the Romans as Jupiter. He was, more or less, the same god, but not quite. Very briefly, very briefly, what happened? Why did the Romans wind up with Greek gods? Because of a process called synchrotism. This is the sort of buzzword you are bound to see on an exam sooner or later. Synchrotism is just another name for the merging, if you will, of gods or goddesses. To give you a hypothetical example, the Greeks have a thunder god named Zeus, a lightning god named Zeus, who rules the universe. The Greeks, who were culturally ahead of the Romans, started building colonies in Italy, where they met the Romans. The Romans noticed, “Wow, these ancient Greeks have a lightning god named Zeus who is married to the chief goddess, Hera. He messes around on her constantly and she’s always picking on his old girlfriends and stuff. That’s like our god, Jupiter. That must be our god, Jupiter. They just happened to know more about Zeus than we know about Jupiter. They are more advanced than we are. Okay, I tell you what, their god Zeus is the same as our god, Jupiter. Their goddess, Hera, is the same as our goddess, Juno. Their goddess, Athena, is the same as our goddess, Minerva, etc.”
In your study guide, there’s a whole big list of the names of Greek gods and goddesses and their Roman equivalence. Memorize it. Do yourself a favor and memorize it. That’s the subliminal way of teaching, because it’s really not worth my class time to tell you about it much more. Synchrotism is a process by which one culture takes on another culture’s gods, sometimes complete with their names and sometimes with different names. Any merging of gods, I guess, could be called synchrotism. No, it can apply to any number of cultural phenomena, actually, Mark. Okay, that said. According to Ovid, Jupiter, whose name in Greek is what? Your name is? Scott. His son, Mercury, who’s ancient Greek name is what? Hermes. They decide to go out and check out the way these humans are behaving. They heard reports that the humans are acting up again and they’re going to go check them out. Jupiter and Mercury, that is to say Zeus and Hermes, disguise themselves as an older beggar and a younger beggar and they go around seeing who’s nice to them and who’s mean to them. They wind up at the house of a king by the name of Lycaon. Whose name I will now write on the board. It’s spelled L-Y-C-A-O-N. Lycaon, who thinks that this might be Jupiter in disguise decides he’ll find out one way or another. He’ll try to kill him, try to kill Jupiter in his sleep. The technical term for this is hubris, believing that you are greater than or equal to a god. Another good description of this is “bad career move,” because Zeus—I’m sorry—Jupiter and Mercury get very angry. They change Lycaon into a wolf. Jupiter decides that he would like to destroy the universe. Now, in the year of our Lord, 750 BC, a time at which society in general was suffering from a nastier, harsher weltanschauung, Zeus destroys the human race because he wants to. He’s having a bad hair day. He destroys the human race and feels better because he’s an all powerful, authoritarian chief god.
The Romans, on the other hand, who lived… well, the Roman civilization is still with us today. We’re talking about the time of Christ. It had a fully developed set of political institutions like a Senate, other elective bodies. They had elected officials that served for one year. They had elections every year. Politics in ancient Rome was a blood sport. So, in Ovid’s version of this fine story Jupiter goes to the assembly of gods and goddesses and asks for permission to destroy the universe again. There is some discussion. “Oh, didn’t you do that last time? We’re getting tired. The humans are so funny with their little acts and wars and their sacrifices are neat and, besides, who are we going to chase around if you kill all the mortal women?” Finally, they agree with him because he is, after all, Jupiter, darn it. He says that he would like to use thunder and lightning to destroy the world. That, however, is voted down. The other gods and goddesses point out, “What if you burned the whole universe down instead of just the humans?” Well, how about a flood? How about a nice flood? Since they are all agreed on destroying the world by flood, they tell Jupiter that he can go ahead and destroy the humans by means of a flood. He has to promise—and he does promise—to create a wondrous, new race of earth. This becomes important. The flood takes place. Neptune, god of the ocean, whose name, in ancient Greek, is Poseidon, sends various winds and waves and what not, and, pretty soon, we have cows floating and getting tangled in trees and dolphins swimming through the fourth stories of various buildings and your usually production values that go along with your typical ancient flood story.
In this account of the flood story, exactly two human beings are saved. Does this sound familiar? They are saved because they are good people. Their names are as follows: a man named Deucalion, who is said to be the son of Prometheus, and a woman by the name of Pyrrha, who is said to be the daughter of Epimetheus. I will not entertain picky, detail questions at this time. You’re Josh, right? Jeremy, god of picky details. Deucalion and Pyrrha are very old. They are so old that reproduction by the usual way is out of the question. What happens is they are riding the storm out, the waters recede, they find themselves alone on the ground, on dry land, and faced with the task of repopulating the universe—except for they are too old. They start weeping and wailing. Finally they go to the oracle of Mother Gaia, who just happens to be in the vicinity. She says to them, oracularly, throw your mother’s bones over your shoulders. Now, Pyrrha, because she is female in a myth passed on by a patriarchal society, takes the story literally. “You mean to dig up mother and throw her bones over my shoulders? Oh how grotty! That’s sacrilege!” Deucalion, because he is a male character in a myth passed on by a patriarchal society, gets to have the light—well, maybe it is just a candle—over his head. Who is the mother of us all? Of course, the great goddess, Gaia. So what Deucalion and Pyrrha do is they take up rocks and toss them over their shoulder. The rocks and clods of dirt that Deucalion throws over his shoulder become men. The clods of dirt and rocks, which Pyrrha throws over her should becomes women. The population of humankind springs up again. How neat! How nifty! A wondrous race of earth, which Jupiter promised the assembly of gods and goddesses he would create.
Molly, your question? Any questions or complaints? Crystal? Good question. Remember that Hesiod ends his account with the Iron Age. Okay? He did believe that he’s living in the Iron Age. He says he wished that he’d been born before or after it because he hates it so much. Ovid really does believe that he is born in the Earth Age. Clear out, I think this woman’s going to fry. A great number of civilizations have flood myths. You know, civilizations, for one thing, tend to spring up in river valleys. The Romans were no different. The Romans were in the Tiber River valley. Just about every civilization that sprang up along a river has a doozy of a flood story packed away in their mind. I would suspect that this is just the old generic flood story tacked onto some doozy of a flood back in Roman history. It’s only remembered by word of mouth. Does that answer your question, kind of? If it’s not, ask me again and I’ll make up a different answer. Okay, very excellent. I talked that one to death. Other questions? Perhaps one I can answer. Okay. We charge on. If we were to graph Ovid’s Ages of Humankind, it’s downhill, downhill, downhill, then up, the wondrous Age of Earth, which Jupiter promised to create if the other gods and goddesses would let him zap the Iron Age. And it happened. Question? No, as a general rule people think that Ovid was pretty skeptical. Okay? Well, Ovid writes for a number of purposes. His Metamorphosis, a book about how people change into different stuff—basically that’s what it’s about—is one of our very best sources for mythology. Ovid wants to entertain us, make us think, make us laugh, make us cry, make us throw up. He wants to make us do a number of things. I think, too, that there is a good deal of moral content to be found in Ovid and a lot of immoral content, too. If I could be shipwrecked on an island with one famous writer from ancient society, I would pick Ovid hands down. The guy is just that great. Good question, well answered.
Other questions? Farrah Lynn? Well, actually the Greek word for wolf is “laocos.” So he became the first wolf. A werewolf is a human being that turns into a wolf. No, I think it could be an explanation of a werewolf because they had werewolves back in ancient Rome. I mean they had werewolf stories back in ancient Rome. Not to offend any of you who still believe in werewolves. Okay, question up to this point? Okay, I’ve mentioned the concept of synchrotism in which Greek gods are given Roman names. That’s pretty boring. Supposedly the ancient Greek gods lived on Mount Olympus, which was a very high mountain located in ancient Greece. It’s still there in modern Greece to this day. Somebody must have looked up and said, “It’s so high the gods must live on it.” Fine, that’s where we’ll park them, Mark. I don’t care to discuss that because it doesn’t interest me. I told you that the name of this chapter really ought to be, “All that Zeus.” It’s time for Zeus to, as they say, get busy.
Zeus’ official wife is his sister, Hera. Zeus and Hera have 4 children, or
3-1/2 children, depending on how you care to interpret it. One son of theirs is Ares, the god of war. Good God! Another daughter of theirs is Hebe, goddess of youthful beauty. Another daughter is Eilethyia—don’t worry, I very seldom put that on a quiz—goddess of childbirth. There are a lot of goddesses of childbirth in ancient Greek and ancient Roman myth. I would suggest this is because the ancient Greeks and ancient Romans had patriarchal societies, which means the deities in charge of important stuff, like roads and travel are likely to be male. Whereas, women get to be goddesses in charge of cooking and childbirth. Childbirth is the one thing in most ancient societies that women, alone, are allowed to do. The Hittites thought differently, perhaps. One child that Hera supposedly had all by herself is Hephaestus, the god of metal shop. The so-called crippled, handicapped god, who was so ugly when he was born that Zeus threw him off of Mount Olympus. According to Hesiod, Hera gave birth to Hephaestus all by herself. Hum. But keep in mind that she is Gaia’s granddaughter. She’s is the mother of all earth goddesses, why not? That is all I have to say, “why not?” One day, Hephaestus gets married to Aphrodite. The goddess of beauty and love marrying this smoke-blackened, club-footed god of metal shop. Zeus did this to Aphrodite, it is said, to fix her because she was always making people fall in love and behave like absolute idiots. Do people behave like absolute idiots when they are in love? Yes, that’s how you know they are really in love, when they do really stupid things that embarrass them to death when they hear about it afterwards. Zeus says, “I’ll fix you. I will marry you to the Danny Devito of the gods, the ugly god.” But the thing is, Hephaestus is such a nice god. Everybody likes him. He’s just not easy on the eyes.
So one day, while Hephaestus is off on a business trip, Aphrodite is looking for a little loving on the side. And that’s okay because she is the goddess of beauty, desirability, and scoring copiously. She decides to go over to the house of Ares, the god of war, who is a very studly god. Of course, he’s a total and consummate dork. One time, he got wounded in the Trojan War. He came up to Mount Olympus and started whining. Zeus put him in a barrel and nailed it shut until he stopped whining. Good god, what is it good for? Meanwhile, Ares and Aphrodite, you know, are having a little hanky-panky in the el sacko when Helios, the sun god, cruising up in his chariot 24 hours a day—well, no, he’s the sun god. He’s up there. He sees a lot. He looks down and he sees Ares and Aphrodite in flagrante delicto, which is Latin for doing the wild thing. Okay? Bu if you “in flagrante delicto” it just sounds much more dignified. Well, maybe somebody in this room has been in this situation. I mean, how anthropomorphic can these deities get? One person you know is messing around on their main squeeze and you know about it, but do you tell them? Do you not tell them? Well, here’s Helios, he’s a god, and he’s stuck trying to figure it out. Do I nark on Aphrodite or do I help Hephaestus out?
Well, finally he calls a meeting with Hephaestus and says, “Hephaestus, Aphrodite has been messing around on you with Ares.” Hephaestus is not happy to hear this. In his function as the god of metal shop, Hephaestus makes some unbreakable chains of such thin metal that they can’t be seen. He is, after all, the god of metal shop. Right, Jeremy? You are still Jeremy? Good. The next time that Aphrodite comes over to Ares’s house for a little loving, the next time they are in flagrante delicto, Hephaestus pops out of the woodwork, throws the chain over them—which is invisible—and calls all the gods to look at it. All the gods are standing around and looking at this sight, but not the ancient Greek goddesses. Your name is Heather, right? Why do you think this is, that all the gods are standing around looking, but not the goddesses? Make something up. This is a patriarchal society in, which men have manly sexual urges which it is all right to act upon, but women are supposed to stay home and behave themselves. The good old double standard. So all the gods are standing there looking at Ares caught in flagrante delicto with Aphrodite. Finally, I think it’s Poseidon, the sea god, otherwise known to the Romans as Neptune, who says, “I tell you what. Let them out and I will make sure, Hephaestus, that he makes it up to you or I’ll kill him.” So they let them go. But here’s an example of an ancient Greek joke. This ancient Greek joke is about 3,200 years old. Apollo and Hermes were standing there looking at Ares and Aphrodite caught in flagrante delicto. Apollo says, “Man how would you like to be caught in the buff with Aphrodite like that?” Hermes says, “Wow, that would rule. I’d love it.” So much for an ancient Greek 3,200 year old joke.
Other gods and goddesses I should mention, well let’s put it this way. A joke which I tell people constantly in class—that’s really not a joke—is that the number one cause of teenage pregnancy in ancient Greece was Zeus. I mean goddesses, women—it doesn’t matter—Zeus does it. We can explain this by Zeus’s own bad behavior as a philandering husband. You know, not big on commitment. (Yes, I know, women. What men are?) It’s also necessary for Zeus to have a lot of little godlings and kings and queens because, let’s face it. Let’s say that I am the king of this classroom and you adore me accordingly, as you no doubt do. You don’t want to say I am the son of a couple from Wisconsin named Ray and Laura, which I actually am. “Oh that’s Ray and Laurie’s kid.” No! “He was the offspring of Zeus and a promising young sea nymph.” John Q. Hammons is another example of a person who’s got his name on all the monuments in town and stuff like that. You wouldn’t want it to be said of him that his parents were a regular guy and a regular woman. No. We make up some story. Who better to pick out for the ancestor of your god or your hero than the father of gods and men, Zeus? Zeus is the father of all sorts of gods and goddesses. We’ll meet some of his other wives later on. But with the Titan, Mnemosyne, he breeds nine daughters known as the Muses. Mnemosyne, in ancient Greek, means “memory”. If you’ll think about it for a second, you can’t have art without memory. Let’s say I make up this wonderful and enchanting dance, which is very unlikely. But let’s say I did, and it enchanted you all to death. I’d want to remember how to do it again, right? Or this little piano piece that I’m working on that I call, “Pictures at an Exhibition.” You know if I don’t develop a memory I won’t learn how to play it twice. That’s why I use lecture notes, because I want to make sure that the same performance art I did last year is still valid this year. There are nine Muses. I won’t name them all. Included among them is Clio, the muse of history, patroness of historians. Another muse that I’m fond of is Terpsichore, the muse of dancing. The reason why Zeus has to be their father, according to Hesiod, is because, if you think about the arts of dancing and poetry and acting, you want Zeus to be responsible for them. You don’t want to say, “Those are Cronus’s kids or those are Poseidon’s kids.” Poseidon’s kids turned out to be dolphins and sea monsters and stuff. Okay? These are cultural goddesses who confer benefits to humankind, therefore they are daughters of Zeus. I pause for a question at this point. Jeremy? Poseidon doesn’t do anything to Aphrodite. Who can? There are only three goddesses out of all the gods and goddesses that Aphrodite cannot affect; Athena, Artemis, and Hestia. All of the other humans in the world and all of the other gods and goddesses in the world are like putty in Aphrodite’s hands. They don’t do much of anything to Aphrodite because they are afraid of what Aphrodite can do to them. Okay, other questions?
I don’t have time to tell you this one. It’s the world’s worst come on line. It’s delivered by Zeus in Book 14 of the Iliad. Unfortunately, I don’t have it with me. So I’ll tell you another story from Ovid’s Metamorphosis. This is the story of a young woman who found out she was a cow. It’s told to us by Ovid, Mark, for the purpose of entertaining us. I could tell this story very entertainingly—don’t worry, I will—however, the story does have a serious side to it. See if you can figure it out. One day, Jupiter—remember this story is being told to us in Latin by Ovid—Jupiter, the father of gods and men, Jupiter, supreme ruler of the universe, Jupiter, god of order as opposed to chaos. Jupiter, loving husband of Juno, is wandering by a river, the river Inactus. He sees this beautiful young woman named Io. He is taken by Io. He is captivated by her. Before he can accomplish his seedy way with the young woman, who should show up but Juno, his wife—otherwise known by the Greeks as Hera. Thinking quickly, Jupiter, the all-powerful guardian of justice in the universe, changes the young woman, Io, into a cow, thinking that he will trick Juno that way. This is not a very good cow. It’s kind of a truncated two-dimensional sort of cow. Of course Juno, otherwise known as Hera, isn’t buying any of it. Yeah, right. She comes up to Jupiter and says, “Jupiter, is that a local cow or did you just create that cow?” “Local, honey. It’s a local cow” He doesn’t fool her for a bit. Juno’s next question is, “Could I have the nice cow?” Now Jupiter, supreme god, is caught in a dilemma. Either he says, “Heck no, Juno, that’s actually an innocent young river nymph that I have turned into a cow. You cannot have her.” Or say, “Yeah go ahead and take her away.” Well, Jupiter says, “Yeah, go ahead. Go ahead Juno, have the nice cow.” Poor cow.
At first Juno decides what would be the worst way to torment this poor woman? “I know. I’ll assign her a gadfly to just chase her around.” So this fly flies around at her butt and just chases her around to various places. Of course, she’s none too clear as to what’s going on. She’s lost. She’s being chased and she doesn’t know she’s a cow yet. She doesn’t know she’s a cow until she, by chance, reaches her ancestral river. Her dad, the river god, has a local river and she sees her dad wandering up and down the banks of the river of which he is the god, looking for his daughter, Io. She wants to say to him, “Dad, it’s me, your daughter, Io.” But, Mitch, how does it come out? “Moo.” Is that the best you can do? She wants to say, “It’s me, Io.” But it comes out, “mooooo.” So she’s actually a sad cow. Okay, she wants to let her dad know it’s her, so she gets this brilliant idea. She takes one hoof and scratches her name in ancient Greek into the sand with her hoof. Her dad looks at it. How would a really good and loving dad behave? Your name is? J.R. Say you’re a dad. Zeus has changed your daughter into a cow. She just scratched her name into the sand with her hoof. What do you say? Well, who would you be mad at? Zeus? Good, that is what I wanted you to say, “Zeus.” Is there anybody here who would not be mad at Zeus? What’s the point at being mad at Zeus?
This is the speech that Io’s dad delivers at this point. ‘Great Io, you’ve gotten yourself changed into a cow. Our only daughter gets herself changed into a cow. Oh that’s great. Instead of picking you out a nice husband out of the kings and princes of the land, we’re going to have to go to a pasture and pick you a bull. Instead of grandsons, I am going to have grandcalves. Gee, thanks, Io, I wish I weren’t a god because then I could die of shame.” Now see, I told that amusingly. You’re laughing, like a bunch of ninnies. They really are laughing. The fact is, I mean, here this woman has just been massively messed up over by a god and her dad is blaming her. Her rights as a human… she’s done nothing wrong, except for be attractive. Zeus messed her over. Her dad is yelling at her. The story gets sadder. Hera—or Juno—finally decides, “I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to put her on an island where she is going to be guarded by my personal servant, Argus.” So she’s stuck being a cow. As a cow, she’s being guarded by Hera’s 100-eyed servant, Argus. No matter how many eyes Argus is resting at any time, he always has two of them open. After years and years and years, Jupiter finally has a heart. He finally decides to send his son, Mercury—otherwise known as Hermes—on a rescue mission. Hermes goes over to Argus with his lyre and starts basically giving him a classical mythology lecture. He starts talking about the myth of this and that, then the myth of so and so and so on and so forth. Pretty soon Argus has got 40 eyes asleep. Pretty soon he’s got 80 eyes asleep. By the time he gets to the final lecture of LLT121 Classical Mythology, Argus is fast asleep. So Hermes/Mercury kills him, springing Io. What a great god that Zeus is. That’s where we’re going to park it for the time being.
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