Petronius

as clement of alexandria and that eusebian book of evangelic preparation transmitting our ears through a hoard of heathenish obscenities to receive the gospel who finds not that irenus epiphanius jerome and others discover more heresies than they well confute and that oft for heresy which is the truer opinion nor boots it to say for these and all the heathen writers of greatest infection if it must be thought so, with whom is bound up the life of human learning, that they writ in an unknown tongue, so long as we are sure those languages are known as well to the worst of men, who are both most able and most diligent to instill the poison they suck, first into the courts of princes, acquainting them with the choicest delights and criticisms of sin.

And perhaps did that Petronius, whom Nero called his arbiter, the master of his revels, and the notorious ribald of Arezzo, dreaded and yet dear to the Italian courtiers.

I name not him for posterity's sake, whom Henry VIII.

named in merriment his vicar of hell, by which compendious way all the contagion that foreign books can infuse will find a passage to the people far easier and shorter than than an Indian voyage, though it could be sailed either by the north of Catao eastward or of Canada westward, while our Spanish licensing gags the English press never so severely.

But the exclusive preoccupation with form, the sonorities of tone, the clangour of metals, did not entirely conceal from him the emptiness of the thought, the turgidity of those blisters which emboss the skin of the Pharsalia.

Petronius was the author whom he truly loved, and who caused him forever to abandon the sonorous ingenuities of Lucan, for he was a keen observer, a delicate analyst, a marvellous painter.

Tranquilly, without prejudice or hate, he described Rome's daily life, recounting the customs of his epoch in the sprightly little chapters of the Satyricon.

Observing the facts of life, stating them in clear, definite form, he revealed the petty existence of the people, their happenings, their bestialities, their passions.

This realistic novel, this slice of Roman life without any preoccupation, whatever one may say of it, with reform and satire, without the need of any studied end or of morality, this story without intrigue or action, portraying the adventures of evil persons, analyzing with a calm finesse the joys and sorrows of these lovers and couples, depicting life in a splendidly wrought language without surrendering himself to any commentary, without approving or cursing the acts and thoughts of his characters, the vices of a decrepit civilization, of an empire that cracks, struck desessante.

In the keenness of the observation, in the firmness of the method, he found singular comparisons, curious analogies with the few modern French novels he could endure.

Certainly, he bitterly regretted the Eustion and the Albutiae, those two works by Petronius mentioned by Planciades Fulgentius, which are forever lost.

But the bibliophile in him consoled the student when he touched with worshipful hands the superb edition of the Satyricon which he possessed, the octavo bearing the date 1585 and the name of J. Dousa of Leiden.

I wonder what we should pick today.

How about Petronius? An interesting fellow, this one.

What does he write about?

Oh, the usual.

Who finds not that Irenaeus, Epiphanius, Jerome, and others discover more heresies than they well confute, and that oft for heresy which is the truer opinion? Nor boots it to say for these, and all the heathen writers of greatest infection, if it must be thought so, with whom is bound up the life of human learning, that they writ in an unknown tongue, so long as we are sure those languages are known as well to the worst of men, who are both most able and most diligent to instill the poison they suck, first into the courts of princes, acquainting them with the choicest delights and criticisms of sin.

And perhaps did that Petronius, whom Nero called his arbiter, the master of his revels, and the notorious ribald of Arezzo, dreaded and yet dear to the Italian courtiers.

I name not him for posterity's sake whom Henry VIII named in merriment his vicar of hell.

By which compendious way all the contagion that foreign books can infuse will find a passage to the people far easier and shorter than an Indian voyage, though it could be sailed either by the north of Catao eastward or of Canada westward, while our Spanish licensing gags the English press never so severely.

Um, it's-

We don't, we're afraid or we don't wanna talk about this whole trans phenomenon, which historically, if you look at sexologists of the 19th century, they, they coined the word gender dysphoria There's common examples in antiquity, in Catullus, uh, for example, of, or Petronius's Satyricon, of people who cross-dress and think they belong to the other sex, but it's always considered very, very rare.

And this idea that it's 10% of the population, and then when you inject drugs and all of these things that we talk about, hormones, these dangerous drugs that usually the left says are too dangerous and physicians are overreaching, now they have the opposite view.

And then you look at the percentage of trans shooters in mass shootings, it's way over-represented.

Consequently also, as may be reasonably inferred, for many of the most delightful and daring nuances of free, free-spirited thought.

And just as the buffoon and satyr are foreign to him in body and conscience, so Aristophanes and Petronius are untranslatable for him.

Everything ponderous, viscous, and pompously clumsy, all long-winded and wearying species of style, are developed in profuse variety among Germans.

Pardon me for stating the fact that even Goethe's prose, in its mixture of stiffness and elegance, is no exception, as a reflection of the good old time to which it belongs, and as an expression of German taste at a time when there was still a German taste, which was a rococo taste in moribus et artibus.

Lessing loved also free-spiritism in the tempo and flight out of Germany.

But how could the German language, even in the prose of Lessing, imitate the tempo of Machiavelli, who in his Principe makes us breathe the dry, fine air of Florence, and cannot help presenting the most serious events in a boisterous allegrissimo, perhaps not without a malicious artistic sense of the contrast he ventures to present? Long, heavy, difficult, dangerous thoughts, and a tempo of the gallop and of the best, wantonest humor.

Finally, who would venture on a German translation of Petronius, who, more than any great musician hitherto, was a master of presto in invention, ideas, and words? What matter in the end about the swamps of the sick, evil world, or of the ancient world, when, like him, one has the feet of a wind, the rush, the breath, the emancipating scorn of a wind, which makes everything healthy by making everything run? And, with regard to Aristophanes, that transfiguring, complementary genius, for whose sake one pardons all Hellenism for having existed, provided one has understood in its full profundity all that there requires pardon and transfiguration.

There is nothing that has caused me to meditate more on Plato's secrecy and sphinx-like nature than the happily preserved petit fait that under the pillow of his deathbed there was found no Bible, nor anything Egyptian, Pythagorean, or Platonic, but a book of Aristophanes.

Consequently also, he may be reasonably inferred for many of the most delightful and daring nuances of free, free-spirited thought.

And just as the buffoon and satyr are foreign to him in body and conscience, so Aristophanes and Petronius are untranslatable for him.

Everything ponderous, viscous, and pompously clumsy, all long-winded and weary species of style, are developed in profuse variety among Germans.

Pardon me for stating the fact that even Goethe's prose, in its mixture of stiffness and elegance, is no exception, as a reflection of the good old time to which it belongs, and an expression of German taste at a time when there was still a German taste, which was a rococo taste in moribus et artibus.

Lessing is an exception, owing to his histrionic nature, which understood much and was versed in many things.

He who was not the translator of Baal to no purpose, who took refuge willingly in the shadow of Diderot and Voltaire, and still more willingly among the Roman comedy writers, Lessing loved also free-spiritism in the tempo and flight out of Germany.

But how could the German language, even in the prose of Lessing, imitate the tempo of Machiavelli, who in his Principa makes us breathe the dry, fine air of Florence, and cannot help presenting the most serious events in a boisterous allegresimo, perhaps not without a malicious artistic sense of the contrast he ventures to present—long, heavy, difficult, dangerous thoughts, and a tempo of the gallop and of the best wantonous humor? Finally, who could venture on a German translation of Petronius, who, more than any great musician hitherto, was a master of presto in invention, ideas, and words? What matter in the end about the swamps of the sick, evil world, or of the ancient world, when like him one has the feet of the wind, the rush, the breath, the emancipating scorn of a wind which makes everything healthy by making everything run? And with regard to Aristophanes, that transfiguring, complementary genius, for whose sake one pardons all Hellenism for having existed, provided one has understood in its full profundity all that there requires pardon and transfiguration, there is nothing that has caused me to meditate more on Plato's secrecy and sphinx-like nature than the happily preserved petit fait that under the pillow of his deathbed there was found no Bible, nor anything Egyptian, Pythagorean, or Platonic.

but a book of Aristophanes.