The Ignorant Book-Collector

​Truly, what you are now doing is the reverse of what you are aiming to do. You expect to get a reputation for learning by zealously buying up the finest books, but the thing goes by opposites and in a way becomes proof of your ignorance. Indeed, you do not buy the finest; you rely upon men who bestow their praise hit-and-miss, you are a godsend to the people that tell such lies about books, and a treasure-trove ready to hand to those who traffic in them. Why, how can you tell what books are old and highly valuable, and what are worthless and simply in wretched repair^[1] — unless you judge them by the extent to which they are eaten into and cut up, calling the book-worms into counsel to settle the question? As to their correctness and freedom from mistakes, what judgement have you, and what is it worth?

Yet suppose I grant you that you have selected the very édilions de luxe that were prepared by Callinus or by the famous Atticus with the utmost care.^[2] ​What good, you strange person, will it do you to own them, when you do not understand their beauty and will never make use of it one whit more than a blind man would enjoy beauty in favourites? To be sure you look at your books with your eyes open and quite as much as you like, and you read some of them aloud with great fluency, keeping your eyes in advance of your lips; but I do not consider that enough, unless you know the merits and defects of each passage in their contents, unless you understand what every sentence means, how to construe the words, what expressions have been accurately turned by the writer in accordance with the canon of good use, and what are false, illegitimate, and counterfeit.

Come now, do you maintain that without instruction you know as much as we? How can you, unless, like the shepherd of old,^[3] you once received a branch of laurel from the Muses? Helicon, which the goddesses are said to haunt, you never even heard of, I take it, and your haunts in your boyhood were not the same as ours. That you should even mention the Muses is impious. They would not have shrunk from showing themselves to a shepherd, a hard-bitten, hairy man displaying rich tan on his body, but as for the like of you—in the name of your lady of Lebanon^[4] dispense me for the present from giving a full description of you in plain language!—they would never have deigned, I am sure, to come near you, but instead of giving you laurel they would have scourged you with myrtle or sprays of mallow and would have made you keep your distance from those ​regions, so as not to pollute either Olmeios or Hippocrene, whose waters only thirsty flocks or the clean lips of shepherds may drink.

No matter how shameless you are and how courageous in such matters, you would never dare to say that you have had an education, or that you ever troubled yourself to associate intimately with books, or that So-and-so was your teacher and you went to school with So-and-so. You expect to make up for all that now by one single expedient—by getting many books. On that theory, collect and keep all those manuscripts of Demosthenes that the orator wrote with his own hand, and those of Thucydides that were found to have been copied, likewise by Demosthenes, eight times over, and even all the books that Sulla sent from Athens to Italy.^[5] What would you gain by it in the way of learning, even if you should put them under your pillow and sleep on them or should glue them together and walk about dressed in them? “A monkey is always a monkey,” says the proverb, “even if he has birthtokens of gold.”^[6] Although you have a book in your hand and read all the time, you do not understand a single thing that you read, but you are like the donkey that listens to the lyre and wags his ears.

If possessing books made their owner learned, they would indeed be a possession of great price, and only rich men like you would have them, since you could buy them at auction, as it were, outbidding us poor ​men. In that case, however, who could rival the dealers and booksellers for learning, who possess and sell so many books? But if you care to look into the matter, you will see that they are not much superior to you in that point; they are barbarous of speech and obtuse in mind like you—just what one would expect people to be who have no conception of what is good and bad. Yet you have only two or three books which they themselves have sold you, while they handle books night and day. What good, then, does it do you to buy them—unless you think that even the book-cases are learned because they contain so many of the works of the ancients!

Answer me this question, if you will—or better, as you are unable to answer, nod or shake your head in reply. If aman who did not know how to play the flute should buy the instrument of Timotheus or that of Ismenias,^[7] for which Ismenias paid seven talents in Corinth, would that make him able to play, or would it do him no good to own it since he did not know how to use it as a musician would? You did well to shake your head. Even if he obtained the flute of Marsyas or Olympus, he could not play without previous instruction. And what if a man should get the bow of Heracles without being a Philoctetes so as to be able to draw it and shoot straight? What do you think about him? That he would make any showing worthy of an archer? You shake your head at this, too. So, of course, with a man who does not know how to steer, and one who has not practised riding; if the one should take the helm of a fine vessel, finely constructed in every detail both for beauty and for seaworthiness, and the other should ​get an Arab or a “Centaur” or a “Koppa-brand,”^[8] each would give proof, I have no doubt, that he did not know what to do with his property. Do you assent to this? Take my advice, now, and assent to this also; if an ignorant man like you should buy many books, would he not give rise to gibes at himself for his ignorance? Why do you shrink from assenting to this also? To do so is a clear giveaway, I maintain, and everybody who sees it at once quotes that very obvious proverb: “What has a dog to do with a bath?”

Not long ago there was a rich man in Asia, both of whose feet had been amputated in consequence of an accident; they were frozen, I gather, when he had to make a journey through snow. Well, this of course was pitiable, and to remedy the mischance he had had wooden feet made for him, which he used to lace on, and in that way made shift to walk, leaning upon his servants as he didso. But he did one thing that was ridiculous: he used always to buy very handsome sandals of the latest cut and went to the utmost trouble in regard to them, in order that his timber toes might be adorned with the most beautiful footwear! Now are not you doing just the same thing? Is it not true that although you have a crippled, fig-wood^[9] understanding, you are buying gilt buskins which even a normal man could hardly get about in?

As you have often bought Homer among your other books, have someone take the second book of his Iliad and read it to you. Do not bother about ​the rest of the book, for none of it applies to you; but he has a description of a man making a speech, an utterly ridiculous fellow, warped and deformed in body.^[10] Now then, if that man, Thersites, should get the armour of Achilles, do you suppose that he would thereby at once become both handsome and strong; that he would leap the river, redden its stream with Trojan gore, and kill Hector—yes, and before Hector, kill Lycaon and Asteropaeus—when he cannot even carry the “ash tree” on his shoulders?^[11] You will hardly say so. No, he would make himself a laughing-stock, limping under the shield, falling on his face beneath the weight of it, showing those squint eyes of his under the helmet every time he looked up, making the corselet buckle up with the hump on his back, trailing the greaves on the ground—disgracing, in short, both the maker of the arms and their proper owner. Do not you see that the same thing happens in your case, when the roll that you hold in your hands is very beautiful, with a slipcover of purple vellum and a gilt knob, but in reading it you barbarize its language, spoil its beauty and warp its meaning? Men of learning laugh at you, while the toadies who live with you praise you—and they themselves for the most part turn to one another and laugh!

I should like to tell you of an incident that took place at Delphi. A man of Tarentum, Evangelus by name, a person of some distinction in Tarentum, desired to obtain a victory in the Pythian games. As far asthe athletic competition was concerned, at the very outset that seemed to him to be impossible, as ​he was not well endowed by nature either for strength or for speed; but in playing the lyre and singing he became convinced that he would win easily, thanks to detestable fellows whom he had about him, who applauded and shouted whenever he made the slightest sound in striking up. So he came to Delphi resplendent in every way; in particular, he had provided himself with a gold-embroidered robe and a very beautiful laurel-wreath of gold, which for berries had emeralds as large as berries. The lyre itself was something extraordinary for beauty and costliness, all of pure gold, ornamented with graven gems and many-coloured jewels, with the Muses and Apollo and Orpheus represented upon it in relief—a great marvel to all who saw it.^[12]

When the day of the competition at last came, there were three of them, and Evangelus drew second place on the programme. So, after Thespis of Thebes had made a good showing, he came in all ablaze with gold and emeralds and beryls and sapphires. The purple of his robe also became him well, gleaming beside the gold. With all this he bedazzled the audience in advance and filled his hearers with wonderful expectations; but when at length he had to sing and play whether he would or no, he struck up a discordant, jarring prelude, breaking three strings at once by coming down upon the lyre harder than he ought, and began to sing in an unmusical, thin voice, so that a burst of laughter came from the whole audience, and the judges of the competition, indignant at his presumption, scourged him and turned him out of the theatre. Then indeed ​that precious simpleton^[13] Evangelus cut a comical figure with his tears as he was chivvied across the stage by the scourgers, his legs all bloody from their whips, gathering up the gems of the lyre—for they had dropped out when it shared his flogging.

After a moment’s delay, a man named Eumelus, from Elis, came on, who had an old lyre, fitted with wooden pegs, and a costume that, including the wreath, was hardly worth ten drachmas; but as he sang well and played skilfully, he had the best of it and was proclaimed victor, so that he could laugh at Evangelus for the empty display that he had made with his lyre and his gems. Indeed, the story goes that he said to him: “Evangelus, you wear golden laurel, being rich; but I am poor and I wear the laurel of Delphi! However, you got at least this much by your outfit: you are going away not only unpitied for your defeat but hated into the bargain because of this inartistic lavishness of yours.” There you have your own living image in Evangelus, except that you are not at all put out by the laughter of the audience.

It would not be out of place to tell you another story about something that happened in Lesbos long ago. They say that when the women of Thrace tore Orpheus to pieces, his head and his lyre fell into the Hebrus, and were carried out into the Aegean Sea; and that the head floated along on the lyre, singing a dirge (so the story goes) over Orpheus, ​while the lyre itself gave out sweet sounds as the winds struck the strings. In that manner they came ashore at Lesbos to the sound of music, and the people there took them up, burying the head where their temple of Dionysus now stands and hanging up the lyre in the temple of Apollo, where it was long preserved. In after time, however, Neanthus, the son of Pittacus the tyrant, heard how the lyre charmed animals and plants and stones, and made music even after the death of Orpheus without anyone’s touching it; so he fell in love with the thing, tampered with the priest, and by means of a generous bribe prevailed upon him to substitute another similar lyre, and give him the one of Orpheus. After securing it, he did not think it safe to play it in the city by day, but went out into the suburbs at night with it under his cloak, and then, taking it in hand, struckand jangled the strings, untrained and unmusical lad that he was, expecting that under his touch the lyre would make wonderful music with which he could charm and enchant everybody, and indeed that he would become immortal, inheriting the musical genius of Orpheus. At length the dogs (there were many of them there), brought together by the noise, tore him to pieces; so his fate, at least, was like that of Orpheus, and only the dogs answered his call. By that it became very apparent that it was not the lyre which had wrought the spell, but the skill and the singing of Orpheus, the only distinctive gifts that he had from his mother; while the lyre was just a piece of property, no better than any other stringed instrument.

​But why do I talk to you of Orpheus and Neanthus, when even in our own time there was and still is, I think, a man who paid three thousand drachmas for the earthenware lamp of Epictetus the Stoic? He thought, I suppose, that if he should read by that lamp at night, he would forthwith acquire the wisdom of Epictetus in his dreams and would be just like that marvellous old man. And only a day or two ago another man paid a talent for the staff which Proteus the Cynic laid aside before leaping into the fire;^[14] and he keeps this treasure and displays it just as the Tegeans do the skin of the Calydonian boar, the Thebans the bones of Geryon, and the Memphites the tresses of Isis. Yet the original owner of this marvellous possession surpassed even you yourself in ignorance and indecency. You see what a wretched state the collector is in: in all conscience he needs a staff—on his pate.

They say that Dionysius^[15] used to write tragedy in a very feeble and ridiculous style, so that Philoxenus^[16] was often thrown into the quarries on account of it, not being able to control his laughter. Well, when he discovered that he was being laughed at, he took great pains to procure the wax-tablets on which Aeschylus used to write, thinking that he too would be inspired and possessed with divine frenzy in virtue of the tablets. But for all that, what he wrote on those very tablets was far more ridiculous than what he had written before: for example,

​and again,

—for that came from the tablet ; and so did this:

The last line Dionysius might have addressed to you with especial fitness, and those tablets of his should have been gilded for it. For what expectation do you base upon your books that you are always unrolling them and rolling them up, glueing them, trimming them, smearing them with saffron and oil of cedar, putting slip-covers on them, and fitting them with knobs, just as if you were going to derive some profit from them? Ah yes, already you have been improved beyond measure by their purchase, when you talk as you do—but no, you are more dumb than any fish!—and live in a way that cannot even be mentioned with decency, and have incurred everybody’s savage hatred, as the phrase goes, for your beastliness! If books made men like that, they ought to be given as wide a berth as possible. Two things can be acquired from the ancients, the ability to speak and to act as one ought, by emulating the best models and shunning the worst; and when a man clearly fails to benefit from them either in the one way or in the other, what else is he doing but buying haunts for mice and lodgings for worms, and excuses to thrash his servants for negligence?

Furthermore, would it not be discreditable if someone, on seeing you with a book in your hand (you always ​have one, no matter what), should ask what orator or historian or poet it was by, and you, knowing from the title, should easily answer that question; and if then—for such topics often spin themselves out to some length in conversation—he should either com- mend or criticise something in its contents, and you should be at a loss and have nothing to say? Would you not then pray for the earth to open and swallow you for getting yourself into trouble like Bellerophon by carrying your book about?^[18]

When Demetrius, the Cynic, while in Corinth, saw an ignorant fellow reading a beautiful book (it was the Bacchae of Euripides, I dare say, and he was at the place where the messenger reports the fate of Pentheus and the deed of Agave),^[19] he snatched it away and tore it up, saying: “It is better for Pentheus to be torn to tatters by me once for all than by you repeatedly.”

Though I am continually asking myself the question, I have never yet been able to discover why you have shown so much zeal in the purchase of books. Nobody who knows you in the least would think that you do it on account of their helpfulness or use, any more than a bald man would buy a comb, or a blind man a mirror, or a deaf-mute a flute-player, or an eunuch a concubine, or a landsman an oar, or a seaman a plough. But perhaps you regard the matter as a display of wealth and wish to show everyone that out of your vast surplus you spend money even for things of no use to you? Come now, as far as I know—and I too am a Syrian^[20]—if you had not ​smuggled yourself into that old man’s will with all speed, you would be starving to death by now, and would be putting up your books at auction! The only remaining reason is that you have been convinced by your toadies that you are not only handsome and charming but a scholar and an orator and a writer without peer, and you buy the books to prove their praises true. They say that you hold forth to them at dinner, and that they, like stranded frogs, make a clamour because they are thirsty, or else they get nothing to drink if they do not burst themselves shouting.

To be sure, you are somehow very easy to lead by the nose, and believe them in everything; for once you were even persuaded that you resembled a certain royal person in looks, like the false Alexander, the false Philip (the fuller), the false Nero in our grandfathers’ time, and whoever else has been put down under the title “false.”^[21] And what wonder that you, a silly, ignorant fellow, were thus imposed upon and appeared in public holding your head high and imitating the gait and dress and glance of the man whom you delighted to make yourself resemble? Even Pyrrhus of Epirus, a marvellous man in other ways, was once, they say, so spoiled by toadies after the self-same fashion that he believed he was like the famous Alexander. Yet (to borrow a phrase from the musicians) the discrepancy ​was a matter of two octaves; for I have seen the portrait of Pyrrhus. But in spite of that he had acquired the conviction that he was a perfect replica of Alexander's beauty. To be sure, I have been uncomplimentary to Pyrrhus in comparing you with him in this matter, but what followed would be quite in character with you. When Pyrrhus was in this state of mind and had this conviction about himself, everyone without exception concurred with him and humoured him until an old foreign woman in Larissa told him the truth and cured him of drivelling. Pyrrhus showed her portraits of Philip, Perdiccas, Alexander, Cassander and other kings, and asked her whom he resembled, quite certain that she would fix upon Alexander; but, after delaying a good while, she said, “Batrachion, the cook”: and as a matter of fact there was in Larissa a cook called Batrachion who resembled Pyrrhus.

As for you, I cannot say which of the profligates that hang about the actors in the pantomimes you resemble; I do know very well, however, that everyone thinks you are still downright daft over that likeness. It is no wonder, then, since you are such a failure at likenesses, that you want to make yourself resemble men of learning, believing those who praise you so.

But why do I talk beside the point? The reason for your craze about books is patent, even if I in my blindness failed to see it long ago. It is a bright idea on your part (you think so, anyhow), and you base no slight expectations upon the thing in case the emperor, who is a scholar and holds learning in especial esteem, should find out about it; if he should hear that you are buying books and making ​a large collection, you think you will soon get all you want from him. But do you suppose, you rotter, that he is so steeped in mandragora as to hear that and yet not know how you pass your time during the day, what your drinking bouts are like, how you spend your nights, and in whose company? Do not you know that a monarch has many eyes and ears? And your doings are so conspicuous that even the blind and the deaf may know of them; for if you but speak, if you but bathe in public—or, if you choose, don’t even do that—if your servants but bathe in public, do you not think that all your nocturnal arcana will be known at once? Answer me this question: if Bassus, that literary man who belonged to your following, or Battalus the flute-player, or the cinaedus Hemitheon of Sybaris, who wrote those wonderful regulations for you, which say that you must use cosmetics and depilatories and so forth—if one of those fellows should to-day walk about with a lion’s skin on his back and a club in his hand, what do you suppose those who saw him would think? That he was Heracles? Not unless they were gravel-blind; for there are a thousand things in their appearance that would give the lie to their costume; the gait, the glance, the voice, the thin neck, the white lead and mastich and rouge that you beautify yourselves with; in short, to quote the proverb, it would be easier to conceal five elephants under your arm than a single cinaedus. Then if the lion’s skin would not have hidden such as they, do you suppose that you will be undetected ​behind a book? Impossible: the other earmarks of your sort will betray and reveal you.

You are completely unaware, it seems to me, that good expectations are not to be sought from the booksellers but derived from one’s self and one’s daily life. Do you expect to find public advocates and character-witnesses in the scribes Atticus and Callinus? No: you will find them heartless fellows, bent upon ruining you, if the gods so will it, and reducing you to the uttermost depths of poverty. Even now you ought to come to your senses, sell these books to some learned man, and your new house along with them, and then pay the slave dealers at least a part of the large sums you owe them.

For mark this, you have had a tremendous passion for two things, the acquisition of expensive books and the purchase of well-grown, vigorous slaves, and you are showing great zeal and persistence in the thing; but being poor, you cannot adequately manage both. See now what a precious thing advice is! I urge you to drop what does not concern you, cultivate your other weakness, and buy those menials of yours, so that your household may not be depleted and you may not for that reason have to send out for free men, who, if they do not get all they want, can safely go away and tell what you do after your wine. For instance, only the other day a vile fellow told a most disgraceful story about you when he came away, and even showed marks. I can prove by those who were there at the time that I was indignant and came near giving him a thrashing in my anger on your behalf, ​especially when he called upon one after another to corroborate his evidence and they all told the same story. In view of this, my friend, husband and save your money so that you may be able to misconduct yourself at home in great security; for who could persuade you now to change your ways? When a dog has once learned to gnaw leather, he cannot stop.^[22] The other way is easier, not to buy books any longer. You are well enough educated; you have learning to spare; you have all the works of antiquity almost at the tip of your tongue; you know not only all history but all the arts of literary composition, its merits and defects, and how to use an Attic vocabulary; your many books have made you wondrous wise, consummate in learning. There is no reason why I should not have my fun with you, since you like to be gulled!

As you have so many books, I should like to ask you what you like best to read? Plato? Antisthenes? Archilochus ? Hipponax? Or do you scorn them and incline to occupy yourself with the orators? Tell me, do you read the speech of Aeschines against Timarchus? No doubt you know it all and understand everything in it, but have you dipped into Aristophanes and Eupolis? Have you read the Baptae, the whole play?^[23] Then did it have no effect upon you, and did you not blush when you saw the point of it? Indeed, a man may well wonder above all what the state of your soul is when you ​lay hold of your books, and of your hands when you open them. When do you do your reading? In the daytime ? Nobody ever saw you doing it. At night, then? When you have already given instructions to your henchmen, or before you have talked with them? Come, in the name of Cotys, never again dare to do such a thing. Leave the books alone and attend to your own affairs exclusively. Yet you ought not to do that, either; vou ought to be put to shame by Phaedra in Euripides, who is indignant at women and says:

But if you have made up your mind to cleave to the same infirmity at all costs, go ahead: buy books, keep them at home under lock and key, and enjoy the fame of your treasures—that is enough for you. But never lay hands on them or read them or sully with your tongue the prose and poetry of the ancients, that has done you no harm.

I know that in all this I am wasting words, and, as the proverb has it, trying to scrub an Ethiop white. You will buy them and make no use of them and get yourself laughed at by men of learning who are satisfied with the gain that they derive, not from the beauty of books or their expensiveness, but from the language and thought of their author. You expect to palliate and conceal your ignorance by getting a reputation for this, and to daze people by the number of your books, unaware that you are doing the same as the most ignorant physicians, who get themselves ivory pill-boxes and silver cupping-glasses and gold-inlaid scalpels; when the time comes to use ​them, however, they do not know how to handle them, but someone who has studied his profession comes upon the scene with a knife that is thoroughly sharp, though covered with rust, and frees the patient from his pain. But let me compare your case with something still more comical. Consider the barbers and you will observe that the master-craftsmen among them have only a razor and a pair of shears and a suitable mirror, while the unskilled, amateurish fellows put on view a multitude of shears and huge mirrors; but for all that, they cannot keep their ignorance from being found out. In fact, what happens to them is as comical as can be—people have their hair cut next door and then go to their mirrors to brush it. So it is with you: you might, to be sure, lend your books to someone else who wants them, but you cannot use them yourself. But you never lent a book to anyone; you act like the dog in the manger, who neither eats the grain herself nor lets the horse eat it, who can.

I give myself the liberty of saying this much to you for the present, just about your books; about your other detestable and ignominious conduct you shall often be told in future.