In the late Victorian, an eighteen-year-old Edith Hamilton graduated from Bryn Mawr College. Enraptured by the spirit of Classical Antiquity, she did what any academic would and traveled to the center of Greek and Roman studies, Germany, to continue her education. She was the first woman to attend classes in these great European colleges, though she could not pursue a degree, instead she had to audit, watching lectures from s specially-built booth that screened her from the view of her classmates so they would not be scandalized by female intrusion.
She was not allowed to ask questions, but soon began to tire of the German method. The professors were always distant from the material, discussing in the greatest depth which verb cases Pindar used while never once acknowledging that he was a poet, or a human being.
It recalls one to the scene in Forester's 'Maurice' where a group of young students are reading aloud, translating as they go, on the topic of the glories of male love, while at every other paragraph, the professor instructs them to omit the 'unspeakable vice of the Greeks'. They must study and translate the text, but never once consider its content or meaning.
So Hamilton returned to the United States, and to her alma mater, where she became headmistress, continuing her studies and teaching the classics for the next twenty-six years. It was not until her early sixties that she wrote her first book, The Greek Way, which stands in opposition to the German style, seeking to understand and explicate the Greek mind.
This compilation of considerations, assembled at the end of a lengthy career, might be seen as a series of lectures on related topics, each chapter tackling a different author or concept, giving an introduction, facilitating understanding, and gradually, producing an overarching theory concerning the Greek mind and the Greek, himself.
It is a most unusually personal look at the Greeks, from someone who spent her life growing near to them, and it is entirely full of extraordinary theories and observations, all backed up by quotes from the great thinkers, not only of Greece, but of all ages. Hamilton seeks to connect us to Greece, to bridge the gap of time and thought and allow us to think of the Greeks as authors, artists, and people. She removes them from their pedestals and proffers them to us, though not without care, respect, and passion.
There is something of a worship for Greek thought and ways here, an attempt to convince us that, despite all we have achieved, we cannot equal or excel the Greeks. Hamilton by no means grudges us our growth, our change, our recognition of the importance of the individual, but implores us to learn something from the ways of old Greece.
Her encyclopedic use of quotations, her deferring to those who have, for all posterity, 'said it better' is charming, and also connects Greece to the thinkers and artists she inspired, inviting us to understand them by comparison. For any scholar of Nietzsche, as an example, it is easy to see how Hamilton plays with the many themes he drew from Greek thought, including the Apollonian/Dionysian split and the arete which defined both the best Greeks and his notion of 'Superman'.
I have always been partial to arete, myself; there is no reason we cannot all strive to be wise, sociable, fit, and knowledgeable in every field, from philosophy to history. The idea that the strong man can afford to be a dullard or the knowledgeable man a scatterbrained outcast is to accept that we should be less than we are.
Her comparison between Kant, who was as detached from the world as his theories, and Socrates, who developed his ideas while talking and laughing with friends, shows that a passion for the mind need not make one withdrawn or unpleasant. After all, Chekhov wrote at his desk at parties, taking characters and ideas from his guests, and has yet to be matched as a psychological realist.
I was also tickled that she used a passage from Tacitus in her definition of 'Tragedy' which I have used as a similar example since being taken by it. That chapter is the weakest in the book, at turns ingenious and unsure. Her observations remain insightful, but are not as polished or convincing as the rest of the book. She may be right in what she says, but her arguments are incomplete.
Hamilton would go on to write two more books, a similar volume on Rome and her 'Mythology', the definitive classroom text. Though she was, throughout her life, kept at arm's length from academia, and is still criticized for being insufficiently scholarly, this book is an achievement, insightful and wide-reaching.
Her conclusions may sometimes be grandiose, but never naively so. Her personalized, holistic style prefigures much of modern academia, and though it took some time, the world has, at last, caught up with her notion that there is nothing unspeakable about seeking a more personal relationship with our past.