BMCR 2007.07.21

Pity and Power in Ancient Athens

, Pity and power in ancient Athens. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. xi, 356 pages : illustrations ; 24 cm. ISBN 0521845521 $75.00.

[Authors and the titles are listed at the end of this review.]

Several excellent studies of the emotions in Greek and Roman culture have appeared in recent years.1 This welcome development is concurrent with an outpouring of such studies in virtually every discipline of the sciences and humanities.2 A number of key themes have emerged across disciplines. Emotions motivate cognitive appraisal and are in turn influenced by it; some consider them cognitions or judgments in themselves. Their cultural specificity has received new and increased interest, as have attempts to understand them within and across a range of distinct personal and social situations. Emotions have their own histories and play important roles in narratives of cultural transformation and in the grand narrative of the adaptation and survival of the species. Recent work on the emotions has inverted the cliché of a struggle between reason and passion, and sought instead to stress their harmonious interaction and to examine the protocols of their operation in cognition and virtually every human activity.

Pity and Power in Ancient Athens can be situated within the trend toward the intense scrutiny of the emotions in the contemporary academy. The product of a March 2002 conference “Pity in Ancient Life & Letters” at Rutgers University, the volume’s primary focus is fifth-century Attic tragedy. Euripides’ political suppliant plays hold center stage (Konstan, Tzanetou) or share the stage with Sophocles’ Ajax, Euripides’ Hippolytus and Medea (Johnson/Clapp). Sophokles’ Oedipus at Colonus receives multiple analyses (Tzanetou, Johnson/Clapp) and his Trachiniae has it own treatment (Falkner). One chapter surveys pity in Herodotos and Thucydides (Lateiner). Two seek evidence for the emotion in fifth-century visual arts (Oakley and Ajootian). One chapter queries the absence of pity in the Hippocratic corpus (Kosak), while another explores pity in Plutarch’s Lives (Pelling). Sternberg’s introduction offers a wide-ranging and concise history of attitudes toward pity and her chapter examines the nature of pity.

The volume is handsome and hefty—it is printed on semi-glossy, heavy gauge paper—and the cover is adorned with Anselm Fuerbach’s wistful Iphigenie. It is nicely edited, proof-read, and cross-referenced; and unlike some examples of its genre, it contains a general index and an index locorum. The book is pitched to both a wide audience and to specialists. Almost all of the Greek is transliterated and all of it is translated. Each essay has the soundness, clarity, and interest desirable for assignment to advanced undergraduates; each contributes something new and distinctive to the discussion and will be useful to scholars working in all fields of Greek culture. The principal virtues of this volume are its sharpness of focus, economy of effort over an array of complex and conflicting evidence, and a healthy tolerance for ambiguity and contextual differences, as each author makes a case for her or his version of pity and the reader serves as arbiter. Is pity a priming emotion that is distinct from self-interest (Konstan) and must be abandoned to perform certain types of action (Konstan, Kosak, Pelling) or is it identical to self-interest (Tzanetou) and a virtue (Johnson/Clapp)? Is the value of tragic pity a function of the ideology of empire (Tzanetou), of tragedy’s didactic humanism (Johnson/Clapp) or of the cultural effort expended to see things otherwise (Falkner)? Is pity questionable because it is an emotion and it can lead to disaster (Sternberg) or virtuous despite its dangers (Johnson/Clapp)? My primary criticism of the volume as a whole is its neglect of the relationship between pity and democratic power. Since I cannot discuss each contribution in detail, I will describe all the essays and raise some issues in the context of particular essays.

Sternberg’s essay on the nature of pity sketches the denotation of the terms oiktos and eleos in historiography and Attic oratory. Noting that the oikt – root predominates in historiography and tragedy while the ele – root is more common in oratory, Homer, and philosophy, she concludes that roots display no ascertainable semantic differences as terms for pity in the genres she covers, and resists attempts to translate oiktos as “compassion” and eleos as “pity” (22-24). She also examines the phenomenology and physiology of the emotion, nicely stressing the sense of sight as the root of community and of pity and discussing the pain of pity as eliciting tears. Sternberg argues, against Dover and others, that pity is an emotion and not an action (18-20) and concludes that as an emotion it was socially beneficial, yet “lacked intellectual rigor” and was distrusted (42).

In the opening section of her essay, Sternberg uses the “‘folk psychology’ of the ancient Greeks—their everyday understanding of oiktos and eleos“—as a check on Aristotle’s analysis of the emotion in the Rhetoric (16-17). The corpus for determining the “folk psychology” consists of twenty-nine reported cases of historical or quasi-historical examples of pity derived from oratory and historiography. The proposition that these narratives yield information “closer to real life” (17) seems doubtful to me. An alternative would have been to examine the rhetoric of pity in forensic oratory, where litigants seek to elicit or to foreclose the jurors’ pity: these are live speech acts with real stakes that aim to affect people’s judgment and action. They are also the data of Aristotle’s theorizing in the Rhetoric, though it is clear from his citations that he prefers the arts of poetry and epideictic oratory over forensic oratory. Sternberg finds a few examples that Aristotle’s theory apparently cannot account for (mainly pity for kin), but “folk psychology” does little to challenge Aristotle’s dominance.

The volume’s special concern is to address the problematic relation between pity and power in Athens, or in Sternberg’s words, the “moral discomfort” characteristic of the way contemporary Americans and ancient Athenians feel about empire (1). It would have been helpful to sketch the relationship between pitier and pitied as a power relation. It is true that Konstan 2001: esp. 78-83 has treated this topic; but he has not done so in terms of “moral discomfort” or of democracy. Pity and power are linked in several papers, but no contribution assesses Athenian democracy and empire as forms of power or analyzes the discourse of pity in democratic political institutions. Democracy is one of the ties that bind ancient Athenians and contemporary Americans and it is likely to form at least part of the explanation of their squeamishness toward imperialism. This lack makes the volume a bit disappointing for those might turn to it for analyses of the relation between pity and power. That said, it does not detract from the individual contributions of the volume, which are of a high standard. It seems rather a function of turning conference papers on the topic of “Pity in Ancient Greek Life & Letters” into the volume Pity and Power in Ancient Athens.

To illustrate my point: Sternberg concludes her paragraph on subject of pity in the democratic courts with the statement “They either said, ‘This man deserves pity’ or ‘Don’t pity him, he doesn’t deserve it'” (42). This formulation obscures the different perspectives of prosecutor and defendant under a unitary “they.” Far more defendants ask the jurors for pity than prosecutors, especially in public cases.3 When they seek the jurors’ pity, they acknowledge their superiority and power. The relevant statements might be, for example, “don’t fall for this man’s appeals to pity…this man never pitied anyone in his life…he doesn’t pity his own father…pity is the last resort of scoundrels” and “pity me…you pitied so-and-so” or “I deserve your pity more than my opponent does.” The litigants who sought the pity of the jurors were by and large from the wealthiest and most powerful segment of the population, while jurors comprised a cross section of citizens over the age of 30. In effect, the rich and powerful begged ordinary citizens to pity them. Aristophanes parodies this democratic social drama in the Wasps (esp. 548-76, cf. 903-1008). Philokleon’s sense of power as addressee and spectator of this dramatization dovetails with his self-understanding as bearer of an unchallenged and unaccountable kingship both in the democracy and the empire; and Bdelykleon explodes his sense of both simultaneously. To ask an audience of jurors for pity was a democratic ritual of power, which both reinforced the mass audience’s authority and kept it open to persuasion by wealthy and powerful litigants. The courts were a foremost locus of power in the democracy and the empire. To analyze the relationship between pity and power in ancient Athens, the discourses of forensic oratory and comedy would need a more prominent place in the volume.

Tzanetou’s essay carries the burden of explicitly linking pity and power in the sense of “moral discomfort with empire” and with democratic/imperial ideology as it appears in fourth-century funeral orations and epideictic oratory and fifth-century tragedy. She sees the development of an ideology of pity as a response to empire, positing “a connection between the historical moment of the emergence of the ideology of pity and Athens’ role as leader of the alliance” (107) and argues that pity is a tactic of “furtive empire”: “the ideology of pity…served to conceal the fact that she had become an imperial power and to mask, however thinly, her hegemonic tactics” (117). The Athenians misrecognized their empire as a form of moral hegemony both to themselves in funeral orations and to the Hellenes assembled in the theater of Dionysos; and pity played an integral role in this rhetoric. The Tatenkatalog of the funeral oration probably developed in the period after the Persian Wars, so narratives of Athens’ receiving Adrastos’ supplication on behalf of the Argive Seven and the Herakleidai’s supplication belong to this moment, as do Aeschylus’ Eleusinioi and Suppliants. The plays Tzanetou discusses, however, belong to an entirely different period, from the 420s to the Oedipus at Colonus; and the oratory she interprets derives from another time frame, the fourth century, before, during, and after Athens’ second “empire,” which lasted from 377 to 355. The structure of Tzanetou’s presentation makes it difficult to understand whether she advances her initial claims about pity and empire (98-108) from a fifth-century perspective or from a fourth-century retrospection on empire. I say this because it is easier to conceal an empire when you do not have one; and the fourth-century material heightens a case for the masking function of pity.

The shifting temporal ground of Tzanetou’s analysis becomes apparent in her interpretation of Dem. 24.170-71. Augmenting Konstan’s (2001: 42) statement that the passage is “a remarkable anticipation” of Vergil Aeneid 6.853 ( parcere subiectis et debellare superbos), she unravels the differences: both “base war on moral principles” but Demosthenes’ version disguises “the hierarchy of power that existed between Athens and her allies and suggests that the empire plays a protective role…they did not overtly define themselves as leaders” (107). Readers might think that Demosthenes’ statement in context pertains to warfare and empire, but it does not. Athens did not have an empire in 353. The passage specifies how the demos should treat leaders who claim to act on behalf of it and seek lenient treatment, but whose actions fail to instantiate the character of the polis—they trample on citizens and break laws in the name of benefiting the demos. Timokrates, who introduced a law that helped his associates to the detriment of the demos and individual citizens, is this type man of man. The demos’ role is to punish him and aid the victims of their hybris. While Theseus is this sort of character in Euripides’ Suppliants, Demosthenes’ context is so vastly different that his utterance yields little information about Athens’ mystification its role as leader of a fifth-century empire.

Similarly, the exaggeration that the Athenians did not overtly define themselves as leaders facilitates a claim that pity masks empire. But the Athenians strongly marked their leadership from the start, administering an oath to the Ionians “to have the same friends and enemies” ( Ath. Pol. 23.5), rapidly institutionalizing tribute in 478/77 under their own Hellanotamiai (Thuc. 1.96), commemorating their ability to starve Eion into submission without mention of allies (Aesch. 3.184-85), retrieving the bones of Theseus from Skyros (Plut. Kim. 8.5-6; Thes. 36.2-3; Paus. 1.17.6); later they used the theater to display the tribute at the City Dionysia (Isok. 8.82-83) and spotlighted their status as an imperial city during the City Dionysia, Panathenaia, and revamped Delia. Comedy has no qualms about depicting the greed, insatiability, and violence of Athens’ imperialism in the 420s. The chorus of the Knights praises a rejuvenated Demos as “monarch of Hellas and of this land” and “King of the Hellenes” (1330, 1333). Even Agorakritos emerges as “protector of the islands” (1319). If rhetors such as Kleon can posit a radical disjunction between democracy and empire (Thuc. 3.37.1-2) and exclude pity, epieikeia, and the pleasure of speeches—the essence of theatrical culture—from the assembly as most disadvantageous to empire (3.40.2), then tragedy’s insistence on the humanity of Athenian power can also function as implicit criticism of the city’s imperialism and seek to reconnect Athenian power with its imaginary origins as a form of moral leadership. In any event, the measure of pity as an imperial ideology needs to be considered across the range representations of empire. Tzanetou notes that she cannot discuss Thucydides (107-08), Athenian imperialism (107) or contradictions arising from the Athenian practice of democratic imperialism (121 n.36). But in order to analyze pity as an ideology masking empire and mystifying actual relations of power, these discussions were necessary. In effect, she treats the little understood historical moment when the Tatenkatalog formed as identical both to that of tragic dramatizations of the 420s and later and to fourth century epideictic oratory. Problems and tensions are bound to arise.

One might ask how supplication, which overdetermines the powerlessness of the suppliant—as foreigners, exiles, old men and women, maidens, children, and as dependent upon the supplicated—”mask the unequal structure of power that existed between Athens and her subject allies” (106). Rather, it seems to model it, encoding a maximum asymmetry of power, while foregrounding the quintessential Athenian choice to use that power reverently, justly, and humanely. Far from masking hegemonic tactics, it a hegemonic tactic based upon a symbolic violence which wins gratitude, glory, and moral authority as its reward. This is part and parcel of Perikles’ definition of empire as aretê (Thuc. 2.40.4-5). If this is the case, then the question becomes, how does this hegemonic gesture relate to empire? The ultimate justification and expression of empire is the capacity to annihilate a polis. For Athens, this means starving populations into submission and then refusing supplication—tearing men, women, and children from altars and temples and slaughtering the males while selling the women and children into slavery. Homer calls this the “pitiless day” ( Od. 8.525). Athens’ ideologies of pity and generosity relate to this moment in various ways. Tzanetou argues that the factor differentiating epideictic oratory’s concealment of empire and that of tragedy turns out to be the latter’s use of democracy as a validating symbol. Her examples have symbolic resonance—the rule of law at Oedipus at Colonus 913-18 (110), the theme of bia in the Herakleidai (110), that play’s contrast between Athens’ regime and Eurystheus’ tyranny (110), the stress on Athens’ openness to strangers (111-16)—but these hardly shout “democracy.” Tzanetou mentions Thucydides’ version of Perikles’ funeral oration in regard to Athens’ openness to foreigners, but ignores it as evidence that orators linked democracy and empire (2.37, 40). Aeschylus’ Suppliants established a norm for the representation of democracy in suppliant drama—the matter must go before the demos for a vote. Only Euripides’ Suppliants, which Tzanetou also neglects in this context, conforms to it. In this play, however, Euripides allows the Theban Herald an unchallenged crack at contemporary demagoguery and ochlocracy as ridiculed in comedy (409-25), a critique Theseus himself inaugurated (231-45). And though based on an episode of an epitaphios logos, the play takes a complex stance toward the genre of funeral praise, staging Adrastos’ praises of the hybristic Seven (857-917). The faintness of tragedy’s linkage of democracy and empire appears in contrast to the explicitness of the connection in historiography and comedy. Herodotos explains Athens’ rise to power by reference to isêgoriê (5.78). Thucydides, the Athenians, and their disgruntled allies portray the empire as at one time a democratic or quasi-democratic organization (1.96.2-97.1; 3.10-12); the Athenians justify their rule through the courts as a more just application of human nature than their power would warrant (1.76.3-77). Comedy connects democracy and empire as a source of profit for rhetors and as the rhetorical construction that induces the demos to defer demands for the present in the hope of greater rewards in the future. Thucydides’ Athenians stop trying to depict empire as validated by democratic institutions and values after the death of Perikles.

Finally, pity may have ultimately been a dangerous way of validating imperialist self-interest, as Thucydides’ narrative of the Sicilian expedition suggests. The Egestaians’ story of how the Selinountians called in the Syracusans to defeat them in war moved the assembly, and the demos also wanted to help their suffering kin in Leontini— euprepôs —decently and speciously (6.6.1; cf. 6.8.2). Even in this most magnificent moment of Athenian imperialist desire, we find a lethal cocktail of other- and self-regarding emotions at play. Nikias claims that the Athenians should not help exiles who will provide no worthy benefit in return (6.12.1), a violation of Perikles’ principle of Athenian moral hegemony (2.40.4-5). Alkibiades pounces on it, asserting that this is how empires are won and expanded, “so we acquired out empire and all the rest who rule, by standing eagerly by those—whether barbarians or Hellenes—who at any time call upon them” (6.18.2). Did tragic depictions of empire as moral hegemony facilitate Athenian imperialism or seek to limit it? This depends on whether we read the ideology of pity as a mask of empire similar to the funeral oration or as a form of resistance to it.

Konstan’s work on pity and the emotions is in many ways the gold standard for classicists. Taking seriously Aristotle’s analysis of pity in the Rhetoric as an emotion that entails ethical judgments, particularly about desert, he has opened a number of avenues of interpretation. In this volume, he argues that suppliants’ appeals to their addressees’ self-interest override appeals to pity in Euripides’ political suppliant plays and in the Plataeans’ pleas for salvation in Thucydides and Isokrates. Pity prompts and conditions a process of appraisal involving desert, lawfulness, justice, and reverence, in which self-interest is decisive. In Aeschylus’ Suppliants, by contrast, pity and self-interest are identical; and Konstan suggests that canons relating pity, justice, and desert to forensic oratory and self-interest to symbouleutic oratory came into formation between Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the time of the debate on Mytilene and Euripides’ political suppliant plays of the 420s.

Lateiner surveys representations of pity and its absence in Herodotos and Thucydides. For him, Herodotos’ focus on the pity of tyrants “serves the literary theme: to highlight their limitless power and willingness to use it” (80). Given the affinities between Herodotos’ narrative and tragedy, I wonder whether his depictions of tyrannical pity condition his audience’s response to their plights. By negating the commonplace that the pitiless forfeit a claim to pity, does Herodotos open the possibility of pity for them? Lateiner’s analysis of Thucydides stresses the perversity of the demand for pity in a world where the ruthless drive for power dominates. “Appeals to the gods, or to hope, in Thucydides’ text foreshadow and perhaps ratify an imminent death sentence” (87). Lateiner reads Thucydides’ theme of pitilessness as a tactic to elicit pity in his readers (88-91; cf. Pelling, 282), but concludes that “pity meant very little, if anything, in interstate Mediterranean policy or even intrastate fifth-century Hellenic politics and thus in the narratives of the first two preserved historians” (91).

Johnson and Clapp defend a humanistic and didactic interpretation of tragic pity both by a reading the plays and by a response to Plato’s critique of the tragic emotions. They argue that “One who pities must reflect on the nature of the human condition, must realize the reciprocal obligations of human relationships, and must move beyond words and respond with deeds” (124). Pity is a virtue in tragic performances (125), a moral imperative for thought and action, and rather than involving pitying subjects in a particular form of self-identity, elicits their identity as humans. The authors examine the importance of pity in Sophokles’ Ajax and Oedipus at Colonus as well as in Euripides’ political suppliant dramas. They also explore Hippolytos as a “pitiless drama” which nonetheless involves a “positive valuation for compassion” (132). The pair note that pity has disastrous consequences in the Medea, but contend that such treacherous uses of pity are rare and do not invalidate pity as a virtue (140-41).

Johnson and Clapp build a strong case. But if tragic performances interrogate the cosmos and humanity’s place in it, can they also uphold the value of pity as constant and unquestioned, from Aeschylus to Euripides, during the course of the Peloponnesian War, and from play to play? Pity is an emotion that contains multiple antinomies. For instance, to pity is a mark of humanity, but to be pitied or to seek pity does not have equivalent ethical status. Appeals to pity are a highly persuasive rhetorical ploy, as writers on rhetorical technique recognized early on; not to employ them can be a sign of courage, nobility, and self-sufficiency or of stubbornness; to employ them can be an act of treachery. Euripides’ characters deploy the rhetoric of pity to subvert dominant identities—male, Greek, democratic—and to win support for horrendous acts of violence. His plays raise flags as guides to situational ethics. Orestes, a play not covered in Johnson and Clapp’s analysis, is especially problematic in this regard. The play conspicuously elides pity as a value, perhaps, as Konstan argues, because it features a lack of emotional distance between its characters (Konstan 2001: 51-58). Elektra, however deceives her cousin with an appeal to pity (1340-41), and more significantly, Orestes refuses to depict his condition as pitiable before the Argive assembly, but contends instead that murdering his mother was in the interest of the polis (931-42). It may be that in the world of the play, no one believes that an epieikês person exists (cf. Rhet. 1385b33-86a1 and Aristotle’s complaints about Menelaos’ ponêria, Poet. 1454a28-29, 1461b21). But since Menelaos claims that pity resides in the demos (702), it is more likely that Orestes is loath to seek pity from the “mob.” The play deprives the “mob” and its speakers of moral authority. The characters flaunt its decree. In either case, the lynchpins of democratic pity vanish: the nobleman will not abase himself and the “mob” will not pity him. Sokrates will take this tack and fail nine years later; Andokides will take the contrary route and succeed. It is arguable that in the Orestes Euripides experiments with a tragic poetics that excludes pity, perhaps to evoke pity through its absence or negation, as Johnson and Clapp argue for the Hippolytus. But since the characters of the Orestes grow increasingly difficult to pity as they form and execute their revenge plot, such a reading of the Orestes as a pitiless drama is more difficult to sustain.

In a lucid analysis, Falkner shows how pity is metaphorically engendered “feminine” in the Trachiniae, a play which locates the pitier’s subject position outside the grid of masculine power and prestige in the competitive polis. Oakley scans fifth-century vase painting for scenes depicting pity or scenes which attempt to elicit pity from the viewer. Given the visual dimension of pity, it is surprising to find so few scenes and no iconography specifically associated with the emotion. Ajootian examines the remains of sculpture group attributed to Alkamenes depicting Prokne in the act of stabbing her son Itys. Although little is known of the date and circumstances of its dedication, Ajootian pieces together a story of its dedication and draws out some interesting resonances and interactions with the theme of mother and child in sculptural programs of the Parthenon and Erechtheum.

Kosak asks why pity is virtually absent from the Hippocratic corpus and from contemporary discussions of medical ethics and conducts a deft analysis to explain its absence from Hippocratic medicine. Pelling engagingly explores pity in Plutarch’s Lives. He is good on a number of issues—Plutarch’s reductions of emotional distance in his depictions of pity, the relationship between pity and virtues such as philanthrôpia (Kosak is also excellent on this), and epieikeia, and on Plutarch’s sense of an ending to a life, which excludes pity, to name a few. Pelling seeks to show where Plutarch deviates from classical models, especially the Aristotelian paradigm of the Rhetoric. One area where he finds such deviation is in the willingness of Plutarch’s pitiers to “concede that in this case the actions of the pitied man were wrong, but in a wider sense so fine a man, with so many other deserts and services to the state, did not deserve to fall into such misfortune” (287). There is room for negotiation on this question both within the Rhetoric‘s version of pity and that of the Poetics. The Poetics would allow pity for such a man. When “a certain hamartia” brings down men “such as Oedipus or Thyestes, and the illustrious men of such families” (1453a10-12) they elicit pity. Responsibility need not deprive a person of desert. This was a problem for Greek culture (see Hdt. 1.137.1), for rhetorical theory, and for the practice of the democratic courts. Those seeking to elicit the jurors’ pity reminded them of any benefaction they or their family members rendered to the polis that might offset the crime of which they were accused; and prosecutors labored against the gradient of the jurors’ tendency toward “tragic pity,” reminding them that even the polis’ greatest benefactors suffered punishment in the courts. Tragic heroes, like defendants, are “unworthy” of their suffering because of their lineages, social position, and accomplishments. The zero grade of pitiableness may be nobility (cf. Eur. Or. 784, 954) or epieikeia (Arist. Rhet. 1385b33-86a1; cf. 1374a18-74b6). Another area where Pelling finds Plutarch deviating from classical models is that he is willing to pity moral failing, which is outside the range of desert in the Poetics and Rhetoric. But it is within the scope of Socratic/Platonic pity (e.g. Gorg. 469a4-5, with Dodds ad loc.) and so perhaps neither a deviation from classical models nor distinctive to Plutarch.

Pity and Power in Ancient Athens is a fine collection of essays. On balance, its contributors convincingly analyze the many facets of pity. The volume clearly delineates the nature, limits, and various contextual dependencies of the emotion. In short, Pity and Power demonstrates the power of the adage “it is better to be envied than pitied.”

Table of contents

Rachel Hall Sternberg, “Introduction,” 1-15; “The Nature of Pity,” 15-47.

David Konstan, “Pity and Politics,” 48-66.

Donald Lateiner, “The Pitiers and the Pitied in Herodotus and Thucydides,” 67-97.

Angeliki Tzanetou, “A Generous City: Pity in Athenian Oratory and Tragedy,” 98-122.

James F. Johnson and Douglas C. Clapp, “Athenian Tragedy: An Education in Pity,” 123-64.

Thomas M. Falkner, “Engendering the Tragic Theatês : Pity, Power, and Spectacle in Sophocles’ Trachiniae,” 165-92.

John H. Oakley, “Pity in Classical Athenian Vase Painting,” 193-222.

Aileen Ajootian, “The Civic Art of Pity,” 223-52.

Jennifer Clarke Kosak, “A Crying Shame: Pitying the Sick in the Hippocratic Corpus and Greek Tragedy,” 253-76.

Christopher Pelling, “Pity in Plutarch,” 277-312.


1. D. Konstan, Pity Transformed (Duckworth, 2001); W.V. Harris, Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Harvard, 2001); D. Konstan and K. Rutter (eds.), Envy Spite and Jealousy: The Rivalrous Emotions in Ancient Greece (Edinburgh, 2003); S. Morton Braund and G. Most (eds.), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Cambridge, 2003); R. Kaster, Emotion, Restraint and Community in Ancient Rome (Oxford, 2005); D. Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks (Toronto, 2006). It is possible to cite many more studies since 2000 that focus on the emotions in Greek and Roman culture.

2. Konstan and Rutter (n. 1) 1-2 cite works published up to 2001. The recent works of Jenefer Robinson, Deeper than Reason: Emotion and its Role in Literature, Music, and Art (Oxford, 2005) and Edmund T. Rolls, Emotion Explained (Oxford, 2005) are tips of the iceberg.

3. See S. Johnstone, Disputes and Democracy: The Consequences of Litigation in Ancient Athens (Austin, 1999) 109-25 with tables 4-6. This work does not appear in the bibliography.