Why Catullus Continues to Seduce Us
Whatever their subject or inspiration, many of these poems display the wit, pith, and cleverness that were hallmarks of the avant-garde school to which Catullus belonged, the so-called New Poetsâor neoteroi, as Cicero, who preferred the old ones, sniffily referred to them. The oratorâs use of the Greek word for ânewâ was pointed: Catullus and his friends were in thrall to the theories of the Hellenistic Greek scholar and poet Callimachus, who flourished in the first half of the third century B.C.E. and worked at the Library of Alexandria, the great literary and cultural center of the Mediterranean world. It was Callimachus who famously proclaimed mega biblion, mega kakon, âa long book is a great evilâ; for his Roman acolytes, concision, originality, and vividness, rather than what they saw as the bombast and portentousness of an earlier generation, were the qualities to embrace. Catullus makes no bones about his literary allegiances. One poem, addressed to the grandiloquent work of a dreary historian, begins, âHey, Volusiusâ Annals (yes, Iâm talking / to your hundreds of pages smeared with bullshit.)â
A startling freshness and informality are certainly the rule in these shorter poems, most of which are cast in a jauntily syncopated meter known as the âhendecasyllableâ: BUM-BUM-BUM-buh-buh-BUM-buh-BUM-buh-BUM-BUM. And yet even the breeziest of Catullusâ occasional poems can suddenly betray flashes of ferocious emotion. Poem 50 begins as a giddy recollection of an afternoon spent dashing off verses to his friend Calvus, another of the neoteroi. The opening lines paint an endearing picture of the two writers âplaying now with this meter, now with that one, / improvising on themes set by the other, / laughing hard.â Butâtypically, as it turns outâthe experience becomes overwhelmingly intense for Catullus, who goes on to record how, on returning home,
The nakedness of the feelings exposedâto say nothing of the willingness to expose themâwas wholly new in Latin poetry.
The way in which a poem by Catullus can veer from the innocuous to the intense is often mirrored by dramatic swerves in the tone and the register of his language. In certain poems, you can practically hear the gears shift. The first half of Poem 11, for instance, makes you think youâre reading an ode to the constancy of the poetâs friends Furius and Aurelius, who he says he knows will follow him to the ends of the earth, from Persia to the Nile to the Alps and as far as the âhorrible Britons.â But the real point becomes clear only at the beginning of the second half, when Catullus, having listed the proofs of his friendsâ loyalty, feels emboldened to ask them to do him a favor relating to Lesbia:
Then he puts in the clutch yet again, ending with lines of astonishing delicacy, which compare his rejected love to âa flower / fallen at the edge of a field, the plowshareâs / blade slicing through it.â
The volatile emotions to which Catullus gives vent are not always so touching. Poem 16 begins with a jokey threat that heâs going to assault two male friends because theyâve teased him: âIâll fuck you up the ass andââinrumĹ again!ââfuck your face.â The offense for which theyâre being menaced is that, having read some of the tender poems addressed to Lesbia, theyâve accused him of being male maremââinsufficiently manly.â Although the tone is playful, itâs hard not to feel that the friends had hit a nerve. Not for the first time, the violence of a bullying threat is directly proportional to the vulnerability thatâs been exposed in the bully. Sometimes itâs as if this poet canât hold the warring parts of his own personality together.
In jarring contrast to the polymetrics, with their accessible freshness and ingratiating openness, stand the four long poems that constitute the second section of the Liber: two wedding hymns, the mini-epic about the nuptials of Achillesâ parents, and the castrato tour de force. Contemporary readers tend to have a harder time with these; Stephen Mitchell, whom Iâve been quoting thus far, shares the general prejudice and omits them from his translation, explaining that, âdespite their sporadic beauties, [they] leave me cold.â At first glance, itâs easy to see why: their tone and manner, compared with those of the other poems, are so much more self-consciously âliteraryâ that you sometimes wonder how the same poet could have written them all. The two wedding hymns, Poems 61 and 62, bristle with learned mythological allusions (âFor Junia, as beautiful / As Idaliumâs mistress / Venus coming to the Phrygian / Judge, is wedding Manlius . . .â), and the hyperventilating poem about the self-mutilating Attis is steeped in the arcana of Eastern cultic practice.
As for Poem 64, the mini-epic about Achillesâ parents, for all its sizeâat more than four hundred lines, itâs Catullusâ longest work and accounts for almost half of the second sectionâit is a FabergĂŠ egg of a poem, structured with great ingenuity and aglitter with favorite devices of the high Greek style. One of these is known as ekphrasis: an extended depiction, within a literary work, of a work of art. In Catullusâ poem, the account of the meeting and subsequent wedding of the couple, Peleus and Thetis, soon segues to a detailed description of a coverlet spread over their marriage bed, woven with images depicting the myth of the Cretan princess Ariadne, who was abandoned by her faithless lover, Theseus. (With this allusion, the poet artfully foreshadows the fact that the union being celebrated will eventually sourâafter producing a child who brings grief and destruction to many.) Catullus pushes ekphrasis to unprecedented limits, allowing the description of the coverlet to metastasize to the point where the Theseus-Ariadne story grows larger than the story of Peleus and Thetis, the ostensible subject of the poemâa bravado move on the poetâs part in a work that he clearly intended to be a masterpiece.
Still, you could argue that, beneath their arch sophistication, these longer works turn out to be animated by the same hot-blooded themes and obsessions that you find in the other poems. Take the startling tenderness of the marriage hymns, with their intense empathy for the emotions of young brides leaving home for the first time (whose lot is compared, rather shockingly, to the fate of women after âa cityâs brutal captureâ), or Attisâ surrender to a frenzy he cannot control, followed by the morning-after self-recriminations (âNow, ah now, what Iâve done appalls meâ): we recognize these feelings. Also familiar is the note of righteous outrage in the poetâs diatribe, at the end of Poem 64, against the corrupted morals of his day. Even when Catullus is being arty, the passions, the tenderness and the indignation, the wounded sense of wrongs unpunished, come through.
But nowhere in the Catulli Veronensis Liber is emotion at a higher pitch than in the Lesbia poems, which are threaded through both the polymetrics and the third section, which is devoted to poems written in the âelegiacâ meter: lines of six beats alternating with lines of five beats. (A lot of the really filthy epigrams, which prompted Byron to declare that âCatullus scarcely has a decent poem,â belong to this group.) Most scholars believe that Lesbia was in fact a certain Clodia, a member of one of Romeâs greatest families. Her father was a consul; her brother, Clodius Pulcher, was a powerful demagogue and the archenemy of Cicero. Unfortunately, nearly everything we know about her, apart from what Catullus says, comes from a savage speech of Ciceroâs that was intended to discredit Clodia as a witness in a politically explosive trial, and hence can hardly be taken at face value. (At one point, the great orator hints that brother and sister were lovers.) By contrast, what we glean about her from Catullusâ Liber is oddly generic. The focus, as with so much of his work, is on his feelings, his reactions.
Itâs likely that Catullus met Clodia around 62 B.C.E., when he was just past twenty and she was around thirty; it was then that her husband, Metellus Celer, became the governor of the northern-Italian province where the poetâs family lived. Given the familyâs prominence, itâs not unreasonable to assume that the new governor and his wife could, like Caesar, have been their guests at one point or another.
Whatever the case may be, the Lesbia poems often betray the giddiness of a callow young lover whoâs already hopelessly in over his head with an older and far more sophisticated womanâone who, you sense, may well just be toying with him. Itâs worth remembering that, for all his suavity, Catullus was, at heart, a boy from the hinterland: the outrage he often expresses at faithlessness, betrayals, and broken promises, whether by lovers or friends, belongs to the ethos of the straightlaced provinces, not the decadent capital. The pseudonym Lesbia, which alludes to the lyric poet Sappho (and, perhaps, to the alleged erotomania of the women who lived on her island), was presumably intended to protect Clodiaâs identityâshe was, after all, a married womanâalthough itâs hard to believe that, in gossipy Rome, the affair could have remained a total secret.
Not counting a verse dedication to the biographer Cornelius Nepos, a fellow northern Italian who âused to think that / these light things that I scribbled had some value,â the first poem of the Liber is about Lesbia, and after that sheâs rarely out of sight for long. Strikingly, the glimpses we get of this notorious femme fatale are often oblique. Poem 2, for instance, is addressed to her pet sparrow, with which the poet wishes he could play âand bring ease to my heartâs ongoing torment!â Poem 3 is playful: a mock-heroic eulogy for the sparrow, now dead, whom the poet blames for making his sweetheartâs eyes swollen and redâone of a very few references to Lesbiaâs physical appearance. In Poems 5 and 7, heâs counting out, apparently on an abacus, how many kisses will satisfy him: a thousand, then a hundred, then another thousand. Isobel Williams, in the introduction to her renderings of the poems, rightly observes that Catullus, who was likely the scion of successful businesspeople, has a âbook-keeperâs eye.â
As giddy as Catullus seems to be in these early poems, he never forgets his clever Alexandrian technique. âLet us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,â goes the opening of the first kiss-counting poem: a winning enough incipit. But the classicist Michael Fontaine has pointed out that the poetâwho, like all educated Romans, knew Greek as well as Latinâis actually indulging in an elaborate and risquĂŠ bilingual pun here. If you translate âlet us live, Lesbiaâ into Greek, you get Lesbia, zĂ´men, a phrase thatâs virtually identical to the Greek lesbiazĂ´men, which you could translate as âLetâs do fellatio!â
Beneath the fun and games, however, thereâs a shadow over the proceedings almost from the start. Hereâs Mitchellâs translation of Poem 5 in its entirety:
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