I know nothing so characteristic of a warped slavish nature as to bite the lip while you nurse your spite and cultivate your secret hatred, one thing on your heart and another on your tongue, playing with the gay looks of comedy a lamentable sinister tragedy.
οὗ δὴ ἐγὼ οὐδὲν οἶμαι ἀδικώτερον οὐδὲ δουλοπρεπέστερον, ἐνδακόντα τὸ χεῖλος ὑποτρέφειν τὴν χολὴν καὶ τὸ μῖσος ἐν αὑτῷ κατάκλειστον αὔξειν ἕτερα μὲν κεύθοντα ἐνὶ φρεσίν, ἄλλα δὲ λέγοντα καὶ ὑποκρινόμενον ἱλαρῷ καὶ κωμικῷ τῷ προσώπῳ μάλα περιπαθῆ τινα καὶ ἰοῦ γέμουσαν τραγῳδίαν.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
Pages
▼
Sunday, February 26, 2012
On Concealing One's Feelings
Lucian, Slander 24 (tr. H.W. Fowler and F.G. Fowler):