LINEBURG


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cent. ce), Herennius (or Eranius) Philo of Byblis (1st“2nd cent. ce), Aelius Herodian of Alexandria
(2nd cent. ce), Lesbonax (2nd cent. ce), Nicanor of Alexandria (2nd cent. ce), Polybius of Sardis
(2nd cent. ce?), Telephus of Pergamum (2nd cent. ce), Theon of Alexandria (1st cent. bce“1st cent.
ce), and Tyrannion the younger or Diocles (1st cent. bce“1st cent. ce); in Latin, by Flavius Caper
(2nd cent. ce), Censorinus (3rd cent. ce), Verrius Flaccus (1st cent. ce), Fronto and Velius Longus
(2nd cent. ce).
78 See Gleason (1995); Whitmarsh (2005a) 23“34.
79 One female rhetorician, Aufria, is recorded at Delphi in an inscription of the second century ce: see
Puech (2002) 156“7. In general on female education see Hemelrijk (2004).
Ordering knowledge 23
Nor is that concept of knowledge as bodily practice con¬ned to the Greek
part of the empire; Thomas Habinek, for example, shows in this volume
how a vision of knowledge as embodied experience structures Manilius™
Astronomica. Those patterns exemplify strikingly Bourdieu™s notion of social
knowledge as something formed through the repetitions of everyday life,
experienced bodily as well as intellectually.80 Many of the encyclopedic and
scienti¬c texts we examine here at ¬rst sight seem far removed from the bod-
ily experience of knowledge, in their dry and disordered surfaces. And yet
if we surrender ourselves to the repetitive patterns of these texts we can per-
haps begin to see how they mirror the processes by which social knowledge
is acquired, offering their readers a cumulative experience of knowledge,
gradually imprinting the grooves of knowledge on to the reader™s mind
through their relentlessly recurring yet endlessly varying rhythms.81
We ¬nd similar social pressures within late-Republican and early-
Imperial Rome. Here “ as within Greek tradition “ manual work and
specialised, technical knowledge were generally represented as unsuitable
for men and women of high status; while certain other forms of exper-
tise “ military, rhetorical, agricultural “ were more highly prized, though
never unequivocally so.82 Moreover, the social acceptability or otherwise of
a particular body of knowledge was often linked with its perceived cultural
af¬liations. Social status and gestures of cultural af¬liation were closely
intertwined with each other, although the precise nature of these links
was constantly open to restatement and reperformance. Greek knowledge
in some forms was treated with suspicion “ philosophy or astrology, for
example, whose reputation for subversive potential, leading to sporadic
banishments of philosophers and astrologers by successive emperors, was
partly linked with its Hellenic associations.83 But in other forms it held
social cachet. Elite Romans had to tread a delicate balance between exces-
sive devotion to Greek knowledge and ignorance of it (as we have seen
80 See esp. Bourdieu (1977); cf. Crick (1982) 300 on embodied knowledge.
81 E.g., see Jacob (2001) on the painstaking, repeated practices of quoting, ¬ltering and juxtaposing,
by which Athenaeus™ Sophists at dinner draw meaning from the Hellenic literary heritage.
82 See Rawson (1985) for exhaustive discussion of the status map of Roman Republican disciplines.
83 On the ambiguous relationship between astrology and imperial power, see Barton (1994a) 32“63 and
(1994b) 27“94. Astrological and astronomical texts from the period are numerous: e.g. (in Greek)
Achilles Tatius (2nd cent. ce), On the sphere; Apollonius of Tyana (1st cent. ce), Celestial in¬‚uence;
Cleomedes (2nd cent. ce), On the circular motion of the heavenly bodies; Dorotheus of Sidon (1st
cent. bce-1st cent. ce), various astrological works; Manetho (3rd ce), Celestial in¬‚uence; Maximus
(2nd cent. ce?), On forecasts; Claudius Ptolemy (2nd cent. ce), Celestial in¬‚uence; Teucer of Babylon
or Egypt (1st cent. ce) On the zodiac and On the seven stars; Thrasyllus of Alexandria (1st cent. ce),
a work on astrology; Vettius Valens (2nd cent. ce), Anthology; in Latin, Apuleius (2nd cent. ce),
Astronomy; Germanicus Caesar (1st cent. ce), Prognostications, Celestial phenomena; Hyginus (2nd
cent. ce), Astronomy; Manilius (1st cent. ce), Astronomy.
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24 j a son k onig a nd ti m w h i tm a rs h
already for Greek philosophy).84 These considerations continued to exer-
cise a powerful in¬‚uence well into the Imperial period, and many texts
continued to advertise the distinctive Romanness of their own recon¬gu-
rations of the Greek systematising project.
The recurrent attraction of agriculture as a subject for Roman knowledge-
orderers is a good example. Columella, for example, writing in the ¬rst
century ce, knows and discusses at length Greek traditions of writing on
agriculture,85 but he also goes out of his way to mark the Romanness of his
text throughout his preface, for example by representing his own project
as an attempt to reinvigorate the productiveness of Italian farmland, and
by looking back to the hardy stock of Romulus who tilled the ¬elds in
the beginnings of Roman history. For Columella, advertising one™s relation
with the myths of early Roman frugality and self-suf¬ciency, and with the
rigours of speci¬cally Roman erudition, is an essential authorising gesture
for wealthy, landed, elite status in the present (a gesture which is parodied
in Petronius™ portrayal of Trimalchio™s self-suf¬ciency (Sat. 37“8) “ not the
self-suf¬ciency of the stereotypically modest Roman market-gardener, but
rather of the man who produces everything he could desire on his own
massive estates).86

disc iplina ry know l edg e
Unwritten social rules, however, are notoriously unstable. The hierarchy of
disciplines was constantly being restated and refashioned. Changes in polit-
ical climate and in administrative conventions led to changes in the prestige
of speci¬c groups of practitioners. For example, the increasing popularity “
and, at times, of¬cial disapproval “ of astrology in Rome from the late ¬rst
century bce onwards has conventionally been explained by the fact that it
thrived on making predictions related to powerful political ¬gures, and to
Augustus™ exploitation of that focus (although Thomas Habinek™s chapter
in this volume nuances that explanation).87 Under the Flavians the back-
lash against empowerment of freedmen employed by the Julio-Claudians
made it increasingly common for senators to be given administrative posts,
and prompted reformulation of conventional senatorial antipathies towards
applied knowledge.88

84 See pp. 16“18, above and, e.g., Gruen (1993).
85 See esp. Columella Rust. 1.1.7“11, and Henderson (2004). Other agricultural texts of the period
include, e.g., Apuleius (2nd cent. ce), On rustic matters; Columella, On trees; Siculus Flaccus (2nd
cent. ce), On the status of ¬elds; Julius Graecinus (2nd cent. ce), On vines.
86 87 See Barton (1994a), esp. 38“49.
See Garnsey (1999) 23“4.
88 See Talbert (1984), with 15“16 and 134 on Vespasian™s adlection of new senators; and 372“407 for
senatorial duties.
Ordering knowledge 25
Other changes were less clearly anchored in speci¬c institutional adjust-
ments, but not for that reason any less ¬rmly grounded in political reality. It
is clear, for example, that some bodies of Greek knowledge (e.g., medicine,
siegecraft, geography) were widely appropriated and adapted within Rome,
while others (e.g., philology, literary criticism) were relatively neglected.
Those variations in treatment of Greek intellectual material were partly a
result of struggles for political and cultural authority within the Roman
elite, where choices about which resources to exploit and which not were
always determined in part by strategic aims.89 Similar considerations seem
to have shaped shifting attitudes towards traditionally Roman forms of
expertise and cultural authority. On one argument, for example, the ¬rst
century bce saw an erosion of the link between historical/religious knowl-
edge and political authority within Rome, at a time when appeals to the
past history of individual families were losing their moral authority, in the
turmoil of civil war. That shift was then manipulated by Augustus and
his successors by bringing antiquarian experts “ who no longer tended to
come from the politically active elite “ under direct imperial control, thus
creating a new vision of universalising knowledge, where political author-
ity was based on delegation of knowledge rather than possession of it.90
Whatever the virtues of that model in its precise details, it is important for
its attempts to ground changing conceptions and textual manifestations of
Roman knowledge materially in the continually evolving struggles for elite
prestige and authority.
Much of this shifting landscape of disciplinary self-presentation was also
due to the fact that the Roman Empire “ unlike the modern world “ had few
explicit professional quali¬cations, institutional structures for controlling
and guaranteeing expertise. That situation led to heavy reliance on rhetor-
ical means of self-legitimation, developed within a system where experts
had to compete for adherents and clients.91 For that reason we often see
knowledge-ordering writers jostling for position against their rivals. Galen,
for example, argues in his Protrepticus for a separation between good arts
and bad arts; and then subdivides the former category, listing medicine as
the best art of all (Protrepticus 14).92 Galen™s equation of medicine with phi-
losophy “ both there and elsewhere (most obviously in That the best doctor
is also a philosopher) “ allows him to separate his own expertise not only
from other disciplines, but also from the activity of those he represents
as more disreputable and incompetent claimants to medical knowledge,
whose expertise is not worthy of that label. Philostratus responds to that

89 90
See Wallace-Hadrill (1988). See Wallace-Hadrill (1997).
91 92
See Lloyd (1979) 86“98. See K¨ nig (2005) 291“300.
o
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26 j a son k onig a nd ti m w h i tm a rs h
scheme in his Gymnasticus by downgrading medicine, praising instead the “
socially marginal “ art of athletic training which had been one of Galen™s
main targets.93
That is not to say that we should equate these kinds of disciplinary self-
de¬nition with the sharp disciplinary divides with which we are familiar
in the modern world. It was standard for learned people to write treatises
on a broad range of topics. The common habit of addressing works to
private recipients, and that of drawing attention to one™s own reluctance to
publish, together contribute to an impression of the absence of rigid disci-
plinary boundaries. There were also pressures towards totalising knowledge
for ancient writers, pressures to integrate different bodies of thought into a
single system, ˜metaphilosophical™ or otherwise. Strabo, for example, rep-
resents his combination of geographical and historical knowledge as a kind
of philosophy, grounded in Stoic assumptions that the cosmos is a uni¬ed
body whose disparate parts are held together by a single binding force.94
Galen “ as Rebecca Flemming shows in her chapter “ takes a more Platonic
view, seeing the workings of divine order within the order of the human
body, and drawing on many different areas of expertise “ natural-historical,
philosophical, philological “ to convey that vision throughout his volumi-
nous oeuvre.95 And yet despite all of these attempts to harmonise different
bodies of knowledge, it is also clear “ not least in the example just quoted
from Galen™s Protrepticus “ that the gesture of equating one™s own exper-
tise with the overarching label of philosophical expertise could often serve
partisan aims.
This distinction between different disciplines is important partly just
because it reminds us of the dangers of characterising knowledge systems
of the Roman Empire as monolithic entities, even though that is a char-
acterisation these texts themselves often construct rhetorically (as we have
already seen above96 for the all-embracing nature of philosophical self-
de¬nition). Moreover, we need to recognise not only that different bodies
of knowledge were formed very differently through battles for political and
social authority, but also that they in turn fed diverse models and impulses
of social and political interaction back into the cultures that produced
them. Not all disciplines created the same kinds of social positions for the
human subjects and objects of their practice. Medicine, as it was both prac-
tised and theorised, offered distinctive visions of the human body and of
93 See K¨ nig (2005) 315“25.
o
94 See French (1994) 123“30; Clarke (1999), esp. 216; cf. 185“90 on similar conceptions in the geograph-
ical work of Posidonius.
95 96 Pp. 13“20.
See Hankinson (1988).
Ordering knowledge 27
human subjectivity, both male and female, distinctive roles for doctors and
patients alike to inhabit;97 the increasingly systematised body of Roman
law did the same;98 and the repetitive techniques of Roman declamation,
as they are revealed to us in surviving treatises of rhetorical exercises, had
encoded within them particular visions of the social and gender hierarchies
of Roman society.99 All of these disciplines were very different from each
other in the experiences of knowledge they offered (as well as being differ-
ently experienced in different contexts), though all of them also re¬‚ected
and contributed in interlocking ways to the overarching power relations of
Greco-Roman society.

th e world i n th e te x t
The discussion so far prompts wider synchronic re¬‚ections on the nature
of textuality and authorship in the period. We have advanced strong claims
for the interrelationship between varieties of the ordering of knowledge
and of the ordering of empire. But what of the presentation of material
within texts, and within those social institutions that allow for the recep-
tion and circulation of texts? As Foucault argues in a well-known essay, the
˜author function™ is historically variable, to the effect that different forces
(ideological, political, cultural, economic) shape the way that textual signif-
icance and textual ownership are imagined in different periods.100 Should
we expect to see the empire of knowledge mirrored in the mini-empires of
textual ordering?

97 See Flemming (2000) on medical visions of the female body, and more broadly Barton (1994b).
Medical authors in the period, in addition to Galen, are numerous: works transmitted or known
include, e.g., in Greek, Aglais of Byzantium (1st cent. ce?), On cataracts; Antyllus (2nd cent. ce),
On enemas; Archigenes of Apamea (1st“2nd cent. ce), various; Aretaeus (2nd cent. ce), various;
Cassius (2nd“3rd cent. ce), Medical questions and other works; Titus Statilius Crito of Hera-
cleia (1st“2nd cent. ce), On cosmetics and On the composition of drugs; Dioscorides ˜Pedianus™ (1st
ce), various; Marcellinus (2nd cent. ce), On pulses; Philo of Tarsus (1st“2nd cent. ce), a medi-
cal poem; Plutarch of Chaeroneia (1st“2nd cent. ce), Precepts for good health; Rufus of Ephesus
(1st“2nd cent. ce), various; Severus (1st cent. ce), On cauterisation; Soranus of Ephesus (1st“2nd
cent. ce), various; in Latin, Celsus (1st cent. ce), On medicine; Scribonius Largus (1st cent. ce),
Prescriptions.
98 A massive and tangled corpus of Roman jurisprudential material survives from the period. The most
important works are: Gaius (2nd cent. ce), Institutes and other works; Lucius Volusius Maecianus
(2nd cent. ce), various legal and other works (see further Cuomo in this volume); Aelius Marcianus
(3rd cent. ce), Institutes and other works; Masurius Sabinus (1st cent. ce), several jurisprudential
works; Domitius Ulpian (3rd ce), Institutes and other works. Harries (1999) offers many suggestive
insights into the ways in which late-antique legal convention in¬‚uenced and was in¬‚uenced by
conceptualisations of authority in other areas of public and private life.
99 See especially the elder Seneca™s Utterances, categories and techniques of the orators, with Bloomer
(1997); Dupont (1997); Gunderson (2003). For other rhetorical works, see above, n. 73.
100 Foucault (1986). See further Whitmarsh (2004) 8“9.
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28 j a son k onig a nd ti m w h i tm a rs h
Can we see, for example, a shift of emphasis from ˜work™ to ˜text™? A
˜work™, on this interpretation (mimicking Roland Barthes),101 would be an
apparatus of signs viewed principally as the manifestation of the author™s
privileged intelligence; a ˜text™, on the other hand, would be a resource made
available for the reader. Clearly, any such historical shift would be supported
by the (self-diagnosed) domination of prose over verse in this period:102
there is no expectation of ˜inspiration™ attached to technical prose. Texts
like Frontinus™ On aqueducts, Artemidorus™ The interpretation of dreams,
Apollodorus™ Library, Polemo™s Physiognomics, Aelian™s On the nature of ani-
mals, Ampelius™ Book of memory, Pollux™s Onomasticon or Ulpian™s Digest are
self-consciously utilitarian, anticipating a reader who consults judiciously
rather than capitulating to the linear textual narrative.
Of course, at another level, each of these texts is a virtuoso authorial
performance of mastery in the spheres of research, synthesis and exposi-
tion. It is not that the author recedes in such texts, more that the role of
the author is reconceived: new virtues are located in the arts of editing
and the organisation of pre-existing units of knowledge. We can iden-
tify this phenomenon across a range of cases, from the Hellenistic period
onwards, but with particular intensity in the Roman period. Nor is this
process con¬ned to the enormous range of massive, synthetic texts alluded
to in the previous paragraph. Philosophers™ words were edited by their
disciples, playing Plato/Xenophon to their teachers™ Socrates (the most
prominent cases are those of Lucius/Musonius Rufus and Arrian/Epictetus).
Philostratus™ In honour of Apollonius of Tyana, a text that we have already
considered, represents itself as the result of the ˜rewriting™ (metagr†yai)
for imperial consumption of the memoirs of Damis, synthesised with
the works of Moeragenes and Maximus of Aegeae (1.2“3). Labour could
pro¬tably be invested in ordering the books of intellectual avatars: Por-
phyry, for example, edited and arranged Plotinus™ books (the full title
of his biography is On the life of Porphyry and the order of his books).103
The self-regarding Galen, indeed, even wrote On the order of my own
books. In the sphere of poetry, ˜garlands™ of short poems by established
authors were collected by such ¬gures as Meleager (in the ¬rst century
bce) and (in the ¬rst century ce) Philip. It is as though the world of
knowledge was now fully bounded and all that remained was to debate its
arrangement.


101 102 Whitmarsh (2005b).
Barthes (1986).
103 Porphyry™s catalogue of Plotinian book titles is discussed at Nachmanson (1941) 26“7.
Ordering knowledge 29
This is a period that also sees a profusion of works of commentary and
(particularly in Latin) of translation, epitomisation and summary.104 What
is extraordinary in these cases is that we almost always know the identity of
the commentator, translator, epitomiser or summariser in question: thus,
for example, Julius Florus is known as the epitomiser of Livy, Justinus as the
author of the Prologues of Trogus™ Philippic histories, Sulpicius Apollinaris as
the author of verse summaries of Virgil™s Aeneid and Terence™s plays.105 The
recon¬guration of pre-existing texts is viewed not simply as second-order
intellectual parasitism, but as a major intellectual project in its own right.
This, of course, is not per se new: after all, the traditional founder of Latin
literature (Livius Andronicus) was a translator from the Greek. The crucial
point, however, is to note the rich, thick context in which this imperial
literary production was appearing. This was not a secondary culture held
in thrall to its originating predecessors (as older scholars, preoccupied with
the romantic ideal of creative originality, sometimes assumed): it was rather
an imperial power mapping and colonising the enormous expanse of pre-
existing knowledge. From the time of Trajan onwards, the boundaries of
the Roman Empire were not signi¬cantly expanded; likewise, the textual
world was conceived of as suf¬cient and fully formed.
Inevitably, counterexamples can be advanced.106 In the ¬eld of geogra-
phy, exotic new parts were being discovered at the margins of the world:
this sense of excitement at the discovery of new spaces feeds both the
burgeoning genre of periplous (˜circumnavigation™) literature107 and other
travel-narrative forms, such as the novel.108 Yet the exceptions prove the rule:
that new discoveries were consigned to the exotic margins of the world is an
indication of the epistemological exhaustion of the Empire. The fantastical
104 See appendix for full details. For bilingualism in the period, see Adams, Janse and Swain (eds.)
(2002), and Adams (2003).
105 Cf., e.g., Apuleius™ (2nd cent. ce) translations (noted above) of Plato™s Phaedo and (though author-
ship is debated) Aristotle™s On the universe, and also a verse translation from Menander; Quintus
Asconius Pedianus™ (1st cent. ce) commentaries on Cicero™s orations; Baebius Italicus™ (1st cent. ce)
epitome of Homer™s Iliad in Latin; Germanicus Caesar™s (1st cent. ce) translation of Aratus™ Celestial
phenomena; Marcus Cetius Faventinus™ (3rd cent. ce) epitome of Vitruvius™ On architecture; Sextus
Pompeius Festus™ (2nd cent. ce) epitome of Verrius Flaccus™ On the meaning of words; ˜Septimius™™
(3rd ce?) translation of Dictys of Crete™s Journal of the Trojan war. The ˜Arguments™ (2nd cent. ce)
for Plautus™ plays, on the other hand, are anonymous.
106 Arrian™s book on hunting with dogs, for example, stakes its claim to surpass Xenophon precisely on
the superior knowledge of dog breeds available to the later author: full discussion at Stadter (1980)
53“4.
107 Cf. the anonymous Circumnavigation of the Red Sea (2nd cent. ce) and Circumnavigation of the
Great Sea (3nd cent. ce), Arrian™s Circumnavigation of the Black Sea, Dionysius of Byzantium™s (2nd
cent. ce) Navigation up the Bosporus.
108 Especially Lucian™s True stories and Antonius Diogenes™ Wonders beyond Thule: see Romm (1991)
172“214.
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30 j a son k onig a nd ti m w h i tm a rs h
invention of new places to visit plays the same imaginary role as a dream
that one discovers a new room in one™s house: the thrill of the new derives
in part from the familiar structures of the established.
What we are proposing is that the period of the ¬rst three centuries of
the Roman Empire saw a large-scale shift in the perception of intellectual
labour: the fact of empire crucially changed the way in which knowledge was
used, abused, presented, represented. In his classic discussion The Archae-
ology of Knowledge, Michel Foucault proposes the idea of ˜the archive™ as a
historical phenomenon (with roots, he argues, in the eighteenth century)
that enables a certain way of understanding language and its relationship to
the world: not simply the physical institutions that store and disseminate
knowledge, but an entire ˜system of discursivity™:
The archive is ¬rst the law of what can be said, the system that governs the
appearance of statements as unique events. But the archive is also that which
determines that all these things said do not accumulate endlessly in an amorphous
mass, nor are they inscribed in an unbroken linearity, nor do they disappear at
the mercy of chance external accidents; but they are grouped together in distinct
¬gures, composed together in accordance with multiple relations, maintained or
blurred in accordance with speci¬c regularities.109
For Foucault “ here in characteristically oracular mode “ ™the archive™ is
a ˜historical a priori™, a dynamic force that drives all intellectual production
within a period. This is clearly both overstated and undernuanced: societies
are more fractured and embattled than Foucault allows (and indeed later
writings such as La volont´ du savoir re¬‚ect his increasing awareness of
e
precisely this point). We might also question the validity of construing the
archive as an ˜a priori™ cause that has (apparently) only limited, localised
negotiability:110 surely there is no single system that ˜governs™ or ˜determines™
(to use Foucault™s phraseology) thought, without itself becoming subject
to immediate and radical revision.
Still, the archive “ as a habit of thought, an intellectual genre, an inter-
related set of culturally operative, but also embattled, propositions as to
the necessary properties and social roles of language “ provides a use-
ful model for conceptualising the order of knowledge. Though Foucault
seeks to explicate a much later period, archival thinking can be detected
behind a range of textual practices in the Roman Empire, where (as we
have seen) the desire to itemise and order knowledge reaches a new peak of
intensity.

109 110
Foucault (1972) 129. Ibid. 127.
Ordering knowledge 31

order i n d i ve rs i t y
How can diverse objects of knowledge be synthesised into a single textual
form? Common terms like ˜miscellany™, used particularly of texts like Pam-
phila™s Collection of historical reminiscences, Favorinus™ Miscellaneous history,
Aulus Gellius™ Attic nights and Aelian™s Miscellaneous history, give the impres-
sion of a random aggregration of unconnected phenomena.111 And indeed
the texts themselves often foster that impression. According to Photius
(Library 119b), Pamphila claimed to have compiled her work ˜at random,
as each thing came to her™ (e«k¦i kaª Þv ™kaston –p¦lqen). But this kind
of claim should not be taken as evidence for incompetence: Photius goes
on to report her assertion that it would have been easy to structure her
work by topic (kat¬ e²dov), but more pleasant (–piterp”steron . . . kaª
cari”steron) to present a polymorphous variety. Miscellanism was a con-
scious, deliberate and motivated choice for Pamphila. This example should
warn us against taking the semblance (and indeed the protestation) of ran-
domness too literally. There was a knowing, controlling intelligence behind
Pamphila™s ˜miscellany™ of knowledge, even if too little of the text survives
today to be able to judge it.112
The other thing which uni¬es miscellanistic knowledge, of course, is its
openness to being manipulated within speci¬c moments of performance. It
is striking that many of the miscellanistic works of the Roman Empire offer
themselves as resources to be used “ collections of anecdotes or exempla
to be reactivated and reshaped by the reader in other contexts. Elsewhere,
we see that kind of performance of knowledge in action, for example in
representations of sympotic conversation of the kind we ¬nd in Plutarch™s
Sympotic questions or Macrobius™ Saturnalia, or in many of the dialogues
of Aulus Gellius™ Attic nights.
But how do we read such diversity when we are confronted with it?
What kind of sense can we make from accumulations and lists as we read
(as opposed to making sense of them through our own re-use of the anec-
dotes and facts they offer)? Let us turn, by way of example, to one of

111 Other contemporary miscellanies include, e.g., Lucius Ampelius (3rd ce?), Book of memory;
Apuleius, Florida; Censorinus (3rd cent. ce), On the birthday; Clement of Alexandria (2nd“3rd

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