God of Anthropocene


To the cinema, in August, to see Shin Godzilla (2016) on its brief and belated UK release. The film is produced by Toho studios, which made the original Godzilla film (Gojira) in 1954, and made many more over the next fifty years. I loved these films when they were broadcast on British television in the 1990s. This was a time, as countless people have lamented, before the compartmentalisation of television channels, when viewers could be introduced to all manner of films: an education for my young self in McCarthyite B-movies, Nordic existentialism, the politics of the Parisian banlignes, kitchen sink, and Gothic horror.

These memories had me well-disposed to Shin Godzilla before I entered the cinema. The film delighted me despite its flaws (particularly the heavy-handed signposting of stock characters and character traits). A decision was made (whether by writer-director Hideaki Anno, composer Shirō Sagisu, or some level of the company) to include soundtrack elements from the original films: both sound effects and the original score by Akira Ifukube. The old music was neither re-recorded nor remastered, which resulted in a peculiar retro effect in modern cinema speakers: comfortingly familiar, but at odds with the modern pacing of the film, as if challenging us to compare it with the originals.

The heavily-signposted subtext of the film showed it to be psychologically freighted with memories and premonitions of catastrophes natural (tsunami) and anthropic (nuclear bombs, radioactive waste), and the exacerbation of these by bureaucratic ossification. In the week of its British release, fears of nuclear attack in East Asia were all too raw in the shadow of US and North Korean willy-waving. The film offers moments of satire of interminable governmental and academic meetings, which give way to a (rather too) simple message of interdepartmental, interdisciplinary, and international collaboration.

What interested me most, of course, was its exploration of the position of myth in a resolutely Anthropocene setting. The dialogue contains snatches of human self-doubt. The scientists studying this ‘Gojira’ creature consider that it may be a biologically perfect organism – ‘better than man’ in its ability to adapt to, and to reform, its environment. Characters compare the damage wrought by Gojira to the towns around Tokyo Bay to the violence of human history,  prompting the disaster-movie-truism that ‘man is more destructive than Godzilla’. The Gojira creature itself represents an allegory of technology as mass destruction, evolutionary power (hyper-accelerated in this film), and diminishing geographical distance (in the potential to disperse itself internationally).

In short, Gojira is an incarnate god of the Anthropocene epoch. Shin Godzilla (‘new‘, ‘true‘, or ‘god Gojira‘) is a telling title. The naming of the creature – first named in the film as ‘Great Unidentified Creature’ – is important, as it playfully endorses the Anglophone name Godzilla, emphasising the feeling of encountering an inscrutable, ungovernable divinity. But this god is partly of the natural world, and partly a consequence of nuclear-age humanity. Surely a case of each epoch getting the god it deserves.

I’ve often wondered about divine succession. To take the Greek pantheon: Ouranos was succeeded by his son, Kronos, who in turn was succeeded by his son Zeus. Violently so, in each case. But then Olympian historical time seems to cease while human historical time begins. Would it take an epoch-shattering event among humans to dislodge the secure Olympian order? Here is Gojira, come to shake Zeus down from his mountain. Gojira is the divine representative of the Anthropocene – the epoch of irreversible human impact on the Earth – emerging on the face of Zeus’s grandmother Gaia.

English version of Yamata no Orochi (by B. H. Chamberlain, 1886, illustrator unknown)

The emergence of a god onto contemporary Japanese reality requires a mythic response, of sorts. ‘Operation Yashiori’ is the name given to the internationally-collaborative reaction to Gojira’s threat: the alternative to obliterating it – and much of the country around Tokyo – with a nuclear bomb. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki is explicitly referenced, and Operation Yashiori is a mytho-scientific counter both to Gojira and the human violence epitomised by the bomb.

Operation Yashiori derives its name from the sake drunk by the monster Orochi. In Shinto myth, Orochi is a huge, eight-headed serpent (termed a hydra in Shin Godzilla’s subtitles) which has been devouring the daughters of an old couple (or earth-spirit). Seven of their eight daughters have been eaten when the storm god Susanoo encounters them. Susanoo’s solution is to stupefy Orochi by making it drunk on yashiori-no-sake, the inebriated beast is then sliced up by the storm god, who marries the surviving daughter, Kushi-nada-hime. Shin Godzilla constructs a technological equivalent for this myth, advancing the hope that human creativity and collaboration can release us from a global catastrophe of our own making.

Talking Sky

Queen Square, Bath, July 2017

As June turned to July, I took the slow train to Bath for the annual conference of the Sophia Centre for the Study of Cosmology in Culture. This year’s conference theme was ‘The Talking Sky: Myths and Meaning in the Celestial Spheres’. Judging by some of the conversations I’ve had, many people’s shutters come down at the mention of cosmology or the idea of meaning being derived from the stars – in short, astrology. And indeed the Sophia Centre is dedicated to the serious study of astrology. In the popular imagination, astrology is the dubious or fraudulent nonsense of newspaper columns (‘sun sign’ astrology, as it is distinguished). Such is the power of this belief, that even those who would seriously study ancient philosophy and mythology flinch from contemplating ancient astrology. And yet, as the speakers at this conference proved, with great erudition, charm and good humour, the movements of the heavenly bodies were of monumental importance to ancient people, and still hold meaning for many today.

A central idea for the conference was ‘naked eye astronomy’, as advocated by Bernadette Brady. Dr Brady provided a series of revelatory images of the annual interaction of the sun and moon as their relative position in the sky changes throughout the year. The high moon compensating for the low sun in winter, or the sun and moon rising and setting in the same positions at equinox, for example. The loss of naked eye astronomy – of the widespread knowledge of the patterns of sun, moon, and stars as they appear to us on earth – causes a ‘cultural divide’ between modern and ancient humans: we do not know the human view of the sky. Consequently, we lose access to the meaning contained in old myths because we do not recognise our sky.

This concept resonated most clearly in the papers which surveyed the astonishing constructions people built around the movements of the sun – standing stones, cairns, and the like. We all know about those. But what impressed itself upon me, as a novice in this area, was how much sheer trial and error the construction must have involved: generations of living with the knowledge of astronomical movements, and creating monumental structures which interact perfectly with the sun. Attendant to this is the realisation that the will to create these structures must derive from the sky’s significance to daily life in a way that is impossible to overstate.

Other papers addressed decidedly more modern materials. Claudia Rousseau drew connections between images of the coronation of the Virgin (such as that by Velázquez) and Ariadne’s catasterism in the Corona Borealis. Both of these have been addressed on this blog, but I never made the link between them (Ariadne here, Mary here).

Signe Cohen gave a delightful paper on the twelfth-century Norse poem ‘Alvíssmál’ (‘The Speech of the All-Wise’). In this poem, Thor challenges the dwarf Alvís to list the names of sky, sun, and moon, etc., as they are known to mortals, elves, gods, and the like. Alvís is turned to stone by the rising sun while he recites all the sun’s different names. As Dr Cohen drily put it, Alvís’s knowledge is ‘more theoretical than applied’. Once again, of course, the central idea is that, in the diverse names for the same cosmological phenomena, interpretations of the cosmos reflect the stance of the observer.

Ceiling Pan

Sunday morning at the conference began with Jenn Zahrt announcing she would start with some theory. This was music to my ears on this bright summer morning, and all the more involving for discussing the philosopher Jean Gebser, previously unknown to me. Gebser’s work is relevant to a strand of myth theory I have been researching which concerns myth as a system of thought (following Lévy-Bruhl, Cassirer, and so on). This is usually articulated as a split between the archaic or mythical mind and the modern, rational one. For Gebser the distinction is gradated rather than binary: he outlines five structures of consciousness: archaic, magical, mythical, mental/rational, and integral. Moreover, rather than the barriers between structures of consciousness being impermeable and culturally prescribed, it is possible to access all points on this scale. Is the comparative critical neglect of Gebser a result of his being perceived as a ‘new age’ figure? I’ll be looking into him.

Dr Zahrt’s talk also addressed astrologer Alfred Witte’s hypothetical planets. Witte struggled to name one of these planets, seeking an appropriate goddess. Eventually he settled on the name Hades. A strange decision, no? The perfect name was hidden in plain sight, next to Hades: why not Persephone? She is goddess of underworld, who often must not be named, referred to instead as the Korē, the ‘girl’. The unnameable goddess for the unnameable planet, still concealed behind Witte’s Hades.

The topic of my paper was the sun as mythic force in modern fiction. It forms part of my ongoing project to locate and study the sincere engagement with myth in recent literature. I focused on two sun-stricken novels of the 1960s: Palace of the Peacock by Wilson Harris, and The Drowned World by J. G. Ballard. Despite the apparent differences between the authors in question, both novels are united in their use of myth, of psychological ideas, and of the sun as an active presence. The novels demonstrate how our star  – alongside its material presence – retains a spiritual power in human life, well into our apparently disenchanted, rational age. The two authors offer different perspectives of the same condition: a human in modernity captivated by the power of the sun. In each case, the sun proves itself as our primal deity, its seemingly ceaseless power of light and heat matched by an eternal psychological power over our moods, sanity, sense of self. I was deeply gratified by the warm and attentive reception the paper received, and I came away having been given many promising suggestions for other contemporaneous novels on similar themes.

The conference was held at the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution, which occupies a tremendous building on Queen Square, which – I have only just discovered – was once the home of Dr William Oliver, inventor of the Bath Oliver, which is a cracker I could eat all day. Papers were delivered in a room with four oval ceiling recesses. Pan (or perhaps a satyr) is in one, Demeter in a second, the third is blank, and the fourth has ‘do not paint’, as if awaiting Michelangelo’s return. As the conference drew to a close, I was privileged to hold the eye of Marduk (a votive amulet), dedicated by Nebuchadnezzar II around the sixth century BC, now in a private collection (another is in New York). Marduk, the great Babylonian creator deity, clearly bestowed his blessing on the whole proceedings.

Tom McCarthy at the British Library

‘Happy Bloomsday’, began Tom McCarthy at the British Library this evening (16 June). He was here to launch his collection of essays, Typewriters, Bombs, Jellyfish. His talk was typically broad in reference, including some of his acknowledged favourites – Mallarmé, of course – among Edward Ruscha (whose ‘Orphic’ dismembered typewriter of Royal Road Test provided the opening image), Don DeLillo, cricket commentator Henry Blofeld, Georges Perec, Zinedine Zidane (as in the 2006 film, Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait), plus Hamlet, Don Quixote, Bartleby, Yeats, Freud, Auden, and Beckett. Written down like that, it looks awfully male, but I guess that’s several centuries of patriarchy for you.

Edward Ruscha, page from Royal Road Test (1967, printed 1971): Tab Key Top (photographed as found in bush)

As elaborated in the post-talk discussion, McCarthy’s concern centred on the idea of writing after Mallarmé (and indeed since at least the sixteenth century) as rewriting, as inauthentic, as mediated. Even the best writing is still inauthentic, but radically so. The ironic self-consciousness of this stance is evident in McCarthy’s fiction, which is written dispassionately, like a Freud case study, all emotion circumscribed or in suspension. Equally, politics is experienced on an alienated globalised or geopolitical level. Questions of visceral emotion, or political action, or spiritual transcendence are not relevant. It validates Ballard’s assessment of modernity as the time of ‘the death of affect’. It’s a style of writing that I enjoy tremendously, and it touches on many of my own interests, even though, at the same time, I am aware of something that I feel should be cracking through the surface of the prose. What is this lack – a cry of lamentation? the nauseous sense of urgency? (Perhaps my sense of this was highlighted on this occasion – still in the week of Grenfell.)

I read McCarthy’s last novel, Satin Island, in a state of tickled jealousy: the opening pages in particular present a hilariously vertiginous forging of links, associations, patterns, and structures in the modern technological environment, linking oil, tragedy, myth, and structural anthropology – a combination of topics that I addressed in my PhD thesis. But then, as if to make it more personal for me, there is a meditation on a ventilation system, the like of which is only equalled by my favourite song by The Beale (a group I later joined), ‘97 Circular’, in which the criminally underrated singer and artist, Adrian R. Shaw, proclaimed ‘I’m in love / With a ventilation shaft’, his voice cracking as he recalls ‘all its elaborate brickwork’.

Reading the opening pages of Satin Island was simply one of those sequences of chances which we all experience from time-to-time with an artwork which shares our outlook. In the case of Satin Island, anyone who casually observes the effluvia of globalisation and has an interest in structural readings of myth and tragedy (Lévi-Strauss is a prominent presence) will recognise themselves to some degree on the page.

Stéphane Mallarmé, pages from Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard (1897)

McCarthy’s protagonist, named U, sees networks, randomness, designs, patterns, primal scenes, abstractions, complicity, and traumas, all resonating and repeating in his experience of the world. The novel chooses not to push the political or ethical demand that some will find inextricable from this network. It remains the novel of the protestant individual and not of the collective spirit: Dionysian ekstasis as synthesized MDMA that we come down from all too soon and re-atomised. So too in McCarthy’s talk at the BL, the constellation-patterns of Mallarmé’s ‘Un coup de dés’ constitute a semiotic mark not an affective symbol, and Zidane’s famous headbutt of Materazzi is replicated in a playful GIF of colliding ‘Z’s. McCarthy’s stance definitively avoids kitsch and the emotiveness that occludes insight and reflection. And yet I am nagged by the cyclopean strength of this ironic posture of studiousness and play. In Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait (the film which follows Zidane throughout the ninety minutes of a 2005 football game), at half-time, the film presents a montage of the day’s global news. McCarthy shows as a still from the aftermath of a car bomb in Iraq, in which a boy wears a football shirt with Zidane’s name. But this queasy conjunction cannot disturb the reflective repose of the British Library ‘Knowledge Centre’. How could it? Too remote in time, place and context.

Madrid, myths, emotions

In October I presented a paper at the biennial myth conference at Universidad Complutense, Madrid: ‘Myth and Emotions’. This was my second visit (the first, in 2014, culminated in a chapter in the fine collection Myths in Crisis: The Crisis of Myth, which I covered below). It’s a big conference, from Monday to Friday with papers in Spanish, French, and English, and I wasn’t able to attend the whole week. When I arrived, part way through an afternoon session, my Englishness painfully apparent, the empty bowl of tea-bags was instantly replenished. That’s the sign of some devoted and thoughtful conference organising.

Detail of horse from Picasso, Guernica (1937)
Pablo Picasso, Guernica detail, 1937. Museo Reina Sofia

The Essex myth blog hosts an endearing report on the conference, and I wrote some preliminary remarks there, so here I’ll limit my comments to other matters. In 2014, I planned an afternoon away from the conference to see Guernica at the Reina Sofía museum (it was controversially relocated from the Prado a few years ago). It is, of course, an absorbing work; one detail that impressed me, seeing the painting in the room, was the care paid to the texture and shading of the horse’s teeth, and then the paint being allowed to run. This juxtaposition of painterly verisimilitude and deliberate carelessness creates a rupture: a small piece of artistic violence as a focus for the horror depicted throughout the canvas.

Bernard van Orley’s Mary and Child (Prado)
Bernard van Orley, Mary and Child, 1515-1520. Museo del Prado

On this latest visit to Madrid, my gallery destination was, naturally, the Prado. With just a few hours, it is only possible to see a small fraction, hence it became a trip through the greatest hits, taking in Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights, Brueghel, The Triumph of Death, and whole rooms of Velázquez. I somehow managed to miss Titian entirely. These days I don’t get out much, and I could tell I was missing my family because some of the paintings moved me terribly: Bernard van Orley’s Mary and Child, in which the Christ child tugs on a red rosary, symbolising his eventual crucifixion; the geographical scale and quotidian detail of the Rest on the Flight to Egypt credited to a follower of Joachim Patinir, which recalls the Shield of Achilles in scope; the small exhibition ‘Childhood unveiled: Images of children in Spanish Romantic art’ had some wonderfully, delightfully expressive young faces, especially the gentle care in Joaquín Espalter y Rull’s Manuel y Matilde Álvarez Amorós, and the playfulness of Carlos Luis de Ribera y Fieve’s Retrato de niña en un paisaje. But it was Velázquez’s The Coronation of the Virgin which made me shudder. For some reason, the paintings in the Prado made me particularly sensitive to the human emotion of the Christ narrative. Well, the title of the conference was Myth and Emotions, and here I was, profoundly affected by the great numinous tale of the common era. Happy Easter.

Velázquez, The Coronation of the Virgin (Prado)
Diego Velázquez, The Coronation of the Virgin, 1635-1636. Museo del Prado

Translating Myth Q&A

Last month, the Open University Classical Studies blog posted a Q&A about Translating Myth. Pietra Palazzolo, my co-editor (who works for the OU), and I answered a few questions about the book, its rationale, and the associated events at the Essex Centre for Myth Studies. If our fellow editor, Leon Burnett, seems enigmatically silent in the conversation, it is because he was spared the interrogation, but he nodded his assent. Many thanks to Emma Bridges for her questions and for hosting the interview.

Mythologism / Neo-mythologism

A new entry for the slow work of my glossary of myth-theoretical terms. Here’s a curious one: ‘neo-mythologism’ is a rather unlovely term that crops up more often in Russian studies than elsewhere. In seeking its etymology I have taken some unexpected turns.

mythologism and neo-mythologism

The earliest use of ‘mythologism’ I have found is in the work of French linguist Pierre Fontanier (1765-1844). Mythologisme is indeed a finer word in French than ‘mythologism’ in English. For Fontanier, ‘mythologisme’ strictly refers to the use of mythology as a shared, recognized symbolic system, or a stock of cultural images, to make a proposition – to explain a case or present an argument – rather than acting as simple metaphor. In the system of mythologisme, the personification of a god, for example, works in its emotional, identificational affect, rather than through allegorical explanation. Consequently, some critics have used mythologisme to argue for the ideological uses of myth, i.e. that myth is used emotively to uphold the status quo.

As for ‘neo-mythologism’, the earliest usage I can find is from 1962. The previous year, the Italian director Vittorio Cottafavi released Ercole alla conquista di Atlantide (1961; in the UK titled Hercules Conquers Atlantis, in the USA re-edited as Hercules and the Captive Womenwatch here). Considered a highlight in the ‘peplum’, or ‘swords and sandals’ genre, Cottafavi is also credited with describing it as ‘neo-mythologism’, but I have found no authoritative source for this, nor an Italian equivalent for the term. The earliest reference is in a 1962 article in Fiction, a French science fiction magazine: Jacques Goimard, ‘Néomythologisme et Paléo-science-fiction’. I haven’t tracked down the article in a library (although the entire magazine is available on EBay for a few Euro… I may succumb). I’m inclined to presume that Goimard, rather than Cottafavi coined the expression, perhaps by mutual agreement. Both néomythologisme and paléo-science-fiction describe the mix of familiar myth and the allegorisation of contemporary concerns as found in Cottafavi’s film. See this synopsis by Derek Elley: ‘The plot is tailored for the Nuclear Age: Antinea (Fay Spain), Queen of Atlantis, possesses a drop of Uranus’s blood buried deep in a dark shaft which gives her a terrible power over mankind; Hercules [Reg Park], through superhuman feats, exposes this to the sunlight and causes the destruction of Atlantis.’ Here, then, neo-mythologism refers to the use of ancient myth in modernity when combined with contemporary allegory.

A differing view, however, is offered in an alternative commentary on Cottafavi: Martin Winkler avers, ‘Today, even complex myths can be told or retold entirely in images. Italian director Vittorio Cottafavi, who made several films about ancient history and myth, aptly described this phenomenon as “neo-mythologism.”’ Once again, though, the ultimate source of the quotation is elusive: Winkler cites the English translation of a French book, by Pierre Leprohon, on Italian cinema. Leprohon dates the arrival of neo-mythologism in Italian cinema to 1960 (233), but it is not clear what the Italian term is: the usage seems to be a product of translation from Italian to French (where mythologisme is more idiomatic) to English (where it isn’t). I would guess that the Italian may be as simple as ‘nuova mitologia’, and Leprohon was following Goimard (although Goimard does not appear to be credited).

As an aside, in Gianni Rondolino’s book (in Italian) on Cottafavi, the films are described as featuring characters ‘della storia e della mitologia — o meglio della storia mitologizzata e della mitologia storicizzata’: ‘from history and mythology – or rather of mythologized history and historicized mythology’. This seems to be a reasonable description of Goimard’s usage of néomythologisme in the apparent absence of an equivalent term in Italian. The characters reflect historical tensions in a metaphysical dimension.

Neo-mythologism then returns in Russian. Victoria Adamenko, in Neo-Mythologism in Music, attributes the coinage to Eleazar Meletinsky. Meletinsky’s major work on myth is Поэтика мифа (1976: translated as The Poetics of Myth, 1998). Only once, as far as I can tell, does he use the term неомифологизм (98) which is transliterated neo-mythologism (73). More frequently, on the twentieth century resurgence of myth, he speaks of ремифологизация (27, for which the translators supply a gloss: ‘re-mythification (“re-mythologization”—the re-emergence of myth)’ 16). A few times, he mentions мифологизм (8, ‘mythicizing’, xx). Meletinsky’s sole usage of ‘neo-mythologism’ here does not seem sufficient to justify its seeming popularity in Russian studies, but that will have to be a story for another day.

Adamenko’s book is the most prominent usage of ‘neo-mythologism’ in English of which I am aware. Following Meletinsky’s discussion of the mythical method of writers of the Modernist period (in particular, Thomas Mann), Adamenko uses ‘neo-mythologism’ to separate modern myth-making from archaic myth-making. In this way, ‘neo-mythologism’ can be a usefully distinct term for describing the use of myth in modern, secular, or demythicised cultures. Adamenko’s interpretation is, then, not too far away from Goimard’s.

A final note. When Meletinsky uses ‘neo-mythologism’, it is alongside a reference to Charles Autran (1879-1952) and his work on epics. I have yet to find (néo-)mythologisme in these large volumes, but Autran’s work emphasises the importance of culturally significant ritual language. In this way, Autran’s theory is suggestive of an older theory in French thought, namely mythologisme.

How to untangle this and arrive at a synthetic definition? First, I shall refuse to transliterate it into English where the word is horrible. Instead, I propose the following:

  • mythologisme (French): a system of mythologizing which draws on a stock of cultural images and symbols with an emotional affect and results in the presentation of an argument.
  • néomythologisme (French) or неомифологизм (Russian): the use of myth in modern, secular, or demythicised cultures in order to allegorise contemporary conditions.


Pierre Fontanier, ed., Les tropes de Dumarsais avec un commentaire raisonné par M. Fontanier, I, Paris: Belin-Leprieur, 1818 (a commentary on César Chesneau Dumarsais [1676-1756], Traité des Tropes, 1730). See also Fontanier, Les Figures du discours, Paris: Flammarion, 1968, which compiles Manuel classique pour l’étude des tropes, ou Élémens de la science du sens des mots (Paris: Belin-Leprieur, 1821) and Des Figures du discours autres que les tropes (Paris: Maire-Nyon, 1827).

Jacques Goimard, ‘Néomythologisme et Paléo-science-fiction’, Fiction, 101, 1962, 139-144.

Derek Elley, The Epic Film: Myth and History [1984], Abingdon: Routledge, 2014.

Martin M. Winkler, ‘Greek Myth on the Screen’, in Roger D. Woodard, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007, 453-479: 454.

Pierre Leprohon, The Italian Cinema [Le cinéma italien, 1966] trans. R. Greaves and O. Stallybrass, New York: Praeger, 1972, 174-79.

Gianni Rondolino, Vittorio Cottafavi: cinema e televisione, Cappelli, 1980, 74.

Victoria Adamenko, Neo-Mythologism in Music: From Scriabin and Schoenberg to Schnittke and Crumb, Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon, 2007.

Eleazar M. Meletinsky, The Poetics of Myth [Поэтика мифа, 1976], trans. Guy Lanoue and Alexandre Sadetsky, New York: Routledge, 2000.

Charles Autran, Homère et les origines sacerdotales de l’épopée grecque, 3 vols, Paris: Denoël, 1938-1943 and L’épopée indoue: étude de l’arrière-fonds ethnographique et religieux, Paris: Denoël, 1946

Jung within Freud

In July I made my first visit to the Freud Museum in London. The occasion was a conference entitled ‘Ecstatic Ancient / Archaic Thought and Analytical Psychology: An Inquiry’, and behind the title lay the intention to discover the ways in which archaic and ancient cultures understood what we today think of as the unconscious. Furthermore, the conference sought to recover the place of Carl Jung in such discussions, who is felt to be under-represented, compared to Freud, Lacan, and so on.

If there was any irony in the fact that we convened in Freud’s house to concentrate on the legacy of his great apostate, it did not reveal itself in sub-disciplinary antagonism. Any rancour was reserved to the final moments of the conference, and concerned a more modern academic schism.

Inevitably, many of the papers (including my own) concerned aspects of Greek thought. Euripides’ Dionysian tragedy, the Bacchae fitted the theme particularly well. Scott Farrington’s reading of the Bacchae considered dramatic performance as ritual: in effect, there is no spectator. To observe a ritual is to participate in it, and all present are connected in an invisible web. Mark Saban’s paper returned to Dionysus in the second day of the conference. He addressed the root of ‘ecstatic’ in the Greek ek-stasis, standing outside one’s self, and returned to the idea of the theatre audience standing outside the self and extending sympathetically to the other. A gnomic thought I jotted down has become one of those notes that made perfect sense at the time, but has since taken on an air of enigmatic mystery, namely that to encounter Dionysus is to see the unconscious seeing ourselves…

Further distinguished papers came from Catriona Miller, whose discussion of the Sumerian underworld probed the changing signification of Abzu/Apzu; Terence Dawson, who highlighted the beautiful affirmation of cyclical history in the opening of the classical Chinese Novel, Romance of the Three Kingdoms: ‘Here begins our tale. The empire, long divided, must unite; long united, must divide. Thus it has ever been.’ Alan Cardew performed a characteristically erudite and witty collision of German classicism and late antiquity; Richard Seaford horrified us with an extension of his theory that an abstract system of money was central to the development of philosophy and ideas of the self; and Emmanuela Bakola put forward a winning argument for a staging of Aeschylus’s Oresteia in which the Furies are revealed in shocking, brief flashes prior to their main entrance.

The final presentation of the conference was by Paul Bishop who, among other things, noted that interest in the ekstatic and the archaic is counter to dominant thinking in the humanities. This has indeed been my experience: materialism (or historical materialism and dialectical materialism) is the foundation of a compelling critique of contemporary social relations but it often seems to inculcate a suspicion of other ways of viewing the world. So there is work to be done on advocating the potential for mythical structures of thought to be perceived, not as the inevitable root of totalitarian ideology, but as opening a way for transcending the degraded social relations of (if you will) late capitalism.

This great conference, organised by Leslie Gardner, ended with an open discussion session which erupted into an impassioned argument about the benefits or otherwise of neuroscience (also known as biopsychology or, waggishly, neurobollocks). I have no informed opinion about this, and watched in bemusement as some interlocutors simply refused to acknowledge a divergent view. I ended up with the rough supposition that, from a humanities perspective, neuroscience may be useful historically, in describing processes, it is useless analytically. But I am willing to be corrected.

This took us a long way from where I felt the conference belonged. So I’ll conclude with a comment Richard Seaford made in response to Paul Bishop’s paper. You know the Wisdom of Silenus: it is best not to be born; but the second best is to die quickly. It is the cornerstone of pessimistic philosophy. Prof. Seaford reminded us of the context: Silenus tells it to Midas – the king doomed to turn all he touches into gold. To Midas the words are entirely appropriate. The Triteness of Silenus! Yet surely Silenus is thought to be addressing the tragedy of humanity in general, and not just the destructive avariciousness represented by Midas? That’s one to ponder was we stroll downstairs to Freud’s couch for a nice lie down.