The Satyr and the King
(This essay is available in PDF format here.)
I.
Once, in ancient times, the satyr Silenus became lost while travelling through Phrygia with the thiasus.¹ The shaking wine god², as was typical of him, wandered through the forests and across the hills in a drunken state, without aim. As the warm glow of the evening sun descended to bathe the earth, he lay down beside a quiet stream, and slept.
When he awoke, he found himself in the court of Midas, king of the Phrygians, who, informed of the creature’s presence in his lands, had seized him in his poisoned sleep. Midas, himself possessing a little satyr blood, made Silenus an honoured guest because of his race, his prophetic powers³, his relationship to the god⁴, and the memory of their time together in the Orphic mysteries⁵, where they had drunk together and sang the hymns.⁶ He lavished upon Silenus wine, grapes and music for ten days and nights⁷, of which he partook without restraint and gladly entertained the royal courtiers with his song and stories. At last, on the tenth night, as Silenus’ drunkenness reached its peak, the King placed a garland on his head⁸ and questioned him about the most important of things, hoping to glean from his heightened genius the supreme good most desired by all men. Recognising the manipulation, Silenus held his tongue. The demon⁹ sat stiff and unmoving amidst the jovialities and the courtesans, until the King, at last, forced him to speak, whereupon he spat out in a shrill laugh, “Wretched, ephemeral creature, child of cruel Fate¹⁰, why do you force me to tell you those things it is best for you not to know? He lives with the most bliss who knows the least of his condition. But you presume to demand of me wisdom, so you shall have it: for men, nay, for all feeling beings, the very best thing is utterly beyond your reach — it is not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. This should be our choice, if Fate¹¹ had not denied it us. Next to this, then, the second-best thing is, to die as soon as we can.” After this, he sat in sullen silence.
The King, holding his daughter, his wealth and his roses close to him, let the satyr go when the sun rose.
II.
Silenus soon found the thiasus, which had crossed into Lydia, and returned to his place in the procession, at the head of the other sileni and satyrs.¹² When Dionysus enquired where his friend had been, he told him, at which the god became angered by the imprisonment of one he loved. He pledged to turn back and curse the Phrygian court, but Ariadne¹³ soothed his rage, calling upon a naked votary from the procession to dance and sing for them, which she did, taking a cantharus¹⁴ in her left hand so that it may spill on her chest as she drank, and a thyrsus in her right, which she raised with her right foot and tossed.¹⁶ So calmed, Dionysus dismissed the maenad and heard Silenus’ plea: “Of all that breathes and crawls across the earth, there is nothing feebler than a man.¹⁷ The King, born yesterday and dead tomorrow, desired knowledge and power, like all of his rank. He did me no harm, and we drank and storied together in honour of your own divinity. Give him and those he loves what is best for them, and which they most desire, and be done of it. This is my advice to you, and the teaching which I once gave you.”
Understanding his tutor’s words, Dionysus travelled to Gordium where he thanked the King for returning Silenus to him, and offered to grant him any wish, for which Midas asked for a golden touch so that he could fill his kingdom’s treasuries for his reign and the reign of all his descendants, thereby ensuring the prosperity of his people. Having granted him his wish, the retinue left the King to his fate. Silenus was pleased: he had given to his host limitless riches and an imminent death, blessings truly higher than any others.
Before too long, the thiasus heard of the cry of the lord of Phrygia, who begged to be released from his curse, and for his daughter, frozen in gold, to be returned to him. Having achieved the reconciliation of a great city with his will, as he had done so many times before in Greece¹⁸, and in so doing set the eastern lands dancing in mysteries, making known to them his divinity¹⁹, Dionysus was satisfied, and directed Midas to the River Pactolus, whose waters would wash off the hated boon.
Disheartened at the cruelty of this relief, Silenus lamented to the Hours²⁰, who were currently attendant to the thiasus. Spring²¹, crowned in a laurel of flowers, expressed the daughter’s case, and celebrated the god’s deliverance of her and just protection of youth; Summer²², with her cornucopia, was merely thankful that the roses could live once more. Autumn²³, who wore a wreath of grapes, looked kindly on the old satyr and, taking his hand in hers, told him simply: “The gods are beyond good and evil.”²⁴
¹ The retinue of attendants, worshippers, demigods and demons which accompanied Dionysus; the divine procession.
² The etymological root meaning of his name, which is derived from seío — “to quake”, “to shake”, “to move to and fro” — and linós, literally meaning “receiving” or “receptacle”; a winepress, a vat in which grapes a trod.
³ Silenus was widely recognised as a source of great wisdom and prophecy. See Virgil, Eclogues bk. 6
⁴ That is, Dionysus.
⁵ Ovid (Metamorphoses bk. 11 ll. 95–102) tells us that Midas was initiated into the Dionysiac rites by Orpheus, presumably in Thracia, and had become friends with Silenus while participating in the mysteries.
⁶ That is, the Orphic hymns.
⁷ Ovid, Metamorphoses bk. 11 l. 102
⁸ Virgil, Eclogues bk. 6 ll. 16–18
⁹ This is Nietzsche’s phraseology. Strictly speaking, it can only be correct—demon is the direct English translation of the Greek daímon—but the connotations are misleading. A daímon in Greek religion merely meant a spirit, and had no evil and negative implications whatsoever. Indeed, Socrates attributed his wisdom to a personal daímon and appealed to it in his trial as a defence against the charge of impiety (see Plato, Apology). Nevertheless, we have retained Nietzsche’s word choice for its simplicity, for its beauty and its artistry, and because it highlights and exacerbates the tensions between the Greek and Abrahamic mythologies, the latter defined by its unrestricted moralising; the former, (imperfectly) compassionate, understanding, and ever hesitant to consider existence meaningful, or right, or other such valorisations of natural law. (Its philosophers, however… ) There exists no comparable term in English: “spirit” is perhaps the best translation that can be offered.
¹⁰ Or rather, “of cruel Fates”: the moirai Lachesis, Atropos, and Clotho. Alternatively, Silenus may mean Clotho specifically, as she is responsible for spinning the thread of a being’s life, in which case Fate singular would be appropriate, if ambiguous. Hesiod (Theogony ll. 901–906) makes them half-sisters of Dionysus by his father Zeus, but confusingly also makes them the daughters of Nyx (Theogony ll. 211–225), meaning they are not related to him. Plato (Republic 10.617c) names them daughters of Ananke, and so half-sisters of the seasonal horai, themselves half-sisters of Dionysus. In either respect, they are likely relatives of Dionysus.
¹¹ Again, strictly speaking “if the Fates”, assuming he is referring to all three.
¹² Propertius, Elegies bk. 2 § 1
¹³ A Cretan princess and second-generation demigoddess. Abandoned by Theseus on Naxos (Dia), possibly under duress from Dionysus (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History bk. 5.51.4), she was “rescued” (kidnapped: Apollodorus, Epitome bk. E ch. 1 § 9) by Dionysus and became his lover. Dionysus ‘lov[ed] her exceedingly’, and considered her ‘worthy of immortal honours because of the affection he had for her’ (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History bk. 4.61.5). Because of this, Zeus made her ‘deathless and unageing’ (Hesiod, Theogony ll. 947–948; cf. Sappho 44, especially Poochigan’s translation); she who ‘even the immortal gods loved’ was granted a heavenly emblem in the form of the constellation of Corona, known in ancient times as Ariadne’s Crown (Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica bk. 3 l. 997 ff.).
¹⁴ A large drinking vessel, needing two hands to hold, hence its spilling. Cantheri typically held wine and were used for ritualistic purposes, especially Dionysiac.
¹⁵ The sacred staff of the maenads and all bacchanals, replete with ivy (Euripides, Bacchae l. 31), taeniae, honey, smoke (ibid. ll. 189, 190), and other symbols of rustic plenty.
¹⁶ Euripides, Bacchae ll. 1155-1160
¹⁷ Homer, Odyssey bk. 18 ll. 130, 131
¹⁸ Mythical stories of the foundation or early history of several Greek cities involved a ruler or ruling family who doubt the divinity of Dionysus. Women, usually related to the ruler, are then driven mad by Dionysus, and kill their kin. This is the case for the cities of Thebes and Orchomenos in Boeotia, and Argos and Tiryns in Argolis.
¹⁹ Euripides, Bacchae ll. 25, 26
²⁰ The horai, half-sisters of Dionysus by his father, Zeus. The “Hours” named here are those of the seasons, as opposed to those of specific hours in the day (of which there were 12 deities), who are not Dionysus’ siblings, being the children of Chronos and Ananke.
²¹ Thallo, “she who brings blossoms”.
²² Auxo, “she who grows”.
²³ Xarpo, “she who reaps”. Of the triad given here, Xarpo is particularly associated with Dionysus.
²⁴ See Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy § 3
The myth we have just told is found scattered across fragments handed down to us from antiquity. The principal source is a lost Aristotelian dialogue, the Eudemus; a passage containing the first section reproduced here is quoted in the so-called “Consolation to Apollonius”, a work of disputed authorship but historically attributed to Plutarch. Midas’ discovery (or hunt, depending on the telling), capture, and questioning of Silenus is the first part of the famous story of the Midas touch, in which the Phrygian monarch is taught to be careful what he asks of a god( — the notion of a trickster god being necessarily a Christian anachronism; to the ancients, all gods were cruel, cheating, conspiratorial, and never merely benevolent). Additional sources include Philostratus the Elder, Images bk. 1 ch. 22; Philostratus the Athenian, Life of Apollonius bk. 6 ch. 27; Ovid, Metamorphoses bk. 11 ll. 85–148; and Xenephon, Anabasis bk. 1 ch. 2 §13, but only Aristotle gives Silenus his words.
Regarding our own work, the first section (‘Once, in ancient times…’) is a genuine retelling of the ancient myth, guilty only of embellishing for literary effect but not of actually deviating from Aristotle’s account. We are indebted to the translations of Jonathan Barnes and Gavin Lawrance, Sir David Ross, Friedrich Nietzsche, and the translator of Nietzsche Ronald Speirs, upon whose works our own is based.
Silenus’ famous declaration that the best thing is to never have existed, and the next best thing to die as soon as possible, has come to be known as “the wisdom of Silenus”, and reflects an all but ubiquitous worldview on the part of the ancient Greeks. Pessimism in general seems authentically and paradigmatically Greek; the notion that life has much to offer, and the divine a positive moral force and will, is a largely Platonic invention, rarely seen prior to the Christian hegemony established in late antiquity (cf. Nietzsche’s discussion of “Socraticism” in The Birth of Tragedy). It is worth comparing, therefore, Silenus’ position with similar expositions of the disvalue of existence found in the surviving works of the classical literary canon: Theognis, Elegiac Poems ll. 425–428, which many ancient commentators directly paraphrase; Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus ll. 1210–1235; Euripides, Cresephontes fr. 449; Bellerophon fr. 285; and, more tenuously, Medea ll. 243–307 and 1216–1218; Aristophanes, The Birds l. 685; and Herodotus, The Histories bk. 1 ch. 31 § 3, all of which Aristotle would have been intimately familiar with as staples of the literary tradition shared by all Greeks. There are many, many more examples; these are merely noteworthy for their prominence and preeminence, and so also convenience. In a study of Greek thought, any half diligent student will recognise the sentiment near enough everywhere they take the time to look. In the funereal anthology²⁵ of Greek hope and fear, the lament is given the place of highest honour.²⁶
The second section (‘Silenus soon found the thiasus…’) is our own invention. The character and motivation of Silenus is not based on any ancient sources that we are familiar with, and the same is true of Midas’ benevolent designs for his divine power. The motivation of Dionysus in cursing Midas is also invented, but a conceivable reading of the myth considering how Dionysus’ character is portrayed in works like Euripides’ Bacchae. The sentiments of the three horai are likewise somewhat derived from the connotations they had in classical religion, and so are not totally implausible: Thallo was recognised as a protector of the youth, hence her concern for the Phrygian princess, while Auxo was associated with the protection of growing plants, hence her concern for Midas’ rose garden, which he had turned to gold. Xarpo is the most plausible as an amoralist, or more accurately as a recogniser thereof, because she was best placed to have seen it during her time attendant to unlucky and dangerous gods — to Persephone, who was forcibly seized by Hades and taken to the underworld; to Aphrodite, a goddess of birth, the greatest of evils in Silenus’ eyes; to Hera, a vengeful god, as seen in her hate for the innocent Heracles; and to Dionysus himself. We have similarly endeavoured for each of our little literary details, such as the dance of the maenad, to be grounded in real accounts or myth; as such, they are all either directly drawn from primary sources, or else plausible enough. Our aim was to write a conclusion to the myth, cut off halfway as the Aristotelian fragment is, that is appropriate to its beginning, and which would not, in its message or most egregious details, look so out of place had it been found attached to Aristotle’s fragment — we say out of place; doubtless it would be rapidly and easily found to be inauthentic, but inauthenticity is no less appropriate or belonging because of itself than authenticity is.
Regarding the character of Silenus himself, a little biographical detail is perhaps helpful. Silenus is an ancient figure in Greek myth, perhaps with his origins in a type of daímon called a silenus (pl. sileni), similar to a satyr. He is one of many rustic elements in Homeric and posthomeric religion which hint at the fundamentally rural and primitive origins of Greek society, far removed from the complex state societies centred around large urban populations which arose in the first millennium BC. By the Hellenistic Age and the waning of old Greece, it seems that the notion of a silenus had converged into a single person: the Silenus. This Silenus, like the sileni of prior myth, was depicted as an old man; pot-bellied, snub-nosed, covered in fur or hair, and with the ears and tail of a donkey. His personality was generally happy — he is widely called “jovial” — and he is often the object of mockery or a mechanism of comic relief in satyr plays. Yet, beyond the cheap laughs he was used for by playwrights, he is arguably a profoundly sad figure. He is chronically drunk, and ridiculed for it. He cannot even walk when he is with the thiasus, so incapacitated is he by his disease; he is carried on the back of a donkey. His interactions with others are often cruel: in Virgil’s Eclogues, Chromis, a companion of Aeneas, the satyr Mnasyllos, and the naiad Aegle find him passed out in a cave, and decide to bind him with his own flowers which he had been wearing. When he wakes, they smear mulberries over his face, and force him to sing for them. The image we are presented with is heartless, and abhorrent: a group of bullies humiliating an old, sick man; the word abuse immediately springs to mind. That Silenus is revered for his prophecies is not unconnected: he is said to know all things, which, besides being a curse for so many other reasons, has the hateful effect that it brings people back to him time and time again to manipulate him for their own benefit. A life spent alone, away from prying eyes and mocking words, is made impossible for him: there will always be someone who wants to seek him out. In this context, that many renderings of the Midas myth have the King treat Silenus with respect is perhaps somewhat surprising, and remarkable. (We have used it, in our telling of the myth, as a sign of his good character.) All the same, he seeks knowledge from him just like everyone else: his kindness has a clear ulterior motive. And what knowledge it is! Knowing everything which has and will happen, Silenus sees all the evils of the world, and wishes only that it had been empty, so that no one could suffer. Is it any surprise he seeks daily to drown himself in wine? Standing as he does at the crossroads between the two, he sees the truth that both the mortal and immortal worlds are simply hell. He is a tragic, deeply pitiful figure, made even worse by the positively Cassandrian quality of his “wisdom”: we ourselves are living proof that mortals like Midas did not take heed of the omniscience for which they tormented him.
Silenus’ relation to Dionysus is a simple one: he was the young god’s adoptive father, teacher, and protector. Given the infant Dionysus by Hermes, Silenus ‘was his adviser and instructor in the most excellent pursuits and contributed greatly to [Dionysus’] high achievements and fame’ (Diodorus Siculus, Library of History bk. 4.4.3). The god of madness is quite simply indebted to the demigod of drunkenness for his wisdom; a very telling commentary on the Dionysiac — who is Apollo indebted to? Far away Zeus, his biological father, is less a parent to Dionysus than this simple inhabitant of woods and fields, a being whose life could, perhaps, have been carefree, if he had not been doomed with visions. The satyr is surely among the small number of people that this god of love actually loves — and one of an even smaller number who are not the victim of his divine passions, he who perhaps more than any of the gods is ignorant of ‘the pleasure of restraint’ (Nietzsche, The Will to Power bk. 4.1.3 § 940).
Our purpose in writing this reimagining of a classical and famous myth was to capture, for a fleeting moment, the incredible profundity of the ancient Greek worldview, a once flourishing and compassionate melancholy destroyed through violent social transformation. Moreover, it was to communicate this to a modern audience with some of the same tools and names as the ancients did to theirs. The pessimism which the ancient Greeks took for granted, the crowning principle of which being the recognition that existence is itself deleterious, seems striking and alien to a modern, Christian audience. In appreciating this stark difference, we should internalise the understanding that the pessimism of the ancient world was not disproven by Christianity (which contained its own pessimisms, after all, pessimisms which dogged it for millennia to come), but simply suppressed, and destroyed. That is to say, it is as valid today as it was two and a half millennia ago, and a modern reader’s shock at the belief that life is an evil would be mirrored totally by an ancient reader’s shock at the belief that life is a blessing to be cherished. We can imagine their horror — perhaps disheartened, and reserved; perhaps passionate, and weeping — at the cruelty which this doctrine represents. Maybe they would be reminded of the final days of Oedipus, and mourn for him yet again, happy at the memory of his return to nonexistence, and freedom from the pain which prophecy had visited on him, and all those he loved. And in imagining such a thing, we can hopefully glimpse, for the briefest moment, the residue of a lost cultural viewpoint; of the faded remains of Greek genius, and the fundamental concern for suffering which they embodied, a concern rarely, if ever, matched in subsequent history.
²⁵ Anthologia, literally “a collection of blossoms”. The term reflects the ancient Greek sentiment that only poetry can capture certain of the refined truths and beauties; the poet picks the flowers of the meadow of life, and gives them, out of a deep love, to all mankind.
²⁶ Cf. Eugene Thacker’s discussion of the aulos flute in Cosmic Pessimism.
