Lessons from the Past

I’ve been reading a book on Ovid by a scholar named Molly Myerowitz, who brings up a few fascinating points about her subject. It took a while for me to get into it, since I started right in the middle (that’s the chapter that I was assigned), and it was very abstract, especially since I hadn’t been prepared by the earlier 3 chapters.

In 8 AD Ovid was exiled from his beloved Rome by Augustus, because of what Ovid calls Carmen et Error (a poem and a mistake) up to a BFE little town on the Black Sea populated by the Getae, where he was constantly on guard against barbarian invaders, and horribly uncouth language. Until that time, Ovid had been celebrated as one of the great poets of the golden age of Roman literature, sharing the empire with other greats such as Vergil and Horace (both of whom are mocked in his poetry).

One of Myerowitz’ points that deeply struck home is her analysis of what Ovid said about his own work after his relegatio (a mild form of exile). Up until that point, Ovid had likely not paid much attention to his otium (leisure time), and likely considered it, if he considered it at all, to be a privilege. His writings from the Pontus bewail his condition, the weather, the barbarians, the uncivilized inhabitants, the lack of a sophisticated and discriminating audience to give him useful feedback—basically everything that he loved was in Rome, whither he would never return.

Now, here is the interesting part. He writes frequently of how his talent is failing, due to the lack of otium he is now forced to deal with. He seems to be genuinely distraught that his ability to write good poetry has vanished, and his work will be received only with mockery and derision. Yet, at the same time, Myerowitz noted, to us as modern readers, his post-exilic corpus is quite the opposite of his expectations. His works Tristia (Sadness) and Epistulae Ex Ponto (Letters from the Pontus) are exquisitely beautiful, and heart-wrenching. Perhaps more than any other works of his, these have the power to evoke strong emotive responses in the reader. All this was totally absent from Ovid’s imagination. What irony. Here is a great poet thinking that his trials have taken away his talent, all the while he is writing some of the greatest poetry of his life.

I’ve lately been feeling that since Bree was born I haven’t been able to think properly. I’ve told myself that it’s because I’m sleep deprived, or my attitude has changed to only want to live in the raw emotion of the moment, instead of thinking deeply about abstract matters, or future career moves. Well, Ovid’s example, as pointed out by Myerowitz, is one that I hope I will eventually follow, and emmerge from better than ever. Of course, that is one advantage I have over Publius Ovidius Naso: I’m loving life now more than ever, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even if I never make it back to the cutting-edge of academia, I will still count myself fortunate.