We learn that "The Golden Ass" by Lucius Apuleius is the only work of prose fiction to survive in its entirety from ancient Rome. Good choice. It's raunchy, bizarre, and full of fun.
It tells the story of a man named Lucius – and I might add that here we have further proof, if any were needed, that authors naming characters after themselves for greater verisimilitude is not a postmodern trick, but has been in use for ages.
Anyway, Lucius the hero of the story travels to Thessaly, an area in the northern part of the Greek peninsula known for magic and witchcraft. He's there for business, but he's also got an intense interest in the metaphysical, and as such obsessions generally do in fiction, it gets him in a lot of trouble. In this case, he learns that the wife of his host is a skillful witch who periodically turns herself into a bird. He convinces his host's maid, Photis, whom he manages to acquire as a lover, to let him watch her mistress during a transformation, and gets so excited at the sight that he convinces Photis to transform him too. Unfortunately, in her nervousness, the young lady picks up the wrong ointment. Lucius turns, not into a bird, but into a donkey, and before Photis can get the necessary ingredients to change him back, robbers invade the house and haul him away along with a lot of the household's treasure. And off we go.
Specifically, off we go to a number of adventures in which Lucius – who can't say a word, of course – is threatened with beatings, castration, and death for things that people who buy him claim (generally to cover up their own misdeeds, of course) he did or didn't do. His owners include criminals, workers, a few rich men, and at least one person who puts him on display in acts of sexual congress with a woman being punished for adultery and attempted murder. From time to time he hears people tell stories from mythology that hold useful lessons for him, none of which he seems to notice.
Finally, when all seems lost, he has a dream about the most powerful of the goddesses. She goes by many names, but tells Lucius that the Egyptians have her name and worship in its purest form. In other words, she is Isis, and she tells Lucius that she is about to return him to his human form and initiate him into her mystery. Unlike some of the ancient gods and goddesses, she keeps her promise, at which point the prose of "The Golden Ass" turns from earthy and occasionally vulgar humor to quite beautiful and poetic description.
The work is actually pretty short, compared to other ancient literature, and the amount of material Apuleius managed to include is therefore doubly impressive. Several other works of his survive, most of them philosophical pieces or extracts of speeches, and I only wish that he had written more fiction – or if he did, that we had it in hand – because his skill would be worth enjoying more.
On another subject, "The Golden Ass" is useful because, as a popular work of ancient literature, it has given rise to several translations. Comparing them can be instructive, not to mention entertaining, so here are two. The passage below describes Lucius' experience as he transforms into a donkey, and the first translation comes from William Adlington in the year 1566:
"After that I had well rubbed every part and member of my body, I hovered with myne armes, and move my selfe, looking still when I should bee changed into a Bird as Pamphiles was, and behold neither feathers nor appearance of feathers did burgen out, but verily my haire did turne in ruggednesse, and my tender skin waxed tough and hard, my fingers and toes losing the number of five, changed into hoofes, and out of myne arse grew a great taile, now my face became monstrous, my nosthrils wide, my lips hanging downe, and myne ears rugged with haire: neither could I see any comfort of my transformation, for my members increased likewise, and so without all helpe (viewing every part of my poore body) I perceived that I was no bird, but a plaine Asse."
The next translation of the same passage comes from E.J. Kenney and was published in 1998:
"...and plunging my hands into it scooped out a generous portion of ointment and rubbed it all over myself; then I flapped my arms up and down in imitation of a bird. But no down or feathers appeared; instead my hair became coarse and shaggy, my soft skin hardened into hide, my fingers and toes lost their separate identity and coalesced into hooves, and from the end of my spine there protruded a long tail. My face became enormous and my mouth widened; my nostrils dilated and my lips hung down; and my ears became monstrously long and hairy. The only redeeming feature of this catastrophic transformation was that my natural endowment had grown too – but how could I embrace Photis like this? In this hapless state I looked myself over and saw that I was now no bird, but an ass."
No doubt a person familiar with the Latin language could tell us how accurate these translations are far better than I can, but it's interesting to note a few details. My hunch is that here and there, both translators have pumped up the language beyond what the original might have said – based on the work as a whole, Apuleius seems to have tried his best to tell his story in the plainest terms possible. It was a popular entertainment, after all, and intended for those whose reading habits did not necessarily include anything that even resembled sophisticated or uplifting ideas, but in the hundreds of years since Latin fell out of common usage, it must be hard to think of it as anything but a language for scholars and artists and all them other hifalutin Greeks. So here, when Adlington writes "neither could I see any comfort of my transformation" (making allowances for the way everyday English sounded in the 16th century), it takes a few moments to realize what Apuleius must have meant, which is probably no fancier than "changing like this did me no good at all." Similarly, when Kenney writes "[t]he only redeeming feature of this catastrophic transformation was that my natural endowment had grown too," we again need a moment to interpret the formality of his language. Which you can probably accomplish for yourself.
I might as well admit here that when I was gathering up examples of these translations, I considered copying out a passage describing Lucius' first night with Photis, which it describes in vivid detail. But why should I spoil the surprise? A good part of the pleasure to be derived from a work like "The Golden Ass" is discovering the juicy parts for yourself. Go get 'em.
Benshlomo says, Looks like the ancients were as vulgar and horny as we are, thank goodness.
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