by Peter Singer
About the Book
Peter Singer has breathed new life into Apuleius’s The Golden Ass—a hilarious, bawdy tale and one of the earliest novels.
Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, one of a handful of surviving ancient novels, has remained relatively unknown—until now. Renowned philosopher and animal rights activist Peter Singer remedies this neglect with a new edited version of the rollicking story of the travails, erotic adventures and ultimate enlightenment of a cocky young man who is transformed into a donkey.
Singer has teamed with Apuleius scholar and translator Ellen Finkelpearl and prize-winning artists Anna and Varvara Kendel to present Apuleius’s novel as not only an engaging and entertaining story but as a remarkable example of ancient empathy for animals and deep understanding of their suffering.
Contents
COVER PAGE
ABOUT THE BOOK
TITLE PAGE
A VERY SHORT PREFACE
THE GOLDEN ASS
1. THESSALY, LAND OF MAGIC
2. COOKING UP DESIRE
3. THOROUGHLY AN ASS
4. ON THE ROAD WITH THE ROBBERS
5. THE GIRL AND THE ASS, IN IT TOGETHER
6. FORTUNE’S PERSECUTIONS
7. A PERILOUS JOURNEY
8. IN THE MILL
9. FINE FOODS AND OTHER DELIGHTS
10. THE GODDESS
EPILOGUE
THE LITERARY AND CULTURAL CONTEXT OF APULEIUS’S THE GOLDEN ASS
ELLEN FINKELPEARL
THE ETHICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE GOLDEN ASS
PETER SINGER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR, EDITOR, TRANSLATOR & ARTISTS
COPYRIGHT PAGE
A Very Short Preface
I WON’T DETAIN YOU FOR LONG. I DON’T WANT to get in the way of your enjoyment of this funny, bawdy, and yet touching romp of a tale. But do spare the time for these few words about what you will soon be reading, and why I have edited this special edition for you.
You are now holding in your hands one of the world’s earliest surviving novels. I was surprised to learn that novels had even been written in Roman times, because in high school I was told that Gulliver’s Travels, published in the early eighteenth century, was the first novel. Even now, when I type “What is the world’s first novel?” into Google, most of the answers suggest The Tale of Genji, written in the eleventh century by Murasaki Shikibu, a lady-in-waiting at the Imperial court of Japan. But The Golden Ass was written more than eight hundred years earlier, and it is undeniably a novel.
The puzzle, though, is why many people who consider themselves widely read have never heard of it. I didn’t read it myself until 2014, when Richard Zimler, himself a fine novelist, recommended it to me. I told him I was in the midst of a busy Princeton semester and didn’t have time for reading anything unrelated to my teaching and research. Fortunately, he ignored that and sent me a copy anyway. I put it aside, but brought it to Australia when I went there at the end of the semester, thinking that it would make for good beach reading—and, given the kind of books I enjoy, it did! After reading just a few pages, I took to Lucius, the central character, with his thirst for new knowledge and new pleasures and his bemused, if somewhat cynical, view of his fellow humans. As I got further into the book, I found something more surprising. The author, Apuleius, was born into the Roman Empire in the reign of Hadrian, an era seemingly epitomized, as far as its treatment of animals is concerned, by the public enjoyment of cruelty—not only to animals—at the Colosseum. Yet he has written a work displaying remarkable empathy for the sufferings of the oppressed and underprivileged, whether they are slaves, an impoverished market gardener mistreated by a Roman soldier, or a donkey. Think of Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, throw in generous helpings of humor, sex, and magic, and you might get a rough idea of what The Golden Ass is like.
Why have so few people read The Golden Ass? Although the adventures of the titular donkey make for entertaining, even page-turning, reading, Apuleius frequently intersperses other stories, not about the donkey at all. Pruning away these digressions allows the central narrative to flow as a tale of extraordinary adventures should. In a few places I have added a bridging sentence or two in italics, but apart from that, all the words are from Apuleius, in Ellen Finkelpearl’s fresh and lively translation.
I would like to tell you, right now, why this work is so much more than a fun read. But I promised not to stand in the way of the story that follows, so I’m leaving my more philosophical reflections until after you have read it. You will find them in my afterword, which follows Ellen’s informative essay about Apuleius and the times in which he lived.
Peter Singer
Melbourne, 2021
BUT LISTEN—I AM GOING TO WHISPER SEDUCtively in your ear about my travels around Greece, with a little Egypt thrown in. Who am I? I’m a Greek who came to Rome and learned Latin—which was torture—so I hope you will forgive me if I’m a rough and even braying kind of speaker. This linguistic transformation fits the subject of metamorphosis in my tale. I will begin; pay attention; you’ll be entertained.
I was going to Thessaly on business—though I was also hoping to experience the magic and sorcery for which it is so well known. It’s from there I trace my distinguished lineage on my mother’s side, from the famous Plutarch and Sextus the philosopher, his nephew. I had passed through steep mountains and slippery valleys, dew-damp plowlands and fertile plains, riding a native pure white horse. By that time, even my horse was pretty tired, so I leapt down onto my feet to shake off that sitting fatigue by strolling. I wiped my horse’s sweat from his brow, carefully rubbed his forehead, massaged his ears, let the reins fall free, and guided him to a gentle slope where he could dispel his tiredness with the stomach’s natural fortification of food. He had his walking breakfast, leaning his head down as he munched the meadows while he ambled by my side.
I had a letter of introduction to one Milo of Hypata, so when I came to the first inn along the way, I approached an old woman, the innkeeper, and I asked whether this city was Hypata. She nodded, so I asked:
“Do you know a certain Milo, one of the foremost citizens?”
She laughed and said, “He really is the ‘foremost’ since he lives right there before the city gates.”
“Joking aside, good woman,” I said, “could you tell me who he is and what house he lives in?”
“Do you see those windows in the distance that look out on the town, and on the other side the doors facing the alley nearby? The Milo you’re looking for lives there; he’s plenty wealthy, richer than anyone, but he’s notorious for his extreme stinginess and shabby squalor. Gouges high interest on enormous loans, demanding deposits of gold and silver. But he stays shut up inside his sparse house, obsessed with his rusting coins, along with his wife, the partner of his wretched existence. Plus, he doesn’t have any domestic help other than one little slave girl and he always walks around dressed like a beggar.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “My friend Demeas sure did think ahead and provide kindly for my journey when he connected me with someone like this. No worry about smoke and cooking fumes!”
As I spoke, I moved along a little farther until I reached the doorway and started to knock vociferously on the firmly bolted door. Finally, a cute young woman came out and said, “Hey you! You, knocking so hard on the door, on what terms do you want to take out a loan? Or are you the only one who doesn’t know that we only accept gold and silver as collateral?”
“Well, that’s an inauspicious beginning,” I said. “Could you just tell me whether your master is at home?”
“Sure,” she answered, “but why do you want to know?”
“I
bear a letter for him from Demeas of Corinth.”
“Wait here while I announce you,” she said, and disappeared inside, bolting the doors again. But after a moment, she came back and opened up the house for me saying, “He requests you.”
I enter and find him reclining on a pitifully tiny couch, just about to eat dinner, with his wife sitting at his feet. There was a table set out—empty—which he gestured toward, and then he announced, “Welcome, and help yourself!”
“Thanks,” I replied, and immediately handed him Demeas’s letter.
He read it quickly. “I am grateful to my friend Demeas for commending to me such a distinguished guest.”
With these words, he commanded his wife to move and ordered me to sit in her place. But when I hesitated out of politeness, he grabbed the edge of my tunic and barked, “Sit! Here! We’re afraid of burglars, so we can’t acquire any seating or even adequate furniture.” So I sat. And he continued, “I would have guessed rightly just from your proud carriage and exceptional personal beauty, as well as from your virginal modesty, that you are descended from aristocratic lineage, but my friend Demeas affirms that in his letter. So I ask that you not spurn the tightness of our little hovel. See there? That next room will be a respectable retreat for you. Have a pleasant stay with us; you make our house greater by your distinguished status, and glory redounds to you if you are content with our meager establishment.”
And with that, he called the slave girl: “Fotis! pick up our guest’s baggage and stow it carefully in that bedroom there, and while you’re at it, go to the storeroom and bring out oil for rubbing, towels for drying, and all the rest he needs. Quickly. And guide my guest to the nearest baths; he’s tired from a very long and arduous trip.”
When I heard this, I reflected on Milo’s stinginess, and wanted to ingratiate myself with him yet further, so I interrupted: “I don’t need any of it. I always bring all that when I travel and I can easily inquire about the baths. Really, what is most important to me—Fotis, take these coins and purchase hay and barley for my horse, who carried me here briskly.” When that was all done and my things had been stowed in my room, I went to the baths by myself.
After my bath, I returned to Milo’s house and retreated to my room, but there I encountered Fotis, the maidservant: “The host is asking for you,” she said. Since I had already experienced Milo’s abstemiousness, I cordially excused myself, alleging that I felt the disturbances of my travels should be soothed not by food but by sleep. But when Milo heard my refusal, he barged in himself, grabbed my hand, and started to tug me along slowly. While I delayed and resisted somewhat, he insisted, “I will not leave until you follow me, I swear by the gods!” So, in obedience to his obstinacy and against my will, I was led to that tiny couch of his, where he sat me down. “How is our friend Demeas faring? And his wife? His children? How about his slaves?” I responded to each query. Next he asked me very meticulously about the reasons for my journey. After I had laid it all out thoroughly, he still had more questions—about my city and its leaders and finally about the governor himself, probing with unparalleled sharpness. When he noticed that I—after such a rough journey and the additional stress of this series of tales—was sleepily trailing off in the midst of my sentences and in my tiredness was babbling indistinct potholes of words, he finally allowed me to go to bed. I escaped for the time being the clamorous and starvational dinner party of a putrid old man and returned to my room, giving myself up to the sleep I longed for.
AS SOON AS THE SUN OF A NEW DAY HAD CHASED off the night, I emerged at once out of sleep and my bed. I am, by nature, all too eager to experience rare and wondrous events, and I reflected that I was standing in the middle of Thessaly, whose homegrown incantations and magical arts are celebrated and admired by everyone all over the world. Hanging there, in a state of anticipation and desire, I was contemplating each and every object with curiosity. As I looked around, nothing in that city seemed to be what it really was, but absolutely everything had been translated into another form by some sort of hellish hex, so that the stones I bumped against had hardened out of humans, and the birds I heard singing were likewise men who had become feathered, and the trees that lined the city limits were people with foliage, and the watery fountains had flowed, too, from human bodies; statues and pictures were going to walk forth; the walls would talk, oxen and other cattle would utter portents, and from the very heavens and the orb of the sun an oracle was going to break forth.
I was stunned, speechless, tortured by my longing, but could find no path to begin my pursuit of magic, not even a scent to track down what I desired, so I kept circling about. But while I was wandering through each street, doorway to doorway, like a lost rich boy, all at once I entered unwittingly the “Forum of the Gourmets,” and there in front of me was a woman surrounded by a large entourage. I sped up my steps to catch up with her. The gold on her person, encircling her jewels and entwining her tunic, marked her clearly as an upper-class woman. Close by her side was an old man weighed down by his years, and as soon as he saw me, he cried out, “It’s—by Hercules—it’s Lucius!” and he gave me a kiss and muttered something I didn’t hear in the woman’s ear, and then he said to me, “Why don’t you approach your relative and greet her?”
“I wouldn’t dare to approach a woman I don’t know,” was my response, as a blush suddenly suffused my face and I stood there looking at the ground.
But she turned her gaze on me with these words: “Look at him—the very same proper nobility as his dear departed mother, Salvia, and his appearance in every respect so devilishly and precisely matching hers: height not excessive, slenderness with vitality, cheeks with a delicate flush, hair blond and worn without fussiness, eyes blue-gray but watchful and sparkling in their expression—sharp like an eagle—a countenance blooming in every way, a gait elegant and natural.” And she added, “I brought you up with my own hands, Lucius, of course I did. I am kindred of your mother not only by blood, but by nurture: we are both offspring of the family of Plutarch, and we shared the same wet nurse and grew up together in the close bond of sisterhood. The only thing separating us is our rank; she married into a senatorial family and I married out of the public eye. I am the Byrrhena whose name you surely recall was always on the lips of those who raised you. So come with me and rely on the hospitality of my house—or should I say of your own home?”
After a moment I stopped blushing and declined: “No, my aunt, it is impossible for me to desert my host Milo without any quarrel between us. But, to be sure, whatever else can be done without neglecting my obligations, I will be sure to do zealously. Whenever a reason arises for me to undertake this journey again, I will lodge with you without fail.”
After these exchanges and conversation of this sort, we walked a few paces and came to Byrrhena’s house.
Her atrium was beyond beautiful. In each of the four corners, columns held up statues of the palm-bearing goddess, Victory. Their wings were outspread, and without taking a step, they skimmed the unstable foothold of a rotating sphere with their dewy feet, not adhering to the surface, but seeming about to fly away. And there, balanced in the center of the space, was the finest-quality Parian marble, formed into the goddess Diana, a statue entirely splendid. Its clothing was blown back, while it moved vigorously forward and faced you head-on as you entered, venerable with the grandeur of divinity. On either side were hunting dogs guarding the goddess—they, too, of stone. Their eyes were menacing, their ears pricked up, nostrils gaping, their mouths seething, and if the sound of barking happened to start up nearby, you would think that it was coming from their jaws of stone. But what particularly demonstrated the greatest evidence of the craftsmanship of this most exceptional sculptor: the dogs’ chests reared up high, and while their hind legs stood still, their front legs were running. Behind the goddess’s back, the rock curved up like a cave lush with moss and grasses, leaves and shrubs, and with vine-shoots and saplings sprouting out everywhere from the stone. Inside the cave,
the shade of the sculpture was radiant from the brightness of the marble. Beneath the far edge of the stone, grapes polished with the utmost skill were hanging down, which Art, rival of Nature, had fashioned to look real. You would think that you could pluck them to eat as soon as the ripeness of autumn had imbued them with their full purple. And if you looked straight into the fountain that was running down past the goddess’s feet and rippling in gentle rivulets, you would think that those clusters, hanging as if in the countryside, which possessed so many qualities of reality, were not deficient even in movement.
There in the middle of the sculptural vegetation was a statue of the hunter Actaeon, straining toward the goddess with voyeuristic curiosity. You could see him in the rock and reflected in the fountain, beastly in mid-transformation into a stag, lying in wait for Diana’s bath.*
While I was taking extraordinary pleasure in scrutinizing all this, Byrrhena said, “Everything you see is yours,” and she asked everyone else to leave so that we could speak in private. When they’d gone, she warned: “By this goddess, dearest Lucius, I swear I am fearfully anxious for you; I aim to look out for you as if you were my own child. Beware, I mean seriously beware, of the evil arts and wicked enchantments of that woman Pamphile, the wife of your host Milo. She is widely known as a witch of the highest order, mistress of every kind of spell, who, just by breathing on twigs and pebbles and small specimens of that sort, knows how to plunge all the luminous brightness of the constellations into the depths of the underworld and the primeval void. You see, whenever she sees a particularly attractive young man, she is consumed with his charms and immediately turns her gaze and thoughts to him. She lays down lures, steals their souls, and finally forever secures them with the shackles of a deep desire. As for the ones who are less obedient or turn contemptible because they now disdain her, in the wink of an eye she transforms them into rocks and sheep and miscellaneous animals. Others she utterly annihilates. This is why I worry and urge you to beware. She is constantly on fire for someone, and you, being so young and beautiful, are a likely target.” These were the words of a very worried Byrrhena.
