26 I CHRONICLESngotten it on. Moreover, Pythagoras, ansource of ultimate authority whonstands in the direct hne of Homericntransmission (as a disciple of thenHomerids, who passed the epic onnorally), frequently cited just this relationshipnas an example of the highernphilosophical dimensions of friendshipnbecause Achilles loved Patroclus asn”another self” Let alone the mismotivationnfor Achilles’ grudge that ensues:nIf Briseis and Patroclus were both innbed with him, it would have been anwar of a different color. In the Embassynscene of Book Nine, Patroclus andnAchilles bed down with separate concubines.nIt’s implausible that thenHomer who was frank about the onenthing would hedge about the other.nThe Greeks were supreme authorities,nit seems to me, on the subject ofn”greeking” (which Pythagoras forbadenstrictly as a form of blasphemy). Thenhigh place of the Iliad (and the Odyssey)nin Pythagorean teaching is onenmajor reason Homer (in Plato’s words)neducated Greece. This high place ofnpoetry in Greek culture is also onenindispensable reason Greece has continuednto educate us.nWhich leads to—item: an obtrusivendegree of invertedly eroticized combat,ntorture, murder, and corpse-pawing,nas if Logue were trying to assert somethingnabout homosexuality as the universalncause of war:n1) Half-naked men hackednslowly at each othernAs the Greeks eased back thenTrojans.nThey stood close;nCloser; thigh in thigh; maskntwisted over iron masknLike kissing.n2) Achilles laved the flesh andnpinned the woundsnAnd dressed the yellow hairnand spreadnOintments from Thetis’ cavenon every marknOf what Patroclus was, andnkissed his mouthnAnd wet his face with tears,nand kissed and kissednagain . . .n3) Molo the Dancer fromnCymatriax tugsnAt its penis as he squeaks:n”Achilles’ love!”nIn setting out these three among dozensnof such moments, gentle readers,nit is not my purpose to take away whatnpleasure certain may find {have) innsuch passages, redolent of SS perverts,nthe pages of the Satyricon, and theninteriors of certain private clubs, cateringnto sadomasochist imagination, innMr. Logue’s fair city (London) andnelsewhere. I merely wish, in view ofnreviewers’ misleading certitudes, tonsignal that such images are not thenIliad’s—or anything like the Iliad’s.nDitto:nAnd over it all,nAs flies shift up and down anhaemorrhage alive with ants,nThe captains in their ironnmasks drift past each other.nCalling, calling, gathering lightnon their breastplates;nSo stained they think that theynare friendsnAnd do not turn, do not salute,nor else salute their enemies.n. . . which is, though not Homer,nrather good, until:nBut we who are under thenshields knownOur enemy marches at thenhead of the column;nAnd yet we march!nThe voice we obey is the voicenof the enemy.nYet we obey!nAnd he who is forever talkingnabout enemiesnIs himself the enemy!n, . . which collapses the momentarynillusion of an ancient war into thendeafening contemporaneity of a partynline.nMr. Logue gives voice and drama tonthat same cultish clutch of unexaminednideological assumptions thatncontinues to paralyze contemporarynwill: that war is so awful it must notnhappen; that by crafting it in all itsnhorror, the poet effects a change innhuman consciousness so it will nevernhappen (never mind how many timesnit has before); that even a pervasivenwillful distortion of the qualities andnmotives of violence in accordance withnthe promptings of a mind I can onlynfind deeply disturbed can, given ournpresent backdrop of accredited victimsnnnseeking their own empowermentnthrough emotional blackmail, pass fornsomething as dignified as love for allnmankind and a will to peace. I guessnthat, after all, is what the young blacknspear-chucker on the cover is meant tonmean? Yet we affront not the pacifismnof saints, the real kind, that wills to dienbefore it kills, but rather the SaintnLenin variety (plugging one’s officer innthe back)—the kind that brings itsnpeace in total enslavement only whennthe last objecting man is dead. Itnbrings to mind the apostles Burgessnand Philby, all those brave Bloomsburyndefenses of the Higher Buggerynthat blench before E.M. Forster’s immortalntestament: “I hope when thentime comes when I shall have tonchoose between betraying my countrynand betraying my friends, I shall haventhe guts to betray my country!” (Thatnfar-off ugly piercing sound is only Nietzschencackling in his grave . . . )nFor the revaluing of all values hasnnow assuredly come into its awfulnown: that there is something almostnuniversally admirable about selfproclaimedncorruptions, that there isnsomething correspondingly contemptiblenabout any aspiration to traditionalnstrengths of character, these latter reflexivelynstigmatized as “pretensions”n— never virtues or ideals—whereasnthe former figure among the highestnreaches of our latest version of honesty.nIf only Mr. Logue had thoughtnhimself back into Homer’s world, henmight have come upon those verynhigher dimensions of being that alonenmight save us from our present selves:nproper standards of manliness, honor,nperseverence, priorities, duties, thenimperatives forward and back of one’snline, the inspiration of eternal things,nbeauty and beatitude that must benearned in sorrows and in blood—thatnsort of thing.nInstead he chose to think their worldnforward:nAnd as she laid the moonlitnarmour on the sandnIt chimed;nAnd the sound that camenfrom itnFollowed the light that camenfrom it.nLike sighing,nSaying,nMade in Heaven.n