VTreeks of the Byzantine period—nthe millennium stretching roughly fromnJustinian down to the fall of Constantinoplenin 1453—labored under a doublenhandicap: not only was the literaturen”stultified” by the language and formsnof Athens (dead for over a thousandnyears), but their political life was overshadowednby the Roman past (they evenncalled themselves Romans). Toynbee, itnmust be said, is at home with the Byzantines.nIt is the one period he knew reallynwell. In his chapters on Byzantium andnmodern Greece, he managed to convey ansense of the textures and qualities ofnGreek culture, something he was unablento do for earlier periods. Even so, it isnhard to agree with his harsh assessments.nIt is true that Byzantine literature has fewncharms for the modern reader. The historiansnare regularly consulted andnacknowledged as “significant,” and thenpeculiar (Byzantine is the only epithetnthat comes to mind) charms of MichaelnPsellos and the Princess Anna Comnenanare sometimes recognized. Still, thenGreek imagination found its best expressionnin the liturgies and hymns of thenorthodox church. A literary assessmentnwhich leaves those out (as seems inevitablenin our era) is like a treatment ofnSouthern literature that ignores politicalnoratory. Toynbee—who judged all litera­nr LIB I:R i. CULTURE |nOn CertitudesnIn an essay in ihe AVH’ York Tir/icsnMj>i,ninc. Irvin)^ Hiiwc -an eniineninIJKT.iry Iriiii. aSDciiil dimotnn. a man oinreii.’-on and iniegriiy- in;ike.s a moincntouhnannoiintcmi.-m:ntiiid ifiid in till’ I’Jili ifiuiiry. ui(ipi:inin ilii:Otli.nThe first pan of the M-nlcruc i>. to ournmind, at bc-si naive: iiow doe^ Mr. Howen16nChronicles of Culturenture by the standard of Matthew Arnoldn—attributed the Byzantine failure to thenpersistence of koine, and even AtticnGreek, as the exclusive literary language:nThere is no parallel in Greek culturalnhistory to Western Christendom’snsuccessful effort . . . to liberate itselfnfrom the grip of the classical languagesnand literatures.nToynbee, who has often insisted that hisnown education was essentially Greek,ndisplays a fine sort of gratitude to thenclassical languages and literatures thatnmade him what he was. But it is part ofnhis Victorian illusion that cultures shouldnbe progressive and conform to the Europeannmodel. There is, after all, nothingnvery strange about the retention of an ancientnlanguage for literary and educationalnpurposes. In the Near East, wenhave the example of Sumerian, Akkadian,nand Hebrew; of Sanskrit in India;nof Chinese in Japan; and, in medievaln(and modern) Europe, of Latin. It isnpointless to speculate on what mightnhave happened if Byzantine writers hadnwritten in demotic (colloquial) Greek.nPerhaps a Dante or Shakespeare wouldnhave emerged, but it is just as likely thatnByzantium would have sunk into thencomfortable barbarism which most ofnthe world’s peoples—then and now—nMnv’^^^nvw^nHnVH^^H ^nHiram InmBmnknow about God’s death? As to the secondnpart, we can only say the word longnago consecrated by God: A»?e».nnnhave enjoyed.nContempt for formal language andnliterary tradition is an unfortunate part ofnour Romantic heritage, as it has been refinedninto the gospel of progress. Thentrouble with giving up the past is that itnsubjects us to Cicero’s condemnationnthat ignorance of the past makes us eternalnchildren. By ourselves, in a singlengeneration, we can do little or nothing ofnvalue. When we fail to preserve what ournancestors have handed down to us, wenfind ourselves refighting their wars, rethinkingntheir thoughts, and rediscoveringntheir wheels. Generations thatnseem to accomplish the work of an eonnalways owe their success to a rich inheritedntradition. Try to imagine PericleannAthens without Homer, Solon,nand Cleisthenes, or the Renaissancenwithout the Middle Ages.nWe live, to be sure, in an age that takesnpride in its liberations from the past. Ournpoetry and our music owe little, ifnanything, to tradition. Our poets havensucceeded in abandoning all the trappingsnof rhyme, meter, structure, form,nand—most recently—English syntax.nTheirs is a pristine and private art, utterlynindividual, absolutely ignored; givennanother millennium of development,nCharles Olson’s disciples might wellnproduce poetry equal to the best of thenEarl of Surrey, but it will be an enormousntask.nIn the end, Toynbec’s vision of classicalnGreece was simply progressive. Tonthat exacting standard, no age of successorsncan measure up. Mary Renault’snlatest novel, Funeral Games, offersnanother sort of impossible standard bynwhich to condemn the HellenisticnGreeks: the internationalist dreams ofnAlexander the Great. With this novel,nMrs. Renault completes the tribute tonAlexander begun in The Fire FromnHeaven and The Persian Boy. Like itsnpredecessors. Funeral Games has nothingnthat could be called a plot. It is thenstory of Alexander’s successors, the generalsnand relatives who dismembered hisnshort-lived empire. Although her storyn