Hesiod as a source of wisdom
The ancient bards held the whole of knowledge and truth for their people. Living almost around Homer’s time, Hesiod was a bard himself. They had come in pair in the ancient times, but modernity has failed Hesiod and we barely remember him. His works are the written form of an immemorial chain of oral tradition that encompassed his fellow folk’s livelihood and beliefs.
Well, I am a modern reader and I read this piece of hyper-ancient literature on an Amazon Kindle; what a curious time to be alive in the Iron Age! I could be unoriginal and state that this was the commencement of “western” literature. But I’ll say something similar: I regard this early tradition as some sort of Big Bang of so much of our thinking and culture, from philosophy and literature to psychoanalysis and back; from “highbrow” works to Lana Del Rey’s and Lorde’s songs.
When the holy Muses, Zeus' daughters, descended upon Hesiod, he was granted the art of singing verse in the Theogony. A mix of myth of creation and gods’ family tree, its reading was stunningly rewarding. Though I must admit the endless lists of deities are sort of tiring; but it’s alright, the ancient had thought the same. I rejoiced to finally meet the source of greek mythical stories we hear about. It would be too overwhelming to tell them here; it’s a lot of names, strife and swallowing — all for the glory of thundering Zeus.
We could freely choose one aspect of Hesiod’s persona to scrutinise: a rhapsod or even a Euroasian poet; a farmer, a brother, a father; a misogynist; a sage. What I mean by wisdom in the title can be found mostly in Works & Days. His advice on living remained to a certain extent (he advises against gossiping, so timeless!) but I personally do not need his account on how to grow grain, neither on how to choose a good slave. It is the irrevocable human condition that strikes me. Why is life hard? Why do we have to work? Why linger? Why this world? It is our lot as creatures born in the Iron Age. It is Zeus’ will. Prometheus fooled him and as a payback, the almighty bestowed upon humankind suffering, strenuous labour and hardship and the made-of-clay Pandora is to blame. It is God’s punishment, just like in the Bible. Just like in the Bible, the woman’s creation unleashes everything wicked, eternal scapegoat of men.
Work’s no disgrace; it’s idleness that’s a disgrace.
For us moderns this is obviously just a myth, but life is in fact hard; and Hesiod is critic of those who make it so: unjust rulers and violent people. But there will be some good mixed with the evil. There is Hope. Pandora managed to keep what all of us humans need to linger. It is everything we have and yet it is so small, so frail. Life goes on and it demands willpower. I kept saying the ‘Iron Age’ because of Hesiod’s account on human development: golden, silver and bronze; heroes and iron. Ours is somewhat wicked and depraved. There’s this sort of edenic sense that something was lost and we fell upon this world. Hesiod wishes he had been born before or after the Iron Age, which reveals the cyclic nature of this cosmogony. Nothing ends, neither begins. The apocalypse won’t never come.
