The Golden Ass

Although the vulgar take the donkey as a symbol of ignorance and stupidity, occultists and magicians know better. Cornelius Agrippa, in his Vanity of the Arts and Sciences, praises the ass as a paradigm of virtue. Giordano Bruno, whose heliocentrism was wedded to his hermetic magic, made the donkey a symbol of the highest mystical state in his personal cabala, declaring it to be the Triumphant Beast.

The Metamorphoses of Apuleius, better known as The Golden Ass, is funny and wise; and despite its unrepentant status as a fiction, its later chapters are probably one of the most accurate and detailed accounts from the period regarding the operation of mystery cults in late antiquity. The "Golden" of the title refers to the value of the show more text. It was written in a florid, storytelling style of Latin, and has a brisk, episodic pace. There are nonetheless many digressions, including the splendid and famous fable of Eros and Psyche, which falls near the center of the text.

Known in his own day as an orator and Platonist philosopher, Apuleius is also important as a reference regarding the status of magic in the ancient world; he was himself accused of criminal sorcery, although he denied it. The central enchantment of the story is the transformation of the protagonist into a donkey.

The literary progeny of these Metamorphoses are countless, as befits a donkey's instrument! Apuleius' story has influenced everything from Augustine's Confessions to Beauty and the Beast. But the original still deserves pride of place. show less

The Golden Ass often gets described as the only complete Ancient novel in Latin, but it’s more of a collection of stories, myths and anecdotes held together by a thin framing device. The plot is well-known: a well-off Roman Citizen in Greece messes around with black magic and gets transformed into a donkey. Cue a picaresque series of owners as he gets bought, sold, stolen and adopted by ambitious robbers, effeminate priests, greedy millers, cruel boys, and lusty upper class women. Each owner has comedic things happening to them and plenty of bawdy anecdotes and tall tales to tell -- or they know people who do. It’s all rather flimsily tied together, but the cohesion, of course, is much less important than the accumulation of show more humorous stories.

Although several of the episodes in Lucius' life as a donkey and the anecdotes he overhears are genuinely funny, much of the humour is of the slapstick-meets-satire kind, which is not really up my street, and stereotypes and black-and-white morality reign, which I'm not too keen on, either.

But that is not to say The Golden Ass isn't a great deal of fun to read; it is, albeit not in the way that it was originally intended: many of the things I liked (apart from the ribaldry) are things I doubt were meant as such by the author.

For one thing, I liked the openly appreciative attitude towards sexuality: sex, not as a foul practice to be ashamed of, but as something that people willingly admit to doing frequently. Another thing I found fascinating is the snippets of daily life casually mentioned as part of the background: how streets were lighted at night, how towns were planned, and how various tradespeople ran their businesses. All of these were glimpses into a fully functional civilization whose everyday life and whose bureaucracy I know very little about. I was also intrigued by how violent a place the Empire seems to have been to live in: corporal punishment is standard practice, and brutal attacks on and indifferent cruelty towards slaves, animals, women and non-citizens is presented as normal. Morality, as it appears in this book, serves to further a fundamental double standard: one standard for the male citizen (wealthy and good-looking), and another for everyone and everything else. These, and other parts of the “world building” in this book, were what almost interested me more than the actual story.

In all, The Golden Ass is quite entertaining as a book of bawdiness and mild satire, though I couldn't help but view it as anything but an 1800-year old book, and enjoyed it primarily as such. show less

The earliest Latin-language novel to survive in its entirety, The Golden Ass tells the story of Lucius, a young man who gets turned into a donkey and has a series of unfortunate adventures. "Bawdy, sexist farce" isn't really my speed when it comes to humour, so I found this a bit of a slog to get through. Sarah Ruden's translation didn't help much. Intellectually, I understand why she was aiming for an inconsistent tonal register and deliberate high-low juxtapositions in ways that were trying to evoke P.G. Wodehouse and the Flashman novels and to better reflect the cadences of the original Latin. But God, it made for a lumpy, jarring read—there's no deftness to Ruden's choices. I definitely wouldn't have thought she was trying for show more something Wodehousian if I hadn't read the translator's preface. I made it to the end more out of determination to check this off a list of "should reads" than anything else. show less

A Milesian Tale, which sums up its epoch while re-telling myths and metamorphic magical fantasies. In the same time as St. Jerome and the other great African thinker, St. Agustine, Apuleius was recording the break-down of the Greco-Roman civilization, even prophetically looking to the Constantinean State {28}. Yet by its baud and vitality, it seems forever current to the life of human kind. Apuleius mocks religion, and puts the joy in scepticism, all with the curiosity and love which the best story-tellers have.

Bestiality. Kidnapping. Mugging. Ye olde carjacking. Burglary. Assault. Murder. Female paedophiles. Incest. Male rape. Adultery. Animal cruelty. Serial killers in the making. Poisonings. Homosexual priest gangbangs. Shapeshifting. Gods and goddesses. The Seven Deadly Sins. Evil mother-in-laws. Drama. Comedy. Tragedy. Adventure. Romance. Horror. Urban legends. Stories within stories. Inspiration for that Hannibal episode where a person was sewn into a dead horse's belly.



What doesn't The Golden Ass have?

At this point I should probably be comparing The Golden Ass to the brutality shown in Game of Thrones, only this is much less about political maneuvering and Machiavellian plotting, but still, they're both not for the faint of heart. The show more Golden Ass is one of the first, or the first, human-to-animal transformation stories that run in the same vein as Disney's Brother Bear and The Emperor's New Groove.

With all of the beatings Lucius received as a helpless slave in donkey form, carrying loads too heavy for his four-legged form, having his fur set on fire, never allowed rest when he most needs it and forced to continue on or have his feet tied together to be hurled off a cliff - because that's what they did to lame animals - I feel like I need to donate to The Donkey Sanctuary.

For a 1,900 year old novel, you realise that nothing's really changed in that time, socially speaking.

Sex scenes are surprisingly good. There's no hesitation. No repressed sexuality. No self-esteem issues. And all manner of positions are attempted.

'The only redeeming feature of this catastrophic transformation was that my natural endowment had grown too.'

Typical man. Turned into a donkey and he's impressed with the increase in the size of his manhood.

Yelling 'FIRE!' when being burgled and in need of help:

'Then, leaving him there fatally crucified, he climbed to the roof of his hovel and shouted at the top of his voice to summon the neighbours; calling each one by name he gave out that his house had suddenly caught fire, reminding them that this involved the safety of them all. So everybody, frightened by the danger next door, came running in alarm to help.'

Well, it's been proven. Video games don't make kids violent, a lack of video games does. Imagination is a dangerous thing. So many inventive ways to torture and kill, to humiliate and degrade. The devil makes work for idle hands, as they say. So parents, quickly stuff a Playstation controller into your little one's hands before they turn their minds to dastardly deeds.

Certain aspects of The Golden Ass really do get you thinking about contentious issues.

How do you define bestiality? Lucius is a man turned into a donkey. When it's proposed that he'll be allowed his choice of horses with which to procreate - is that bestiality? Is Lucius's fornication as an ass with a human woman bestiality? Does the fact that he has a human mind inside an animal body change the status of the sexual relationship?

Surprisingly, Apuleius doesn't deliver the stereotype paedophile. A lusty married woman sets her sights on her stepson. Oddly this is labelled incest though there appears to be no blood connection. And it's the same with rape. A cuckolded husband rapes his adulterous wife's toyboy lover as punishment. Perhaps male paedophiles and rapists were stereotypes even 2,000 years ago.

The feminist in me feels compelled to point out the unbalanced female representation. Many women were demonised as witches who pee on men's faces, who steal body parts from the dead, who are complicit in evil deeds, who are nymphomaniacs, adulterers, paedophiles, vain and jealous grudge-holding goddesses. Psyche (myth), Photis (Lucius's servant lover) and Byrrhena (Lucius's aunt) are the only exceptions.

The Abduction of Psyche by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

During Lucius's journey, the stories he hears are mostly told at the dinner table, around the fire, as a distraction on a long journey, or as a comfort to distraught kidnap victims. Understandably storytelling was their main form of entertainment. Well, that and gossip, which was free or you provided a meal for the teller. I really enjoyed the mythical telling of Psyche and Cupid.

Each of the 11 'books' are self-contained chapters of about 20 pages with a spoiler-y summary of what's to come at the beginning, so it was easy to dip in and out. I wasn't particularly happy with the ending, in fact I skimmed and skipped around at that point. I can understand Lucius's gratefulness at the chance to become human again, and I'm aware of that ancient tradition of 'a life saved, is a life owed' [see Azeem of 1991's Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves], but I have an issue with blind faith. Lucius walks away from his previous life to devote himself and his future to worshipping his rescuer. That's just weird, from my 21st century non-religious perspective.

The translation very much played a part in my enjoyment of this ancient novel. I carefully researched which was right for me. I chose the Kenney edition as it seemed the least stilted of those available, and I'm glad I made that choice.

I never thought I'd enjoy a 2,000 year old novel, but I did. And you might, too.

My funny mishap in trying to find a copy of The Golden Ass.

*Read as part of The Dead Writer's Society's Around the World challenge. show less

This is a Roman picaresque novel centering on the adventures of Lucius, who travels to Thessaly to seek his fortune. The city’s reputation for magic excites him, and he wants to see wonders. He goes to the home of his aunt Byrrhena. Seemingly unimpressed by the mechanical wonders of her palace, he decides to seek lodging in the city. Ignoring his aunt’s warning, he stays with Milo, whose wife is a witch. Lucius becomes romantically involved with Milo’s slave Photis, who is instrumental in providing Lucius with the ointment that brings about his transformation into an ass.

Up to this point in the narrative, there a several points of interest from a Gnostic perspective. The names Lucius and Photis share a common calque, light. This show more suggests a certain relationship between them, beyond the obvious sexual one depicted on the surface of the novel. Attracted to the reputed wonders of Thessaly, he spurns those that are readily before him in favor of the illusions he brings with him, i.e., the stories of witches and their powers. At Lucius’ request, Photis steals some metamorphosing ointment from her mistress. Instead of becoming a bird, as he had seen the witch do, Lucius becomes an ass. It is unclear whether Photis brought the wrong ointment, and if she did, whether she did so intentionally, or whether the effect of the ointment varies by user. Even then, it is an open question whether Photis knew what would happen to Lucius. Interestingly, she knows the cure: he must simply eat roses.

Before he returns to his previous form, Lucius goes on a series of adventures, almost like a program of karma yoga. In this respect, it reminds me of Milarepa’s ordeals to achieve enlightenment in one lifetime. Here, however, there is no indication that Lucius had led a bad life and was being punished, he merely must work through the lower, materialistic aspects of his soul before he is given the roses that will give him back his human form.

The most interesting interlude comes halfway through the story when Lucius is held captive by robbers. While in their cave, he hears an old woman tell the story of Cupid and Psyche. Her story covers several chapters of the novel, and the robbers kill her once she finishes it. Both of these details suggest the importance of the story: it takes up a large portion of the narrative, and it is as if the woman was waiting all her life to relate it, and once done, her life was complete. The story itself is a retelling of the Y-H-V-H formula of the redintegration of the Soul. In this version, however, the Queen does not want the Princess to supplant her and actively thwarts the Prince’s actions. In the larger schema of the story, Photis is the Vav to Lucius’s final Heh. Lucius’s inability to get an immediate remedy to his condition suggests an unseen initial Heh at work.

Once the roses physically purify Lucius, he undergoes spiritual purification through a three-part initiation into the cult of Isis. An analogy to Liber XV might be the following: (1) Lucius is transformed into an ass (the Priest, after having purified and consecrated the Priestess, closes the veil, shutting himself off from her light); (2) Lucius undergoes a series of adventures (the Priest circumambulates the Temple); and (3) Lucius eats the roses and resumes human form (the Priest opens the Veil, renewing his visual contact with the Priestess, and the roses on the altar). It is tempting to compare the Priest’s mounting of the three steps with Lucius’s initiations into the mysteries of Isis, but the steps come before the opening of the veil, and only the first step has Isian connotations. show less

I really enjoyed this earliest of novels right up till the end. The preposterous scenes, the ribald stories, and the beautiful Cupid and Psyche story- it's one of those books that made me grin time after time. I'm sure if I were a better Classics scholar it would be an even richer experience, as the notes after the text give me to understand.

That being said, the last chapter made me think of those early Weekly Reader pictographs of 6 things, 5 of which belonged together in some way, and 1 of which did not. Maybe after I go to class today, I will learn more about why this odd appendage hangs on the end of the book. I suspect it's more my lack of scholarship than the book's fault.

Recommended.