Ancient Rome, Inc.
Chew, Chat, Change: Week 3
This week, we cover anger from the gods, the threat of extinction, and our ability to act like wolves. So light reading! Sound interesting? Join the club.
If you missed Monday’s excerpt from Metamorphoses, clicking the button below will get you up to speed.
Jupiter: Ancient Rome's celestial CEO
Olympia’s no democracy. Jupiter assembles his fellow immortals not to debate in the House of Commons or pass a bill through the Senate, but to tell his fellow gods and goddesses what’s what. “I did a walk-through of the ground floor of this Project Humanity,” he tells them, “and it’s a mess. Time to clean house.” This is Executive Order/decision type shit.
I found this line particularly telling:
“All means should first be tried, but the incurable flesh must be excised by the knife, so that the healthy part is not infected.”
Maybe it’s my lingering bitterness over getting laid off last year, but I can’t help but connect Jupiter’s impulse to “excise” the so-called “incurable flesh” of humankind to the mass firings going on in the tech sector right now.
Jupiter uses a tactic we still see all the time, whether in business or in politics, especially with the “all means should first be tried” bit. He wants to take drastic action, so he labels his plan as a last resort, even though he hasn’t actually tried anything else to solve the perceived problem.
Then, to justify bringing the hammer down, he points to the most extreme instance of the perceived problem—Lycaon’s brutal attempt (in more ways than one) to prove that Jupiter isn’t who he says he is (more on that later).
It’s basically the same “moral panic” argument we hear all the time, though morality isn’t always used as the basis. In business, moral outrage is never the strongest motivator for change. Instead, they talk about “hemorraging money” or “disappointing returns,” whatever will get Board members and stockholders on board with the upcoming scourge.
What few people pay enough attention to, in business and government, is the results of “excising” the “incurable flesh.” This article from
of makes a pretty strong case for keeping our hands off big, red buttons, at least in corporate settings.
Lycaon: wolf like me?
Growing up a Christian teenager with indie tastes in the ‘00s, I didn’t really have a choice when it came to being a fan of Sufjan Stevens. And despite the popularity of “Chicago” or the biblical themes throughout Seven Swans, the song that came up the most in my circles (largely, because I brought it up so much) was “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.”
Basically, Stevens details the sordid tale of the Illinois-based serial killer before leaving things off with this stinger of a line:
“In my best behaviour, I am really just like him Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid”
The message of the song ties in nicely with the “total depravity” doctrine I inherited from my Dutch/Christian Reformed/Calvinist upbringing: hear the horrific details of what this famous mass murderer did; now recognize the same horror within yourself. In a less religious context, the argument claims that social convention is the only thing keeping us all from turning into Hitler.
For a long time, I identified with this kind of thinking. It felt powerful, honest, and important for me to see myself as “just like” the worst humankind had to offer. Now, I’m not so sure.
Sure, we all have some darkness to deal with, but I think we can also agree that some people’s darkness is darker than others. John Wayne Gacy, Jr. and Hitler are good examples; Lycaon (fictional or not) is another. This links back to my previous point about Jupiter’s justification for wanting to wipe us off the face of the earth. It seems like his logic concludes that if one guy is willing to feed human flesh to his dinner guests in order to make a point, we must all be capable of this level of social faux pas. Are we, though?
I think it’s important, too, to remember that Lycaon is a king. With Jupiter in the room, it’s hard to see anyone else having authority, but even at his worst, Lycaon is barbequing hostages to defend his title. Power can do some nasty things to the human brain.
In classic Greek and Roman style, though, I detect a little ambiguity under the surface of this story. Does Lycaon mutate as punishment for his actions or does he transform into his true form? Ovid doesn’t answer the question.
What do you think?
How bad are we? Is Ancient Rome about to get what it deserves?
Does power always turn people into wolves?
Are wolfish instincts always a bad thing?
Do wolves deserve the bad wrap they get in this story?