Shafts from the Black Sea

Julia Dyson Hejduk (Baylor University)

Arrows play an important role in Ovid’s literary autobiography.  At the beginning of his published work (Am. 1.1), the wound from Cupid’s shaft sets him on the elegiac path that determines the rest of his creative life; at the end of his published work (EP 4.16), he begs for mercy because there is no room on his body for an additional wound.  This paper argues that, in the Epistulae ex Ponto, missile weapons (tela) represent both the forces in opposition to Ovid and the power of his genius to triumph over them.

First, the paper examines the metaphorical tela sent against and by the poet.  These missiles are both the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune (2.7.15) and the thunderbolt hurled by Jupiter/Augustus (4.3.58), the most common metaphor for the order sending Ovid into exile.  In a clever variation on the recusatio, Ovid complains that he is undeserving of punishment because he never fought in a Gigantomachy or (like Diomedes) wounded Venus with his tela.  The implication in both of these usages is that words can be weapons (cf. Catullus 116.7-8).

The paper then turns to the actual Scythian arrows that (supposedly) threaten Ovid’s very existence.  These symbolize the absence of pax and otium that would allow his talent to flourish; as he begs at the end of the first Epistle, “only let me be transferred somewhere free from the Scythian bow” (1.1.79-80).  Halfway through the Epistles (3.1.25-26), they still represent the constant fear that keeps him (he claims) from writing good poems.  But as the work progresses, Ovid appears to come to terms with the arrows as he develops a certain affection for the Getans themselves, to incorporate their weapons into his repertoire as he has (supposedly) learned their language (3.2.40).  So familiar does he become with these deadly shafts that 3.8 is (supposedly) a cover letter for a gift—since the land is deficient in precious metals, wine, baked goods, and attractive textiles—of Scythian arrows complete with quiver.  Near the end of the Epistles, when he has (supposedly) mastered the Getic language to the point that he can compose in it a poetic encomium of Augustus, the Getans respond favorably by nodding their heads and shaking their full quivers (4.13.33-36).  The brilliantly funny tableaux of the timid, urbane poet gift-wrapping poisoned arrows and of the shaggy barbarian warriors coming fully armed to a poetry reading show that his northern exile has not, as Ovid claims, frozen his sense of fun. 

The pervasive irony of the exile poetry—a variation on the elegiac refrain of odi et amo—is that the very activity that caused his punishment is also his salvation.  When he asks himself why he keeps on writing and pursuing the tela that caused his downfall (4.14.19-20), the answer is obvious:  because the gift that animates his life is his ability to wring laughter even out of poisoned arrows, to transform horror into humor through the alchemy of his wit.