When he had said this and much more of the ©
same sort, he ended his talk. Until then I had
listened to him in awe, fearing that he would cease.
When he stopped, I felt like the Phaeacians of old, Odyss. 11, 333. 
for I stared at him a long time spellbound. Afterwards, in a great fit of confusion and giddiness, I
dripped with sweat, I stumbled and stuck in the
endeavour to speak, my voice failed, my tongue
faltered, and finally I began to cry in embarrassment; for the effect he produced: in me was not
superficial or casual. My wound was deep and vital,
and his words, shot with great accuracy, clove, if I
may say so, my very soul in twain.

 

For if I too
may now adopt the language of a philosopher,
my conception of the matter is that the soul of a
well-endowed man resembles a very tender target.
Many bowmen, their quivers full of words of all
sorts and kinds, shoot at it during life, but not with
success in every case. Some draw to the head and
let fly harder than they should: though they hit the
target, their arrows do not stick in it, but owing to



 

their momentum go through and continue their
flight, leaving only a gaping wound in the soul..
Others, again, do the opposite; themselves too weak,
their bows too slack, the arrows do not even carry
to the target as a rule, but often fall spent at half
the distance; and if ever they do carry, they strike
 with a mere fret o’ the skin, Iliad 17, 599. 


and do not make a
deep wound, as they were not sped with a strong
pull.

 

But a good bowman like Nigrinus first of
all scans the target closely for fear that it may be
either very soft or too hard for his arrow—for of
course there are impenetrable targets. When he is
clear on this point, he dips his arrow, not in venom
like those of the Scythians nor in vegetable poison
like those of the Curetes, but in a sweet, gently-working drug, and then shoots with skill. The arrow,
driven by just the right amount of force, penetrates
to ghe point of passing through, and then sticks fast
and gives off a quantity of the drug, which naturally
spreads and completely pervades the soul. That is
why people laugh and cry as they listen, as I did—
of course the drug was quietly circulating in my soul.
I could not help quoting him the well-known line:
 Shoot thus, and bring, mayhap, a ray of hope! Iliad 8, 282. 


Not everyone who hears the Phrygian flute goes
frantic, but only those who are possessed of ‘Rhea
and are put in mind of their condition by the music.
In, like manner, naturally, not all who listen to
philosophers go away enraptured and wounded, but
only those who previously had in their nature some
secret bond of kinship with philosophy.




 


 
 A What a noble, marvellous,—yes, divine tale
you have told, my dear fellow! I did not realise it,
but you certainly were chock-full of your ambrosia
and your lotus! The coysequence is that as you
talked I felt something like a change of heart, and
now that you have stopped I am put out: to speak
in your own style, I am wounded. And no wonder!
for yeu. know that people bitten by mad dogs not:
only go mad themselves, but if in their fury they
treat others as the dogs treated them, the others
take leave of their senses too. Something of the
affection is transmitted with the bite; the diseage
multiplies, and there is a great run of-madness. B Then you admit your madness? A Why, certainly; and more than that, I ask you
to think out some course of treatment for us both. B We must do as Telephus did, I suppose. A What’s your meaning now? B Go to the man who inflicted the wound and
beg him to heal us!

 Telephus had been grievously wounded by Achilles.
Acting on the advice of the oracle at Delphi: "He who burt
will heal you” (ὁ τρώσας καὶ ἰάσεται), he applied to Achilles
for relief, and was at last cured with the rust of his spear. 

 

 All that we know of Demonax derives from this essay,
except for a few sayings elsewhere attributed to him. The
authenticity of the essay has been repeatedly questioned, but
should not be made to depend on the critic’s opinion of
Demonax’s jokes, for—to paraphrase Lucian—we do not need
a George Meredith to tell us that the flavour of a joke grows
weak with age,