Literary Asses

The Scene

Sometime in the second century CE, Apuleius wrote The Metamorphoses, a story of a man turned into a donkey. Later the book came to be called The Golden Ass, and, at the same time, Apuleius started to be called “Lucius Apuleius,” an apparent conflation of character and author. Around the same time, Lucian, the Greek rhetorician and satirist, also wrote a short tale, “Lucius, or the Ass,” about a man named Lucius who was transformed into a donkey. These are effectively the same story; the latter is only shorter, with fewer digressions. It’s possible that Apuleius even read Lucian’s story and borrowed from it. It’s also possible that both writers borrowed the man-donkey-transformation story from a third party, one Lucius of Patrae. According to a (possibly erroneous) ninth-century text, Lucius of Patrae wrote, in Greek, a fictional autobiography called The Metamorphoses in which the narrator and main character, Lucius, was transformed into an ass. This story is lost. It may never have existed. Some classicists have argued that Lucian copied his story from Lucius of Patrae. Others have it the other way around. And now many scholars think that Lucian didn’t even write the story attributed to him and call the author of Lucius, or the Ass “Pseudo-Lucian.”

As it turns out, donkey tales are a puzzle not just to scholars, but to Lucius, Lucian, and Lucius themselves. Here, Lucius of Patrae comes across Lucian and the other Lucius (possibly the main character of The Golden Ass or possibly the misnamed Apuleius). Evidently they’ve known each other for a long time, but the differences between them remain unresolved.

Dramatis Personae

Lucius of Patrae

Lucian of Samosata

Lucius (Apuleius?)

Benjamin

Chorus of Moralizing Donkeys

Prologue

LUCIUS P

When’s Wednesday?

LUCIAN

Ha! Yes, “When’s Wednesday?”

LUCIUS A

What? When’s Wednesday? Why are you laughing?

LUCIAN

It’s Persian; a proverb: You ask the donkey when’s Wednesday.

(to Lucius A)

When’s Wednesday?

LUCIUS P

Persian proverb? I was asking a quest—

LUCIUS A

I’m not a donkey!

LUCIAN

You were. I thought maybe you had some residual asinine intuition.

LUCIUS A

Who said I was a donkey?

LUCIAN

Augustine. Do I have to remind you, “Nec tamen in eis mentem fieri bestialem, sed rationale humanamque servari, sicut Apulei—”

LUCIUS P

Latin?

LUCIUS A

Lucian, be nice to Lucius and remember his (limited) faculties—not to mention your own. You’re one of those charlatans that interlard their conversations from time to time with some brief, pithy Latin phrases, posing as great Latinists when they hardly know how to decline a noun or conjugate a verb.

LUCIUS P

Well, that’s not as bad as those who actually know Latin. Some of them are so oblivious that they’ll spray it around like spit, even when they’re talking to the lady at the dry cleaners, or a telemarketer.

LUCIAN

Or you!

LUCIUS A

It just shows you that anyone who speaks Latin before the clueless is just as bad as those who speak it cluelessly themselves.

LUCIAN

Another thing you ought to know is that speaking Latin doesn’t keep you from being an ass.

LUCIUS P

Who doubts that? It’s clear: In Roman times everybody spoke Latin as a mother tongue, yet there must’ve been some morons even then. Speaking Latin didn’t absolve them of stupidity.

LUCIUS A

A case in point: Lucius, it takes brains to know when to speak Latin and when to shut up. So, Lucian, where were we? Back to what you were saying …

LUCIAN

Right, Augustine! “… in Libris quos Asini—”

LUCIUS A

Not Latin!

LUCIAN

Right, right. Mea culpa. “Yet their minds did not become those of beasts but remained rational and human, just as Apuleius said happened to himself, viz., that when he took the drug he became an ass. … But this may be either fact or fiction.”

LUCIUS A

And you take his uncertainty for gospel? He couldn’t even get the name of the book right.

LUCIAN

But he did get your name right, didn’t he?

LUCIUS P

He got my name right!

LUCIUS A

Right name, wrong book. Wrong character, right author, wrong narrator, right character. Right book, wrong author.

LUCIUS P

Well maybe he knew what day of the week it was? When’s Wednesday?

LUCIUS A

And here we go again …

LUCIUS P

No, really. I need to know what day it is! It took me ages to get here. I got terribly lost along the way. But as long as I made it here by Wednesday then everything should be OK.

LUCIAN

Oh, you got lost, did you? Surprise, surprise!

LUCIUS P

Well, Lucian, I apologize for lacking your innate sense of direction. Not everyone can master the days of the week or quote Persian proverbs. Not everyone is so erudite.

LUCIUS A

Or so modest!

LUCIAN

Your sarcasm is not lost on me.

LUCIUS A

Indeed, you could write an entire dialogue on sarcasm. Perhaps title it “The Angst-Ridden Teenager.”

LUCIAN

Well, I do have “The Parasite: A Demonstration That Sponging Is a Profession.” Same difference? Plus, just ’cause I recognize sarcasm, doesn’t mean I employ it. And likening me to a teenager? Yours is the story rife with awkward sex, witch piss, bestiality, and, may I add, projectile diarrhea.

LUCIUS P

So was mine! I lived it, you just wrote it.

LUCIUS A

Who? Me? You must mean Lucian.

LUCIAN, to Lucius A

I believe he means you, Lucius.

LUCIUS P

Yes! You, the writer! Didn’t you write such heady things as On Plato and His Doctrine? Or what about that definitive treatment of Socrates’s daemons?

LUCIUS A

I’m surprised—especially at you, Lucius—for having read such work. Such philosophy!

LUCIAN

Philosophy! I don’t shove my head into the clouds and obsess about philosophy. What do you find in it? You see that neither your own teacher, nor his, nor his again, and so on to the tenth generation, has been perfectly wise and so attained happiness. It will not serve you to say that it is enough to get near happiness; that’s no good. A person on the doorstep is just as much outside and in the air as another a long way off, though with the difference that the former is tantalized by a nearer view.

LUCIUS P

I don’t care for it either. I’m happy to stick with diarrhea!

LUCIUS A

Sounds like philosophy to me.

LUCIAN, to Lucius A

Well, Lucius, if you are, in fact, a serious philosopher, can you—oh, thaumaturge, radiesthesiste, diviner, etcetera, etcetera—can you reveal to us, using your impressive Sphere—

LUCIUS P

I lost my impressive spheres—and that glorious, glorious staff!—when I was turned back into a man …

LUCIUS A

Sphere, Lucius! Singular. Just one sphere.

LUCIAN

Oh I’m so sorry! It must be terrible to only be half a man! After having been a whole man, a whole donkey, and now just half a man! You poor Proteus!

LUCIUS P

I’d trade one sphere to have that donkey staff back …

LUCIUS A

Yes, Lucius, I’ve read of your shortcomings.

LUCIAN, to Lucius A

But I thought you had problems reading, Lucius? That can be read rather clearly in your story—even by those who otherwise had trouble reading it.

LUCIUS P

I didn’t have problems reading him.

LUCIAN

Did you read all the way to the end, Lucius?

LUCIUS P

Well, no. I knew the story, didn’t I? He just gussied it up a bit, didn’t he? A few extra tales thrown in, some changed character names … I mean, I am the story!

LUCIAN

This is why you didn’t have any problems. Not because you lived it, but because you didn’t read all the way to the end. And to the problem that is Isis.

LUCIUS P

The problem that is is is what?

LUCIAN

Oh, Lucius. You claim that it’s your story, yet you don’t know the ass’s end! Ironically, you’re the text’s ideal reader: It’s as if you’re always reading it for the first time.

LUCIUS P

I’ve had quite enough of this!

(Lucius P exits.)

LUCIUS A

I’m curious, Lucian—

LUCIAN

Careful!

LUCIUS A

Oh shush. I’m curious as to why you keep calling it my book? Are you thinking of me as author? Narrator? Auctor?

LUCIAN

Sorry, your accent? “Actor”?

LUCIUS A

Actor, auctor, author, ass—

LUCIAN

Asser!

LUCIUS A

Asshole.

LUCIAN

I’ll watch mine when you’re about, asser!

LUCIUS A

But don’t bother if Lucius is about! Is he about? Where did he go? Seems as if he’s wandered off.

LUCIUS A

He’s probably off trying to find Wednesday, the dunce. He asked about it enough. I suppose it’s safe to assume we all got the same message?

LUCIAN

You know what they say when you “assume,” Lucius.

LUCIUS A

You can do better that, Lucian.

LUCIAN

I certainly can. Our lost Lucius made me think of this one: How do you make a donkey laugh?

LUCIUS A

How?

LUCIAN

Say you have a bigger penis than a donkey. How do you then make the donkey cry?

LUCIUS A

How?

LUCIAN

Show it!

LUCIUS A

That’s funny?

LUCIAN

Oh, come now, Lucius, don’t be such a prude!

LUCIUS A

It’s not prudishness or shame—trust me there! But poor Lucius. Not even here to defend himself. Always pining after his lost story and his lost dick. Now that is funny.

LUCIAN

Oh you just don’t know good humor when you hear it. As the saying goes, a monkey with a gold key chain is still a monkey, and you may have a book in your hands and read all the time, but you don’t understand a word of it, like a donkey moving its ears to the sound of the lyre.

LUCIUS A

Enough with this donkey business. Did you or did you not get a message to meet here on Wednesday?

LUCIAN

I did, indeed. But that’s still more donkey business. Because the message was delivered to me by a very chatty donkey.

LUCIUS A

As was mine! He kept muttering something about angels, paths, beatings; was walking in zigzags and stopping frequently. I thought he was a quite drunk donkey. His bray was sounding more like a sheep! Less like “hee-haw” and more like “bal-aaaaam.” If I didn’t have this rather inspired sympathy for donkeys I would have completely ignored this one. He seemed rather lunatic.

LUCIAN

I bet when you were a donkey you seemed mad!

LUCIUS A

He who knows what insanity is is sane; whereas insanity can no more be sensible of its own existence than blindness can see itself. Me? I am definitely cognizant of the lunacy in my story.

(Lucius P returns.)

I think the reactions were quite in character.

LUCIAN

In character?

LUCIUS A

Well, you know … Lucius, where did you disappear to?

LUCIUS P

I’m not sure, I was trying to figure out what day it was.

LUCIUS A

It’s Wednesday, Lucius. Don’t worry. We received messages, too.

LUCIUS P

Wednesday! Fantastic! From a donkey?

LUCIAN

Yes, a black, haggard donkey. He seemed rather, well … He kept looking at me in that way. He told me that his name was Yazid Ibn Shihab, but that his very special friends called him Ya’foor. “Yazid,” I said, trying to steer clear of familiarity, but he interrupted with a velvety “Ya’foor” and sidled up closer. I was certainly glad he only was equipped with hooves—I’m certain he’d have been pawing me otherwise! Anyway, he delivered his message—drawing it out and going into far too many details. I was flattered, I suppose. He spoke of my possibly Semitic nose, and he likened my beauty to a certain Cleonymus. Superfluous chatter! He just wanted to linger like a limpet! As I was making my exit he told me that I wasn’t allowed to ride him, but that I was more than welcome to ride him. He took my refusal rather hard.

LUCIUS A

How so?

LUCIAN

He threw himself down a well!

LUCIUS A

Such melodrama.

(to Lucius P)

What about your donkey?

LUCIUS P

My donkey? Hold on a moment. I was afraid I’d forget all the details so I wrote it down. It’s somewhere here in my bag … It’s in here somewhere …

LUCIAN

Can’t you just try to remember?

LUCIUS P

Oh here it is—oh, never mind. That’s my shopping list. Oh! Aha! This is it … oh wait, nope.

(Benjamin [the donkey from Animal Farm] enters.)

LUCIUS A

Well, would you look at this gray, old donkey!

LUCIUS P

This is exactly the kind of donkey I would have liked to become.

LUCIUS A

You ate the roses … You can’t blame the gods, or the moon, or Isis for that.

BENJAMIN

Hello.

LUCIAN

It speaks!

LUCIUS A

Considering our stories, Lucian, you’re surprised?

BENJAMIN

I have a message.

LUCIUS A

Another messenger donkey! Perhaps he’ll explain why we’re all here.

BENJAMIN

Perhaps I will.

LUCIAN

Or perhaps he’ll just put us all to sleep.

BENJAMIN

Forgive me if I’m not more enthusiastic. I just don’t see anything to be enthusiastic about.

LUCIUS A

How dull. This gray, old donkey is seeming more and more like a bore and an eyesore.

LUCIUS P

An Eeyore?

LUCIUS A

An Eyesore.

BENJAMIN

Can we get on with this please?

LUCIAN

Of course, donkey. But first, what’s your name?

BENJAMIN

Name? I hardly remember. It doesn’t matter. It’s Benjamin.

LUCIUS A

Welcome, Benjamin! We’re ready—read us this message.

BENJAMIN

It seems like such a waste of effort …

“There’s a custom in Hades that applies to all the arts (and skilled professions). Whoever is the best in each discipline has the right to have his dinner in the Great Hall, with his own chair of honor, up near Pluto.

“It has recently been decided that a new seat is to be opened up. This is the seat for the best writer of ass tales. It has been deemed that the story of Lucius’s transformation into a donkey is the pinnacle ass tale. However. The judges in the underworld found it very difficult to determine whose version of this story is whose and in the end could not pin the tale to the donkey-writer. As such, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus have decreed, ‘Fuck it, let the three of them figure it out themselves.’

“One of you shall have the seat.

“Perhaps seek out Midas. He can be located at Onouta—his usual place of residence. He’s been both a judge and a donkey and, as such, can help determine the best donkey-writer.”

That’s the end of their message. I’ll add, in regards to Midas, that he’s seen that no matter what happens in life—riches or mockery—life goes on as it had always gone on. That is, badly.

LUCIAN

The Great Hall! Benjamin! Have you been? What is it like? Is it just overflowing with the most famous thinkers and writers and artists and—

BENJAMIN

Do I look dead to you? Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead donkey.

LUCIUS A

Well, this should be good fun. How will it be determined which of us shall take the seat?

BENJAMIN

It doesn’t matter. Donkey stories? As far as I know there is nothing worth reading. Things never have been nor ever could be much better or much worse—hunger, hardship, and disappointment—this is the unalterable law of life.

LUCIUS A

He’s great at parties.

LUCIAN

If the judges of the underworld cannot decide, perhaps Pluto himself could?

BENJAMIN

The gods are cruel. They have given me a tail to keep the flies off, but I sooner would have had no tail and no flies. Are we finished here?

LUCIUS P

Wait, wait, Mr. Benjamin … So all we need to do is speak with Midas? How will he figure this out? Where do we go when we’ve decided who gets the seat?

BENJAMIN

I’ve done more than what was required of me for this task. If you need anything else ask someone else.

(Benjamin exits.)

LUCIUS A

Well, friends, I guess we should get this decided.

LUCIAN

What criteria will judgment be based on?

LUCIUS A

Well, I think it’s rather simple, really. My story is the most read, most influential, the funniest, and, frankly, the most famous!

LUCIUS P

But my book came first!

LUCIAN

But did it really, my friend?

LUCIUS P

I swear it did!

LUCIAN

Well, it’s a shame you’re such an idiot and lost it. No one has ever seen it.

LUCIUS P

You saw it! You based yours on mine!

LUCIAN

That’s conjecture, Lucius.

LUCIUS A

I think you’re both getting rather bogged down. It is with life just as with swimming; that man is the most expert who is the most disengaged from all encumbrances. None of this firstsecondthirding matters. Mine is clearly the best.

(Chorus of Moralizing Donkeys enters.)