I overdosed on an insufferably tedious and pretentious exposition of moralist drivel. Hail and praise Cicero, the standard bearer of Classical Latin, the avatar of Stoic virtue! Only one problem to that formula: I fell asleep. Contained within the writings of Cicero, I was told, was the wisdom of the ages. I know, for I was that half-literate adolescent once upon a time. Why then does it seem like a half-literate adolescent could, upon reading Caesar, not only enjoy it, but understand it as well?Ĭertainly that aforementioned half-literate adolescent would not be so quick to devour Cicero. Emanating from historical literature is a dire aura of esoteric majesty in which only the chosen few may brave such climes. Theories are spun, papers published, and debates hashed out concerning the significance of the tiniest arcane details. The assumption for generations has been that both disciplines are complicated subjects which legions of trained academics prod and poke, uncovering heretofore undiscovered truths. History should not be so facile, nor literature so digestible.
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