February 2026 – Classical Studies

Seeing with the Soul

Cicero did not equate disability with incapability, argues Samantha Ritschel (’26).

I have lived life as a disabled person for over a decade. I was not born disabled. My disease, Friedreich’s Ataxia, began affecting me when I was eleven. So many doors that were previously open for me, suddenly shut, and I needed to find a new path forward. For me, that path led me to the world of the Classics. Classical Studies renewed something in me; it gave me a purpose, and with purpose comes the drive to succeed.

A tattoo on my right arm: one black beta fish and one white beta fish circling each other to form a yin yang symbol with the quote nec umquam philosophum audivi (“I never listened to a philosopher,” Petronius, Satyrica 71.12).

Throughout my academic career, ancient philosophers have occupied a great deal of the subject matter of my studies. I hate philosophy. I have never listened to a philosopher, and quite frankly, I don’t think I ever will. My experiences and the way I must live my life due to my disability cannot be mapped on to the philosophies that I am taught. Call me a pessimist if you must, but I prefer the term realist. To know oneself is the best thing that someone can do for themself, and for me that means accepting limitations and carving a path for myself, even though it will never be easy. And sometimes, to know yourself, you have to make a statement.

There is debate among the disabled community about disability first language and its use to refer to someone. I respect the opinions of others, but let me make mine clear. To use the language “person with a disability” erases who you are at your core. I am a disabled person. There is no taking the disability out of me. I am aware of the fact that when people meet me for the first time, the first thing they see is my wheelchair; they see the wheelchair rather than the person on the initial meeting. I am not saying that disability is what makes you who you are, I am saying that disability is part of you, whether you like it or not. There is no sense in chaining yourself with self-doubt and concern about how others may perceive you. I’m not saying that you are not allowed to be anxious, worried, or angry at the fact that you are not considered a typical person. But it is important to not let that consume you. Life is about the experiences that you have and the path that you forge for yourself. As a disabled person, I needed to forge a realistic path. I am aware how inconsistent I sound. Is this not philosophy? Is my thought process not the same type of doctrine that I despise? And you would be right, I am many things, and self-aware is one of them. This type of philosophy, one in which disability does not equate to incapability, is one that I hold close to my heart.

As I said earlier, I have learned to love the Classics, especially the Latin language. It is from this love of the Classics that I found an idea for my research project: the treatment of the disabled in ancient Rome. My original thought was to research physical disability in Rome, but I realized that it was too broad. I decided to research the treatment of the blind in Rome. I did this partly because of my father and partly because of my love of the Latin poet, Catullus. My dad runs a company that researches gene therapy for blindness caused by rare genetic diseases, Atsena. This, in combination with a few poems written by Catullus that state a variation of “I love you more than my own eyes,” led to this project. I would like to take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate Jason Morris (Dickinson ’00), who helped me throughout this project. If not for him, I would have never thought to look at the treatment of blind individuals in Rome from a philosophical perspective. I hate philosophy because it cannot be mapped on exactly to my life as a disabled person, therefore it never occurred to me, that perhaps a philosopher in antiquity tackled the issue of disability. Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations tackles philosophy from a Stoic point of view, which is interesting, but the most interesting content can be found in Book 5. Book 5 provides examples and analysis of how disability not only does not equate to incapability but also does not affect one’s ability to live a happy and virtuous life.

Book 5 teaches that virtue itself is sufficient for living happily (as Cicero himself summarizes it in De divinatione 2.2, docet enim ad beate vivendum virtutem se ipsa esse contentam). Cicero is firm during his defense of virtue as the key to happiness (Barney, 16). Virtue in Rome has multiple facets; it does not have a singular definition meaning that virtue is subjective to an individual’s experience. This is evident in the Latin language. The word for virtue is virtus which has a myriad of definitions. The main definitions of virtus are manliness and courage. Typically, virtue is defined in terms of one’s strength, specifically their physical strength. Most of the time virtus is used to describe manliness or warrior-like courage. However, virtue cannot be defined as just physical characteristics. If virtus refers to manliness, then does that make a person virtuous? The third definition for virtus is more ethical. Virtue can be based on the character of an individual. A virtuous person, someone who embodies virtus is courageous in both spirit and fortitude. A virtuous man can be judged on his manliness and battle, but it is the goodness of his spirit, and his relentless drive to improve himself that makes him worthy of the word. In terms of the disabled population in Rome, virtus could not be achieved via manliness or battle-based courage. For them, virtus was based on the goodness of their character, and the courage it took them to advocate for themselves and become a functioning member of society. The blind in Rome demonstrated courage daily by existing in an inaccessible world and attempting to lead the life of a happy man. The Disputations, specifically book five, teach that an individual has nothing to fear as long as they pursue a virtuous life by facing the challenges of life courageously (Barney, 13).

Cicero had a unique perspective regarding the blind. He argues it is the soul which receives the objects we see (animus accipit quae videmus, 5.111). His point is that a blind man sees through his soul, not his eyes, which implies that the lack of vision does not determine an individual’s capability to enrich his soul, which would metaphorically enrich his vision. He clarified this further by stating “Now the soul may have delight in many different ways, even without the use of sight; for I am speaking of an educated and instructed man with whom life is thought; and the thought of the wise man scarcely ever calls in the support of the eyes to aid his researches” (ibid.).

The use of animus is as interesting as his argument. The definition of animus can be interpreted as soul, mind, or spirit. It can be translated any of these three ways, meaning that Cicero made a choice to use such an ambiguous term to speak about blindness. The use of such an ambiguous term implies that Cicero wanted his readers to decide which definition fits best. He speaks of the education and pursuit of knowledge that blind man is capable of. In this context, the translation of animus as “mind” rather than “spirit” or “soul” is more relevant. However, the impact of translating animus as soul or spirit makes for a stronger statement. If a blind man is still able to enrich his soul and manipulate his spirit through the ways of philosophy and education, then perhaps they are not meant to be ridiculed in society as they were typically. Furthermore, an individual who was blind is still able to be virtuous utilizing their animus to fortify their virtus. A blind man’s soul can be enriched with courage from their mental fortitude and spiritual strength rather than a body capable of typical Roman virtus (manliness). This argument is uniquely Cicero’s, as most of Roman society typically found no use for disabled individuals.

The Stoic Diodotus, who was blind, lived for many years at my house. Now whilst—a thing scarcely credible—he occupied himself with philosophical study even far more untiringly than he did previously, and played upon the harp in the fashion of the Pythagoreans, and had books read aloud to him by night and day, in the study of which he had no need of eyes, he also did what seems scarcely possible without eyesight, he went on teaching geometry, giving his pupils verbal directions from and to what point to draw each line. (Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.113)

The language used in this section of Book 5 is extremely positive; there are no obvious negative connotations. The tone of the passage is not only admiring Diodotus but makes sure not to diminish his value simply because he is blind. Cicero emphasized his learnedness by claiming that he kept himself occupied with the study of philosophy and the study of music, both of which are seen as signs of a learned Roman. He also included a mention of his ability to teach geometry to students. That is pertinent, as it signifies that Diodotus not only had a strong education, but also that his patrons consisted of elite Romans. This is clear because, primarily, the elite and wealthy Romans were able to afford classes on theoretical mathematics such as geometry (Asper, 108).

Although his emphasis on learning clarifies the type of man Cicero admired, what is more interesting is how he discusses disability. The approach to blindness is clear: with reasonable accommodation, a blind man has no need for his eyes. Cicero wrote explicitly that Diodotus did not require vision as long as someone read to him during his personal time for study. He also stated that as a teacher, Diodotus was able to give instructions verbally to his students. Therefore, he was still capable of teaching without needing to have his eyesight. Using Diodotus as an example, Cicero argued that educated blind men are capable of not only participating in Roman society but also thriving.

The typical attitude toward blindness and any disability in Rome is reminiscent of how today disability is treated. There were extreme restrictions on career opportunities for blind Roman citizens. Furthermore, there were many jokes made at their expense. Luckily, the Romans were not Christian at this time otherwise, like me, a random lady would pull out a rosary at a grocery store and start praying at them in pity. The prevalence of pity and uncomfortableness with disability has not changed from antiquity to now. However, Cicero was a breath of fresh air that I hadn’t ever considered before. I have read many of his works, but his philosophical work related to disability gave me some hope for philosophy in general. He believed that blind individuals were just as capable as those who could see. Cicero did not ridicule nor demean disabled individuals. In fact, he admired them for having the strength and resolve to do something with their lives. Cicero uses Diodotus, the blind Stoic, as an example of how disability did not equate to incapability; if accommodations were provided, a disabled the individual was just as capable as any other Roman.

References

Asper, M. 2009. “The two cultures of mathematics in ancient Greece.” In E. Robson, and J. Stedall (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Mathematics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Barney, R. 2025. “The Aims and Argument of the Tusculan Disputations,” in Brittain, Charles, James Warren, eds., Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rings: Loyalty or Lies

Jilliyn Iannace (’26) shows how Ovid’s poem about the ring he has given to his beloved (Amores 2.15, Latin text at PHI; English translations by H.T. Riley 1885, and A.S. Kline 2001) begins by drawing on the ring a symbol of loyalty, but quicky veers off into a playful and risqué fantasy.

When you see a ring, what do you think of? The first thing that comes to many people’s minds is engagement. Rings have been a symbol of loyalty between two people for thousands of years, yet engagement rings did not become the symbol that we consider them until the rise of Christianity. Roman poets of the early first century discuss their love and desire for their girlfriends, but hesitate to give them gifts. Only Ovid dares to write a poem giving a ring to his girlfriend to show his loyalty to her. This is a part of his collection of love poetry called the Amores. The Amores are part of a larger genre called elegiac poetry which is defined by the distinctive elegiac meter of the poem and the content; typically discussing personal topics like love (Hinds & Kenney, 2015). While Ovid expresses all good intentions, his (and his girlfriend’s) infidelity undermines the meaning of loyalty of the poetic persona and leads the audience to question the devotion of other elegiac poets. The use of loyalty is ironic in the context of elegiac poetry.

Gold ring with carnelian intaglio: Eros with flaming torch. 1st century BCE- 1st century CE.Ring. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. — Gold ring with carnelian intaglio: Eros with flaming torch. 1st century BCE- 1st century CE. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 74.51.4233. The ring which Ovid gave his girlfriend would have looked something like this. Ovid does not specify the engraving featured on the gem but considering the sexual content of the poem an engraving of Eros would be very fitting.

Ovid claims that the ring is made from materials “in which nothing ought to be assessed except the love of the giver” (censendum nil nisi dantis amor, 2.15.2) to assert that the worth of the gift is dependent on the giver. Ovid intends the real gift to be the poem (James, 226) and his loyalty. The poem goes with the ring to outline the reasons that Ovid has sent it. In addition to this, he stresses the connection between his girlfriend and the ring, calling it “lucky” (felix, 2.15.7) because it will touch her. The ring’s function is to win over the beloved with flatteries and convince Ovid’s girlfriend to accept his loyalty. On the surface, Ovid does not appreciate the distance between him and his girlfriend, but it really allows him to express his desire and loyalty for her through the poem and fantasy. Ovid will undergo a metamorphosis, becoming the ring, which allows him to express his loyalty and the physical relationship that will come after her promise.

The first thing that Ovid does when he turns into a ring is come and fall into her breast (inque sinum mira laxus ab arte cadam, 2.15.14). Now Ovid is able to use the ring as more than a symbol of his loyalty. He can exert his agency and touch the beloved for his pleasure. With the metamorphosis, Ovid shows his true estimation of his loyalty. A poem previously serious becomes playful through the ring metamorphosis fantasy, and erotic through Ovid’s physical connection with his girlfriend as a ring. These ideas change the mood of the poem to one that is intended to thrill the audience.

Next, Ovid switches back into his promises of loyalty, revealing that the ring is a signet ring. Signet rings were used to seal documents and identify individuals with different engravings (Weingarten, 2021). Ovid, as the ring claims, that he will seal “secret tablets” (arcanas tabellas 2.15.15), meaning love letters sent by his girlfriend (McKeown, 323). However, Ovid makes it clear that he will “not sign a message painful to [him]” (ne signem scripta dolenda mihi, 2.15.18), meaning love letters sent to other men. At this point in the poem, Ovid has shown that he wants to be loyal to his girlfriend, although he has not explicitly stated that this is the purpose of the gift. Now he begins to ask loyalty from her in return. Ovid’s refusal to seal a message would require his girlfriend to be faithful by not allowing her correspondence with other men. Ovid also claims that, “if [he] will be given to put in the box, [he] will refuse to go” (si dabor ut condar loculis, exire negabo, 2.15.19). If Ovid is put in a jewelry box, he cannot see what the beloved is up to. Ovid wants to be with his lover always because he is loyal. But furthermore, he also wants to test his lover’s loyalty by seeing her interactions with other men when he is worn throughout the day. If she keeps and wears the ring, she will be faithful to him, but if she puts him in her jewelry box, she is seeing other men.

Martial, a poet who writes short poems used as gift tags, writes from the perspective of a jewelry box, , “often a heavy ring slips from greasy fingers, but your ring will find safety in my trust” (saepe gravis digitis elabitur anulus unctis / tuta mea fiet sed tua gemma fide, Epigrammata 14.123). The giver wishes that the recipient will use their gift and that the bond between the two individuals will benefit from the gift. This is the role of any gift: to express appreciation for a relationship between two individuals, whether platonic or romantic. Ovid uses the modest cost of the ring to argue for its continuous presence on the beloved’s finger (McKeown, 325). He claims that “[his girlfriend’s] tender finger would not refuse to bear [his] weight” (tener digitus ferre recuset onus, 2.15.22). Ovid says this mainly to keep himself out of the jewelry box, but also to claim that his love will not be oppressive. He also claims that “[he] would not be repulsive to you, [his] life” (non ego dedecori tibi sum, mea vita, futurus, 2.15.21). The ring, although as discussed above, did not cost much, would have been well-made and beautiful for the beloved to wear. In Rome, a guild of craftsmen created different rings for jewelers to sell (Kiernan & Henz, 998), but throughout the empire, even local ring makers selling cheaper jewelry made from copper alloys created fashionable rings. Ovid transitions back into a sexual content, suggesting that his girlfriend wear him as the ring “when [she] bathe[s] [her] body in warm showers” (cum calidis perfundes imbribus artus, 2.15.23). With the removal of her clothes, the sexual fantasy takes over the poem. Next, Ovid states that “[he] think[s], [his] limbs would rise with lust at [her] nakedness/ and [he], as that ring, will fulfill the man’s role” (puto, te nuda mea membra libidine surgent/ et peragam partes anulus ille viri, 2.15.25). This is a very vivid image, even for the Amores. This description is the climax of the poem and stresses Ovid’s wish for this poem to be received lightly before he changes back into a man and returns to the address of the ring.

After returning to his human form, Ovid tells the ring to “go, small gift” (parvum proficiscere munus, 2.15.27). He has one last request for the ring, which is to make sure his girlfriend knows the meaning of the poem and gift. In the last line, he summarizes the purpose: “let her feel that my loyalty is given with you” (illa datam tecum sentiat esse fidem 2.15.28). Ovid’s loyalty to his girlfriend is the reason for the gift.

While Ovid makes a claim for loyalty in this poem, he is certainly not throughout the corpus of the Amores. Two of his poems are dedicated to Cypassis, a maid of Ovid’s girlfriend. When she discovers their secret, Ovid asks “Yet surely I did not blush? Surely, I did not slip in any word to surrender a guilty mark of our secret sex?” (num tamen erubui? num, verbo lapsus in ullo/furtivae Veneris conscia signa dedi? 2.8.7). While Ovid asks his beloved for loyalty and promises his own in this poem, his loyalty might be circumstantial. Ovid’s girlfriend is also found to be unfaithful when Ovid tells her “I do not object, that you do not transgress, since you are beautiful/ but that it should not be necessary for miserable me to know it/ I am not a censor who orders you to become chaste/ but nevertheless I ask, that you try to conceal it” (non ego, ne pecces, cum sis formosa, recuso/ sed ne sit misero scire necesse mihi/ nec te nostra iubet fieri censura pudicam/ sed tamen, ut temptes dissimulare, rogat, 3.14.1). While Ovid asks for his girlfriend’s loyalty, he is aware that she cannot fully give it. In the same way, his loyalty cannot be fully given because he himself is unfaithful. Even so, he tells his beloved that the ring is a symbol of his love, and by promising loyalty, even conditionally, he demonstrates his playful take on elegiac poetry.

Ovid takes loyalty the most trivially out of all the elegiac poets. Propertius, an elegiac poet and predecessor of Ovid, rebukes a woman who tries to flirt with him, telling her that she cannot break the loyalty he has for his girlfriend, “and the more by which you fight to weaken our love/ the more it fails with this loyalty having been undertaken by both of us” (quo magis et nostros contendis solvere amores/ hoc magis accepta fallit uterque fide, Propertius 1.4.15). Propertius makes the same claim as Ovid, that both he and his girlfriend are loyal to each other. However, when presented with the opportunity to have sex with another woman, Propertius turns it down. In contrast, and as discussed before, Ovid is willing to sleep around, even with his girlfriend’s maid. Instead of focusing the whole poem on loyalty, Ovid focuses on a sexual fantasy in order to thrill his girlfriend as well as readers of the poem.

This poem was written to incite readers with its erotic content. Ovid stakes his claim on literary criticism and allows himself to trivialize the ring and the loyalty that goes with it. Catullus, a predecessor and model for Ovid and Propertius’ poetry, states that well-written “[poems] are able to incite longing” (et quod pruriat incitare possunt, Catullus, Carmina, 16.9). The distance between Ovid and his girlfriend creates a desire that is explored through Ovid’s fantasy as a ring. The sexual aspects of the poem are surely meant to incite desire and intrigue the audience. The ring is a symbol of loyalty, but one that is not taken too seriously through the sexual scenes in the poem. Ovid, as a lover and a poet, understands the nuances of his relationship with his girlfriend. Playfulness allows Ovid to come and go to the beloved as he pleases, and the ring will always be a reminder of loyalty but never a burdensome one.

Bibliography

James, Sharon L. “The Economics of Roman Elegy: Voluntary Poverty, the Recusatio, and the Greedy Girl.” The American Journal of Philology 122, no. 2 (2001): 223–53.

Kenney, Edward John, and Stephen Hinds. “Elegaic poetry, latin.” Oxford Classical Dictionary. 22 Dec. 2015; Accessed 18 Dec. 2025. Kenney, https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9 780199381135-e-2376.

Kiernan, Philip, and Klaus-Peter Henz. “Rings from the Forbidden Forest: The Function and Meaning of Roman Trinket Rings.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 36, no. 1 (2023): 73–95. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759423000211.

McKeown, J. C. and Ovid. Ovid, Amores : Text, Prolegomena, and Commentary. ARCA, Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers, and Monographs 20. F. Cairns, 1987.

Weingarten, Judith. “seals, sealstones, and signet rings.” Oxford Classical Dictionary. 7 Mar. 2016; Accessed 17 Dec. 2025. https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9 780199381135-e-5776.