Letter 60

To Eugenius the philosopher. We are told that Daedalus dared to defy nature through his art, fashioning wings of wax for Icarus. I admire his craftsmanship, but I cannot admire his judgment — he is the only man in history who trusted his son's life to something that melts. If I could change my nature to a bird's, as the lyric poet of Teos [Anacreon] imagines, I would not "fly to Olympus for Love's sake" — no, not even to lodge a complaint against him. I would fly straight to your mountains to embrace you, "my darling," as Sappho says. But since nature has confined me in the prison of a human body and refuses to lighten me or lift me up, I approach you with the only wings I have — the wings of words. I write to you, and I am with you in the only way I can. Surely this is the very reason Homer calls words "winged": because they can travel in every direction, darting wherever they will, like the swiftest of birds. Write to me in return, my friend. You possess an equal — if not greater — share of this verbal plumage. You can fly to your friends from wherever you are, and, as though you were there in person, bring them joy.

To Eugenius 3 the Philosopher We are told that Daedalus dared to do violence to nature by his art, and moulded wings of wax for Icarus. But for my part, though I applaud him for his art, I cannot admire his judgement. For he is the only man who ever had the courage to entrust the safety of his son to soluble wax. But if it were granted me, in the words of the famous lyric poet of Teos,1 to change my nature to a bird's, I should certainly not "fly to Olympus for Love," —no, not even to lodge a complaint against him— but I should fly to the very foothills of your mountains to embrace "thee, my darling," as Sappho2 says. But since nature has confined me in the prison of a human body 3 and refuses to lighten and raise me aloft, I approach you with such wings as I possess,4 the wings of words, and I write to you, and am with you in such fashion as I can. Surely for this reason and this only Homer calls words "winged," that they are able to go to and fro in every direction, darting where they will, like the swiftest of birds. But do you for your part write to me too, my friend! For you possess an equal if not a larger share of the plumage of words, with which you are able to travel to your friends and from wherever you may be, just as though you were present, to cheer them. 3 A philosopher named Eugenius was the father of the sophist and philosopher Themistius, an older contemporary of Julian, but this letter with its familiar tone cannot have been addressed to a man of advanced age. Schwarz, Cumont and Geffcken reject it on the ground of its sophistic mannerisms, but see Introduction. 1 Anacreon frag. 22, Bergk 2 Frag. 126, Bergk. 3 A Platonic commonplace; cf. Julian, Oration 6. 198b; 7. 206b.  4 Cf. Letter 76. 449d, p. 244, note.