Next step is The Uses of Greek Mythology, which provides a theoretical framework for thinking about what myth is and how it can be of use. I’m a big fan of this Routledge series Approaching the Ancient World, which provides straightforward but not simplistic guides to using different sorts of evidence. It’s more for historians, but one of the things I love about studying Classical literature is that you really need to know a bit about a lot of things.

Then there’s Art and Myth in Ancient Greece, which very helpfully brings together some of the visual evidence grouped around myths rather than date or medium; among other things, it’s interesting to see how representations change over time. And looking at pretty pictures is always soothing.

And then for a bracing contrast there’s Palaephatus, who, writing around the 4th century BC, conceived the ultimately doomed project of providing rational explanations for myths. A sample: ‘They say that Diomedes’ horses ate men. Ridiculous! Horse enjoy barley and oats rather than human flesh.’ Always refreshing to hear a voice of sound common sense.

I’ve also devoured Mary Beard’s The Parthenon, particularly interesting as I’m hoping to visit Athens next year. I had no idea that there were so many levels of development and destruction overlaying the ‘original’ Parthenon, and that the current monument is to such an extent a reconstruction.

But the book that’s really kept me busy is Scribes and Scholars, which should be required reading for first-year undergraduates. Finally I understand something of the process by which texts have ended up on the shelves at Blackwells, and the techniques and pitfalls of textual criticism. The subject-matter is quite dense but the book is beautifully written, with occasional touches of dry humour such as:

‘Boniface heard one [priest] carrying out a baptism of dubious efficacy in nomine patria et filia et spiritus sancti‘

and

‘[Lovato] also tried his hand at archaeology, and identified a skeleton which some workmen had turned up as the remains of the legendary founder of Padua, the Trojan Antenor, a gorgeous error.’

There is definitely a new chapter to be written though, about ‘electronic’ texts and the impact they may have on transmission. Amazon is full of comments that texts are badly scanned and illegible, or badly transcribed and unintelligible. I don’t think we would be in a good state if we were suddenly reliant on electronic copies alone. I remain a Kindle resister.

I thoroughly enjoyed Simon Goldhill’s How to Stage Greek Tragedy Today, not least because I’ve seen several of the productions he discusses. He makes excellent points about the reasons why they succeed or fail, in terms of audience impact. It has also made me want to see another production at the earliest opportunity; there seems to be a very good Oedipus (not sure which one; possibly all three) at the Edinburgh Fringe this year, so I’m contemplating the logistics of a quick dash further North.

It’s also made me want to catch up with Greek drama I haven’t studied in detail yet – so far Sophocles’ Electra, which is a tremendous play. I’m taking advantage of Blackwell’s Loeb centenary celebrations to complete my collection. As I may have said before, I do love the Loebs (those with recent translations). Once, long ago, I wrote an essay on King Alfred’s Metres of Boethius almost solely to justify the purchase of the relevant Loeb. There’s something about their hardback weight relative to their size, and cheerfully bright paper jackets, that makes them very pleasing.

Currently I’m engaged in Hugh Bowden’s Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle, which is admirably clear and to the point. I had assumed, largely based on Thucydides, that fifth century Athenians did not really put any faith in oracles in affairs of state, but it appears to be more complicated than that.

And of course, when brainpower is at a low ebb, there’s re-reading novels and crime fiction. Happy summer days.

I’ve been waiting a long time to study Greek art, and it was entirely worth the wait. Black-figure and archaic red-figure pots are still my favourite, but I’ve got a better appreciation of a much broader range of art now, and a good foundation for much further study. I immediately want to rush off and see some more in real life rather than on the page, which is unfortunate as I have no immediate prospects of getting to the British Museum, the Fitzwilliam, or the Ashmolean, whose exhibition on finds from Macedon looks particularly tempting.

The most rewarding subject has been my dissertation, which was an excellent exercise in scoping out a subject, doing the reading, changing direction, focusing down on the main themes, and turning it all into a reasonably scholarly piece of writing. And the finished product was a work of beauty, with spiral binding and colour illustrations! I am definitely ready to do more research, and seriously planning the best way to pursue an M.A.

I’m pleased to have done some Menander and quite enjoyed Demosthenes, but could take it or leave it. Thucydides and I have come to a grudging mutual understanding, but are in no hurry to prolong our acquaintance. I thoroughly enjoyed Wasps and was pleased to confirm that the smoke joke at line 144 is the best one in it; I’d love to see it performed, but am not holding my breath, as performances of classical drama seem to have receded again following a high point a few years ago. And rather against expectation, I think Pindar’s soft-voiced odes with silvered faces are entirely brilliant.

I have no major plans for self-improvement over the summer, but intend to find some time for relaxation rather than carving out every possible moment for work. It’s been something of a slog. But next year is a much lighter workload, and my enthusiasm is unabated.

I am mainly wallowing around in my dissertation, and trudging slowly through some Greek translation. I’ve decided to get my own thoughts on paper for the dissertation before tackling the secondary reading, with the aim of being clear what my ideas are, and what I’ve borrowed from elsewhere. Time will tell whether this is a successful strategy. At the moment I’ve written thousands of words and barely scratched the surface; it’s going to need a lot of editing to turn into something readable.

On the plus side, I have had the great pleasure of using the University Library’s special collections, which involves catalogue numbers and chits, relinquishing all writing materials except a pencil, and being ushered through to read in a rarified atmosphere. Thoroughly enjoyable, even if my material was nothing more exciting than a slightly fragile journal from the 1960s. It has at least given me a new object of desire, some snake weights.

The Greek translation is, as ever, hard labour, but at least it’s Menander, which is quite amusing. Can’t get the jokes to work though.

One firm plan for next semester is to do a mini-dissertation – more of a micro-dissertation in fact, of a mere 6,000 words (what in a previous life I would have called ‘an essay’). It’s very bijou, I need to submit a mini-plan and mini-headings for my mini-chapters. But I am having loads of fun with it. I feel like I’ve reached the point where I can research for myself, following my own interests, without needing to be taught everything. At the same time, I know there’s lots to learn about working freestyle, which is why it’s helpful to have a go before I aspire to the dizzy heights of postgraduate study. But I keep finding new angles and new connections – usually last thing at night when I’m cleaning my teeth, for some reason. Especially after exam cramming, it’s great to be exploring something from my own perspective. The only question is whether I end up with anything worthwhile to say.

That aside, my latest task has been to translate some of Seneca’s Controuersiae. Very strange; as far as I can make out, from my admittedly skimpy research, they are a collection of lawyers’ bons mots from ‘exemplar’ cases which never actually occurred. However, to my taste the mots aren’t very bons; like the kind of anecdote at which one has to laugh extra hard to disguise one’s surprise that it was thought worth repeating. But at least the sentences are short…

Critical theory as an end in itself is not really my bag; in my experience, it tends towards small cliques of loud-voiced men arguing with each other, and quickly takes you a long way from the text. I attempted to study theory a long time ago, and vividly recall being driven halfway to despair by Derrida.

However, it’s impossible to take a neutral stance on theory; one needs to stake out a critical position, however broadly specified. Malcolm Heath’s Interpreting Classical Texts says all that needs to be said about why theory: ‘Responsible scholarship incurs certain obligations, including the obligations of clarity and rigour. We ought to be clear about what we are trying to achieve, and how we might reasonably try to achieve it; we ought to be able to give an account of and to justify our practice. How else are we to engage in rational discussion of our disagreements in these matters? The alternative is irresponsible dogmatism.’

Far be it from me to be an irresponsible dogmatist, hence my attempt to re-engage. Schmitz gives a brief account of the principal strands of literary theory. He claims to show how these apply to classical texts, but this is done rather sketchily. No matter; the clear and accessible outlines of complex theories are more than sufficiently useful. He strongly appeals to me when he says ‘those readers who will have the most rewarding and inspiring encounters with literary texts are those who are able to view them from as many different perspectives as possible, who can think of as many questions to ask as possible.’ Now this is a sensible approach to theory. It has something in common with de Bono’s Six Thinking Hats; although that does lead me down a sidetrack to consider what hat a Russian Formalist would wear as opposed to a New Historicist.

My one fear is that someone has already done exactly what I’m planning, but nothing’s come to light as yet. Fingers crossed.