Bryn Mawr  Classical Review 1999.01.07  
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Shadi Bartsch, Ideology in Cold Blood: A Reading of Lucan's Civil  War.   
Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press, 1997.  Pp.  x, 224.  ISBN 
0-674-44291-1.  $45.00.   

 
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Reviewed by Gideon Nisbet ([email protected])
Word count: 1268 words

"This book is meant to unfold as a moment in time." Bartsch's bold new  
reading of Lucan aggressively foregrounds her highly individual synthesis of  
theory, and dares us to take issue; this is only the first sentence. What  
follows is a self-consciously "little book" with ambitions to punch beyond its 
 weight. Talking to other Latinists since its release, I've found few who 
would  venture to comment on it beyond a telling shrug or raised eyebrow; but 
there are  big ideas here that won't magically go away for being ignored. 
Libellus  or not, this could be that elusive creature, an Important Book. I'm 
not,  however, convinced that much of it works. 
The crux: Bartsch sees two stories being played out in Lucan's Civil  War. 
There's the plot: the sequence of events that make up its notional  story. 
And there's the 'story' of the narrating presence, the apostrophising  
voice(s) whose interventions in the text are so much remarked upon in  
scholarship. (Throughout Cold Blood, the reader is spared the jargon of  
narratology: a 
wise choice on the author's part.) Bartsch reads these  interventions 
within a very specific frame: for her, they enact a movement from  apathetic 
cynicism to political choice, from spectatorship to engagement. It is  with 
this 
particular movement that Bartsch primarily concerns herself. The  result is 
a strongly felt book which makes no concessions to scholarly tact or  
reserve. Bartsch appears to accept that any reading is always already a  
political positioning:  
"My reading of Lucan ... , like his reading of Caesar and  Pompey's civil 
war, is a self-avowedly engaged one. It advocates a model of  reading that I 
argue Lucan himself endorsed and that I enact by my necessarily  tendentious 
interpretation of the poem."
This is strong and personal stuff, calculated to infuriate suave 
middle-aged  postmodernists in tweed. 
Bartsch's own perspectives and choices are generously signalled. So too is  
the path by which she comes to consider the big Lucanic questions, and it 
starts  with a classic problem: Pompey. For Bartsch, the fudging on Pompey 
has gone on  long enough. Calling his a confused characterisation is dodging 
any number of  issues: "something is happening to the figure of Pompey in 
this epic"  (86). 
This is process, not jumble. But it's hard to read the something that is  
happening as moral evolution. Right from the start, the reader -- and the  
narrator, and Cato -- know that he is an utterly compromised figure, a hollow  
man. Quite late in the day, Pompey is keen to enlist the unutterably horrid 
 Parthians to carry on the war he has already lost: not only is he no Stoic 
 proficiens, for much of the time he's not much of a human being. The more  
the narrator tells us to look up to Pompey, suggests Bartsch, the harder 
the  poet makes it for us to do just that. He tells us one thing as he shows 
us  another.  
"That the narrator has taken up Pompey's banner seems beyond  doubt. The 
question we ask ourselves is why, and especially why in this  fashion. Lucan 
has proved himself perfectly capable of historical distortion;  why not 
produce a Pompey whose banner we too could take up? Why invent the  Parthian 
episode, why not alter the slant of Ilerda, why make Pompey so  unadmirable and 
yet resolutely refuse to acknowledge the character's  weaknesses?" (85)
The problem of Pompey for Bartsch is that the more  insistently he is 
apostrophised as hero, as moral centre, the more clearly he is  revealed by 
narrated events as moral vacuum. The paradox increases in intensity  as his 
career approaches its end, until we have a Pompey who defies belief.  Boldly, 
Bartsch valorises this paradox and builds strong claims upon it. She  seeks to 
navigate between the two Lucans of modern scholarship -- angry young  man, 
playfully deconstructive arch- (and arch) ironist -- to reach  a radical  
centrist reading that addresses and redeems both sides of this  schizophrenic 
received persona. Lucan the toe-dipping narrator moves from  alienated 
impartiality to consciously-chosen partisanship, an act of  self-fashioning in 
"the enactment of a political 'will to believe'" (105).  
It's here, I think, that Ideology in Cold Blood runs into serious  
difficulties. There's already a potential snag in that so much is predicated on 
 a 
particular, arguably quite idiosyncratic reading of Pompey: personally, I 
feel  it's a perceptive reading that we can learn from, but clearly there's 
room for  disagreement. If you don't think Pompey is the Problem, with a 
capital P, much  of this won't work as well as it might. But beyond that, it's 
around this point  that Bartsch's mix of methodologies starts to creak under 
the strain. Too much  has been hedged around: this is a book with Ideology in 
its title but not in the  index. 'Ideology' is a useful term which can carry 
important meanings, but it's  also a fiercely contested one; and it's not 
at all clear what Bartsch thinks it  means. I suspect she's working with a 
restricted and de-fanged model (no Marx,  Engels or even Althusser in her 
bibliography) but she would have done well to  lay her cards on the table at an 
early stage. This is snack theory, and 'will to  believe' is 
Nietsche-on-a-bap. 
These grouches aside, there's much there that is good. Bartsch's 
introduction  provides a marvellously lucid and readable overview of Lucanic 
scholarship. Her  first major chapter, 'The Subject under Siege', is terrific 
fun on 
the violation  of the body in Lucan's epic, although the psychologising on 
Book Nine's snakes  is glib ("Snakes, then, are a universal symbol of anxiety 
about boundaries": 34)  And in amongst the Wills to Believe is 
thought-provoking comment (123ff) on  Lucan's apparent sloppiness over et and 
nec. For 
Bartsch, Lucan's  uneasy substitutions aren't a metrical convenience or a 
glitch, they parallel  his x-for-y readjustments of the historical record:  
"The poet forces us to make the necessary adjustments in  meaning ... Can 
we read without intervening? We cannot. ... reading and  choosing, for Lucan, 
is ... necessary; and it is ironic in its knowledge of  its own violence to 
the 'facts', such as they are." (128-9)
Is Cold Blood worth your time? Probably; even if you don't have the  Will 
to Believe it (and I personally find it hard to do so), it's an  entertaining 
and often perceptive book. It suffers from insufficient  proofreading, but 
the price is reasonable. Ultimately, I think Bartsch's project  fails, and 
in consequence her punchy conclusion comes across as arrogant, even  
laughable:  
"This is the nature of action and ideology as Lucan endorses it,  and as he 
enacts it in his poem and his life, and as he urges us to enact it  also. 
'Recognize,' he seems to be saying, 'that the world as it is is not  built 
for belief, for reason or ideology. But recognize, too, that withdrawal  based 
on this knowledge is not the answer. Make your own beliefs, create your  
own truths, and take a stance. ... Choose to make sense out of the world, and  
it will be yourself you save.'" (129-30)
But Bartsch's insistence that we can have our cake and eat it on "political 
 Lucan" and "ironised Lucan" (141), that we can -- and should -- read for  
spectacle and engagement, is a welcome step forward in reassessing the  
Bellum Civile as a ground-breaking and sophisticated piece of  story-telling. 
It's a refreshing change to encounter a non-schizophrenic Lucan,  and 
Bartsch's approach to reading his epic from a radical centre could signal a  
'third 
way' for Lucanic scholarship. We can have both Lucans at once; whether or  
not we believe Bartsch's reasons, it may be important that we  should.

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