Maggots are creatures born in death. They evolve around decay to later breed upon rot; multiplying by the hundreds in the most decrepit of places. Yet beauty can always be found in the macabre. In his work Μυίας Ἐγκώμιον, Lucian eloquently makes a case for the neutrality and beauty of the most common household pest: the fly. In this text, the fly is referred to in the feminine singular. Ἡ μυῖας is a feminine noun, so translating the third person pronoun “αὐτὴ” as “she” is not only grammatically correct but also forces the reader to feel more empathy towards this hypothetical fly. “She” is easier to connect to than “it.” This text serves as an argument for the appreciation of flies and their beauty beyond their grotesque births.
This text is broken into twelve paragraphs with the first three focusing on the fly’s physical attributes through comparisons to other creatures. At first, she is compared to other insects to gauge size and general anatomy, but after establishing that she is larger than midges but smaller than bees, the narrator compares her to the peacock. Then, in the second paragraph, the narrator compares the sounds of her wingbeats to those of the gnat, bee, and wasp, and concludes that “it is much more melodious, just as flutes are sweeter than trumpet and cymbals.” By comparing her buzz to flutes, and the iridescence of her wings to the ornate feathers of peacocks, the reader must view the fly through the same lens that they would view both a flute’s music and a symbol of Hera, the queen of the Gods.
In the fourth paragraph, the narrator addresses the somewhat unsavory aspects of the fly’s life. He describes her proboscis, which is used to drink blood, and the fact that she is born “as a maggot from the dead bodies of men or animals.” However, he interlaces these somewhat gross characteristics with calls for empathy. For example, after describing how their eggs hatch, he says, “Being the creature of a day –for her life is meted out to her in very scant measure– she likes sunshine best and goes about her affairs in it.” It’s difficult to feel hatred towards a creature that only lives for a few days and wishes to spend that time feeling the warmth of the sun.
About halfway through the text, the narrator begins to draw in evidence from other poets and cites books 2, 4, 16, and 17 of The Iliad. A particularly compelling comparison is to the scene in which Athena gives Menelaus the “persistent daring of a fly, that finds human blood so sweet it keeps attacking however often it is flicked away.” (Kline, 17.570). The fact that the goddess Athena imbued the abilities of a fly into Menelaus is even more significant because Menelaus is, in short, the guy who wins. At the end of the Trojan War, he marries Helen and rules Sparta. By mentioning the fly’s role in this incredibly well-known and well-respected epic, Lucian gives more reasons to appreciate flies than to fear them or feel disgust towards them.
The mention of the Iliad is also interesting in this text because of the presence of a deity. Athena gave Menelaus the persistence of the fly, and thus the fly became a conduit for divine power. The ninth paragraph tells the story of a girl named Muia (Μῦια) who angered Selene by falling in love with Endymion. Because she would not stop paying him visits, Selene turned her into the first fly so she could “begrudge all sleepers in their repose.”
To draw from another fly-themed piece of media, it can be argued that that same type of divine conduit appears in David Cronenberg’s 1986 film The Fly. In this movie, Seth Brundle (played by Jeff Goldblum), fueled by his fear of flying, creates a breakthrough teleportation device that works by disassembling and reassembling an organism’s molecular structure. During one of the tests, a housefly makes its way into the teleportation pod, causing Brundle’s molecules to splice together with the genes of the fly. The rest of the movie is spent watching Brundle hideously transform into an insect-man hybrid. Many stories from the Greco-Roman period love the idea of a hero plagued by his hubris, and his subsequent divine humbling. The Fly (1986) has all of that, with the added bonus of 1980s practical effects. As a scientist, Brundle is playing God, and it makes sense for his divine punishment to be his transformation into a creature whose existence centers around the thing he fears the most: flying.
At the end of this Μυίας Ἐγκώμιον, Lucian leaves the fly in a morally neutral zone; he has argued on behalf of the fly’s appearance, has given an example of her as a conduit for a divine gift, and has given an example of her as a conduit for divine retribution. Το Έγκωμιον translates to “appreciation,” and by highlighting her best features, as well as providing mythological and literary backgrounds, it would be surprising for the reader to leave without a newfound admiration for these small creatures.
Works Cited
Lucian, Vol. 1. Harmon, A. M., editor. London: William Heinemann, Ltd.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913.
Homer, The Iliad, Book XVII. Trans. A. S. Kline, 2009.
Cronenberg, David. The Fly. 1986.
