Suetonius, Caligula (34):

“He also thought about destroying the poems of Homer, asking why what had been granted to Plato might not be granted to him, namely, banishing him from society. But he was also not far from removing the writings and busts of Vergil and Livy from all libraries, railing against the one for having no talent and almost no learning, and inveighing against the other for being tediously prolix and negligent in historical research.”

Cogitavit etiam de Homeri carminibus abolendis, cur enim sibi non licere, dicens, quod Platoni licuisset, qui eum e civitate quam constituebat eiecerit? Sed et Vergili ac Titi Livi scripta et imagines paulum afuit quin ex omnibus bibliothecis amoveret, quorum alterum ut nullius ingenii minimaeque doctrinae, alterum ut verbosum in historia neglegentemque carpebat.

David Markson, The Last Novel::

”Virgil was five years older than Horace.

Wondering when and where the last casual streetcorner conversation in Latin might have taken place.

Norma loquendi.”

Cicero, Orator (3):

If by chance nature or the power of one’s outstanding genius fails them, or if they are less instructed in the studies of the great arts, let them nevertheless hold the course that they can, for it’s an honorable thing for someone chasing first to rest content with second or third. For among the poets (if I might speak of the Greeks) there isn’t just room for Homer alone or Archilochus or Sophocles or Pindar, but also for people who are of second rank (or even lower) to them. The copiousness of Plato’s work did not deter Aristotle from philosophy, nor did Aristotle, with his admirable knowledge and abundance, put out the flame of others’ studies.

Quod si quem aut natura sua [aut] illa praestantis ingeni vis forte deficiet aut minus instructus erit magnarum artium disciplinis, teneat tamen eum cursum quem poterit; prima enim sequentem honestum est in secundis tertiisque consistere. Nam in poetis non Homero soli locus est, ut de Graecis loquar, aut Archilocho aut Sophocli aut Pindaro, sed horum vel secundis vel etiam infra secundos; nec vero Aristotelem in philosophia deterruit a scribendo amplitudo Platonis, nec ipse Aristoteles admirabili quadam scientia et copia ceterorum studia restinxit.

Ronald Syme, The Roman Revolution (Chp. VII):

The Liberators had not planned a seizure of power. Their occupation of the Capitol was a symbolical act, antiquarian and even Hellenic. But Rome was not a Greek city, to be mastered from its citadel. The facts and elements of power were larger than that. To carry through a Roman revolution in orderly form, in the first place the powers of the highest magistracy, the auctoritas of the ex-consuls and the acquiescence of the Senate were requisite. Of the consuls, Antonius was not to be had, Dolabella an uncertain factor. The consuls designate for the next year, Hirtius and Pansa, honest Caesarians, were moderate men and lovers of peace, representing a large body in the Senate, whether Caesarian or neutral. The Senate, thinned by war and recently replenished by the nominees of the Dictator, lacked prestige and confidence. The majority was for order and security. They were not to be blamed. Of consulars, the casualties in the Civil Wars had been heavy: only two of the Pompeians, professed or genuine, were left. Hence a lack of experience, ability and leadership in the Senate, sorely to be felt in the course of the next eighteen months. Among the survivors, a few Caesarians, of little weight, and some discredited beyond remedy: for the rest, the aged, the timid and the untrustworthy. Cicero, who had lent his eloquence to all political causes in turn, was sincere in one thing, loyalty to the established order. His past career showed that he could not be depended on for action or for statesmanship; and the conspirators had not initiated him into their designs. The public support of Cicero would be of inestimable value-after a revolution had succeeded. Thus did Brutus lift up his bloodstained dagger, crying the name of Cicero with a loud voice? The appeal was premature.

Patrick Leigh Fermor, A Time of Gifts (Introductory Letter to Xan Fielding):

Indeed, indifference to the squalor of caves and speed at the approach of danger might have seemed the likeliest aptitudes for life in occupied Crete. But, unexpectedly in a modern war, it was the obsolete choice of Greek at school which had really deposited us on the limestone. With an insight once thought rare, the army had realized that the Ancient tongue, however imperfectly mastered, was a short-cut to the Modern: hence the sudden sprinkling of many strange figures among the mainland and island crags.

Strange, because Greek had long ceased to be compulsory at the schools where it was still taught: it was merely the eager choice— unconsciously prompted, I suspect, by having listened to Kingsley’s Heroes in childhood—of a perverse and eccentric minority: early hankerings which set a vague but agreeable stamp on all these improvised cave-dwellers.

Henry James, Daisy Miller (Chp. IV):

The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o’clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage—one of the little Roman streetcabs—was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron’s famous lines, out of “Manfred,” but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her.