Our elites would
be right at home in Petronius’s world of debauchery and bored melodrama
By Victor Davis Hanson
By Victor Davis Hanson
Sometime in the mid-first century a.d., an
otherwise little known consular official, Gaius Petronius, wrote a brilliant
satirical novel about the gross and pretentious new Roman-imperial elite. The Satyricon is
an often-cruel parody about how the Roman agrarian republic of old had
degenerated into a wealth-obsessed, empty society of wannabe new elites, flush
with money, and both obsessed with and bored with sex. Most of the Satyricon is
lost. But in its longest surviving chapter — “Dinner with Trimalchio” —
Petronius might as well have been describing our own 21st-century nomenklatura.
For the buffoonish
libertine guests of the host Trimalchio, food and sex are in such surfeit that
they have to be repackaged in bizarre and repulsive ways. Think of someone like
the feminist mayor of San Diego, Bob Filner, who once railed about the need to
enforce sexual-harassment laws, now only to discover ever creepier ways to
grope, pat, grab, squeeze, pinch, and slobber on 18 co-workers and veritable
strangers, whether in their 20s or over 60. Unfortunately, the sexual luridness
does not necessarily end with Filner’s resignation; one of his would-be
replacements is already under attack by his opponents on allegations that as a
city councilman he was caught masturbating in the city-hall restroom between
public meetings.
In good Petronian
fashion, the narcissist Anthony Weiner sent pictures of his own genitalia to
near-strangers, under the Latinate pseudonym “Carlos Danger.” Was Eliot Spitzer
any better? As the governor of New York, he preferred anonymous numbers —
“Client #9” — to false names, real to virtual sex, very young to mature women,
and buying rather than romancing his partners. Is there some Petronian
prerequisite in our age that our ascendant politicians must be perverts?
Transvestitism and
sexual ambiguity are likewise Petronian themes; in our day, the controversy
rages over whether convicted felon Bradley Manning is now a woman because he
says he is. The politically correct term “transgendered” trumps biology; and if
you doubt that, you are a homophobe or worse. As in the Roman Satyricon,
our popular culture also displays a sick fascination with images of teen sex.
So how does one trump the now-boring sexual shamelessness of Lady Gaga — still
squirming about in a skimpy thong — at an MTV awards ceremony? Bring out former
Disney teenage star Miley Cyrus in a vinyl bikini, wearing some sort of huge
foam finger on her hand to simulate lewd sex acts.
The orgies at
Trimalchio’s cool Pompeii estate (think Malibu) suggest that in imperial-Roman
society Kardashian-style displays of wealth and Clintonian influence-peddling
were matter-of-fact rather than shocking. Note that in our real version of the
novel’s theme, Mayor Filner was not bothered by his exposure, and finally had
to be nearly dragged out of office. Carlos Danger would have been mayor of New
York, but the liberal press finally became worried over its embarrassment:
Apparently two or three sexting episodes were tolerable, but another four or
five, replete with more lies, risked parody.












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