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818 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1981
I am blind. But I am not deaf. Because of the incompleteness of my misfortune, I was obliged yesterday to listen for nearly six hours to a self-styled historian whose account of what the Athenians like to call ‘the Persian Wars’ was nonsense of a sort that were I less old and more privileged, I would have risen in my seat at the Odeon and scandalized all Athens by answering him.




Gore Vidal sends a personal invitation to history. And history graciously accepts – on behalf of Darius, Xerxes, Confucius, Buddha, Democritus, Pericles, Themistocles, and a host of other ancient celebrities.
Every meeting of the senator’s grandson... pardon, the prophet Zoroaster’s... Gore Vidal... pardon, Cyrus Spitama... is essentially a question asked: why and from where have we emerged and set out on our path? The answers received vary from zero to infinity: the middle way, the tenets of the ancestors and the building of the ideal society, the immutability of fate and, consequently, the pointlessness of the questions.
Anyone can choose from this colorful bouquet the answer that appeals to them most. Depending on whether it comes from the priests of Ahura Mazda, King Darius, the Jainists, the Buddha himself, Confucius in person, or has tangled itself somewhere within the complex verbal and logical constructions of the Greek philosophers. All of them have something to share with Cyrus Spitama.
Through his deeply undramatic, stoic, skeptical, and humane eyes, the Persian Empire at the zenith of the Achaemenids in the 5th century BCE unfolds before us, along with Babylon and its hanging gardens, the Middle Kingdom and the (re)emerging Silk Road, the kingdoms along the Ganges and ancient Varanasi, and Athens at a time when it was still a terribly unattractive town. Life in each of these places is felt through a multitude of vibrant, tiny details – with the aroma of Eastern spices, the clink of Persian gold and weapons, the noisy philosophical debates in refined Ionic dialect (the Doric is for savages), the rustle of Chinese silk, and the whispering leaves of the Bodhi tree.
The novel is a beautiful travelogue through time, served with a dash of humor and a wealth of wisdom. A true feast for history lovers. I really liked Gore Vidal... pardon, Cyrus Spitama.
Hereditary priests usually tend to atheism. They know too much.
Like Greeks, Indians are better at questions than at answers.
Nothing, he declared, would make him happier than to see the Cathay dragon rug in the house of his favorite daughter. But we never got the rug. This was the sort of happiness that he tended to deny himself.
The Buddhists accept the world as it is, and try to eliminate it.