Trips to the Moon

by Lucian of Samosata

Large format paper back for easy reading. Space travel and war between different worlds in the first ever Science Fiction, from circa 150AD

Genres: Classics, Fiction, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Humor, Audiobook, Ancient History

100 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 160

About the author

Lucian of Samosata was a Greek-educated Syrian rhetorician, and satirist who wrote in the Greek language. He is noted for his witty and scoffing nature.

Reviews

[Gregsamsa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I can think of no other book containing a lesson in rhetoric, a screed against contemporary scholarship, a lecture on the proper mission of the historian, a battle chronicle, a parody of both philosophy and gods, and a sci-fi/fantasy space adventure. Btw, it's written by a Syrian guy born in 120 A.D. You read that right.

What an odd thing this is.

This book includes three quite different samples from the work of Lucian of Samosata: "Instructions for Writing History," The True Story, and "Icaro-Menippus. A Dialogue."

Instructions for Writing History takes the form of a letter to his friend Philo. It seems Lucian has recently been on the ancient equivalent of a lecture tour and has returned home mightily hacked off at the state of contemporary history composition. Not only is its practice inept, but teaching of the art is all but non-existent:

"There are many, I know, who think there is no necessity for instruction at all with regard to this business, any more than there is for walking, seeing, or eating, and that it is the easiest thing in the world for a man to write history if he can but say what comes uppermost."

Needless to say, Lucian disagrees: "... if there be anything in the whole circle of literature that requires more than ordinary care and attention, it is undoubtedly this."

Utmost among his cares is the concern for posterity--making sure future generations receive truthful accounts--so highest on his shit-list are historians whose only sense of duty is to flattery, lavishing praise upon leaders with an eye only on immediate gain, while they might well not even score that: "... it is mere adulation, which they have not art enough to conceal, but heap up together, naked, uncovered, and totally incredible, so that they seldom gain what they expected from it; for the person flattered, if he has anything noble or manly in him, only abhors and despises them for it as mean parasites."

His complaints continue: about the self-aggrandizement of the historian; too much cataloging of details and emphasis on the tangential ("The emperor’s shield takes up a whole book to describe") and lacking proper scope ("From inability, and ignorance of everything useful, these men are driven to descriptions of countries and caverns, and when they come into a multiplicity of great and momentous affairs, are utterly at a loss."); a style too elevated or too coarse ("Besides this, after setting out in delicate Ionic, he drops, I know not how, into the most vulgar style and expressions, used only by the very dregs of the people."); disproportionate structure, such as an overblown or underdone preface ("...everything should be alike and of the same colour; the body fitted to the head, not a golden helmet, with a ridiculous breast-plate made of stinking skins, shreds, and patches, a basket shield, and hog-skin boots; and yet numbers of them put the head of a Rhodian Colossus on the body of a dwarf, whilst others show you a body without a head, and step directly into the midst of things"); too much argument (and conclusions) rather than leaving judgement to the reader.

And of course there's the little issue of accuracy, his complaints about which contain the surprising fact that even back then people gossiped while they got their hair done:

All this, however, with regard to style and composition, may be borne with, but when they misinform us about places, and make mistakes, not of a few leagues, but whole day’s journeys, what shall we say to such historians?  One of them, who never, we may suppose, so much as conversed with a Syrian, or picked up anything concerning them in the barbers’ shop, when he speaks of Europus, tells us, "it is situated in Mesopotamia, two days’ journey from Euphrates, and was built by the Edessenes.”  Not content with this, the same noble writer has taken away my poor country, Samosata, and carried it off, tower, bulwarks, and all, to Mesopotamia.

Not content only to find fault with others, Lucian then sets out to provide a guide to what makes a good historian. Part of this is appropriate real-life experience and temperment (someone "who does not stay at home and trust to the reports of others: but, above all, let him be of a noble and liberal mind") and what we would call objectivity, reiterating his concern for posterity:

[The historian,] though he may have private enmity against any man, will esteem the public welfare of more consequence to him, and will prefer truth to resentment; and, on the other hand, be he ever so fond of any man, will not spare him when he is in the wrong; for this, as I before observed, is the most essential thing in history, to sacrifice to truth alone, and cast away all care for everything else.  The great universal rule and standard is, to have regard not to those who read now, but to those who are to peruse our works hereafter.

After giving some helpful tips on style and composition, he sums up "let it be, in short, what the lowest may understand; and, at the same time, the most learned cannot but approve.  The whole may be adorned with figure and metaphor, provided they are not turgid or bombast, nor seem stiff and laboured, which, like meat too highly seasoned, always give disgust." He also delves into issues regarding quotation and conjecture whose controversies remain unsettled today.

He closes by emphasizing once again the importance of regard for future readers, offering a little story as illustration:

Recollect the story of the Cnidian architect, when he built the tower in Pharos, where the fire is kindled to prevent mariners from running on the dangerous rocks of Parætonia, that most noble and most beautiful of all works; he carved his own name on a part of the rock on the inside, then covered it over with mortar, and inscribed on it the name of the reigning sovereign: well knowing that, as it afterwards happened, in a short space of time these letters would drop off with the mortar, and discover under it this inscription: “Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to those gods who preserve the mariner.”  Thus had he regard not to the times he lived in, not to his own short existence, but to the present period, and to all future ages, even as long as his tower shall stand, and his art remain upon earth.

Lucian would likely take issue with my disproporionate emphasis on this first piece but I couldn't help myself, being a rhetoric nerd from way back. After learning from Lucian how to write what is fair and true, we may start in on his narrative The True Story which he immediately admits is not: "Know ye, therefore, that I am going to write about what I never saw myself, nor experienced, nor so much as heard from anybody else, and, what is more, of such things as neither are, nor ever can be.  I give my readers warning, therefore, not to believe me."

What follows is a wild parody of contemporary histories and travelogues whose faults the previous essay so snarkily catalogued.

The narrator and fifty travel companions set out on a ship bound for adventure, only to get swept up by a storm and left beached on an island. There, a weathered Greek pillar and gigantic footprints testify that this isle was once tread by gods. They discover rooted vine-women whose fingers branch into tendrils bearing grapes, near a river of wine filled with fish that intoxicate. They load up on both and set sail again, until the ship is taken up by a whirlwind which transports them across the skies for a week before they discover another land inhabited by men who ride three-headed vultures. It turns out this new world is the moon, whose citizens are at war with those of the sun. The castaways agree to join in the fight amongst these warriors on the giant winged creatures, while others ride gigantic fleas "as big as twelve elephants."

But that's not all: "They have spiders, you must know, in this country, in infinite numbers, and of pretty large dimensions, each of them being as big as one of the islands of the Cyclades..."

Those are some serious spiders.

The enemy armies of the sun boast a bestiary equally unreal, including two-acre-sized ants with wings and horns, soldiers with slingshots whipping out fatal toxic radishes, and dog-headed infantry mounted on winged acorns. I won't tell you who wins.

After negotiations a satirical treaty detailing the terms of such truces is drawn up, freeing the travelers to explore the moon and beyond, discovering a long roster of wonders that convinces us that Jonathan Swift has definitely read his Lucian.

Icaro-Menippus. A Dialogue is a short conversation between the satirist Menippus, fresh from a trip to (guess where) the moon, and a credulous friend. It sends up the ancient dieties and philosophers, lampooning the ambition of metaphysics and the pettinesses of the gods.

This book is available from The Gutenberg Project for free.

[Ana · Rating 3 out of 5]

A witty treatise against fake historians and philosophers composed of mostly lies, Trips to the Moon is an early example of science fiction and a satire of travel tales (a kind of Gulliver's Travels).

The author and his companions seek out adventures, sailing westward through the Pillars of Hercules. They meet men of different species, even Moon people who were at war with the king of the Sun, were swallowed by a great whale and reached a sea of milk, an island of cheese and the isle of the blessed. There they meets the heroes of the Trojan War, other mythical men and animals, and even Homer. They find Herodotus being eternally punished for the "lies" he published in his The Histories.

P.S: the author does not hold Thucydides in high esteem either.

[Zadignose]

This is a collection of three or four works (depending on how you count) by Lucian. I will approach them in the reverse order from how they are presented in the book, as I found the book got better and better, and thus the best material comes last.

The last work in the collection is Icaro-Menippus. Wikipedia gives a very fair and succinct summary: "Imitating Icarus, Menippus makes himself a pair of wings and flies up to the gods where he learns that Zeus has decided to destroy all philosophers as useless." Of course, along the way, Menippus (the Cynic after whom the "Menippean satire" is named) makes a stop on the moon so as to look down and observe our earth with it's petty problems and concerns, and discovers what a great mess the philosophers make of everything. This book is written as a dialog, it's entertaining and maturely written, even as Lucian is probably guilty of some lousy philosophizing himself. I almost missed reading this, because my main interest had been to read his "True History", which I happen to have gotten another translation of in a different collection... but, I am glad that I went ahead and read Icaro-Menippus, which is perhaps less fanciful than the True History, but it's more pointed.

The "True History", in two "books," is what Lucian is most famous for, and this is most likely because it's his most exotic work. The second book is a better reading experience than the first, but not to a large degree, and together they're a continuous work. The book is about as far out and fanciful as one can get. It suffers a bit from the fact that Lucian wrote it mainly as a lark, and did not fully embrace his own effort until he had gotten up a bit of steam and started to discover that he need not only mock the excesses of other authors... he can actually have fun with and make something of this inventive literary style. But the startling thing about the book is mainly its place in literary history. It is a surviving work from an age whose literature is mainly lost, and it seems a prototype of so much of the later inventive works of geniuses in other ages. One can see Rabelais, Cyrano de Bergerac, Swift, Voltaire, Calvino... even looking a bit further afield you can see Roussel and Jary in this book. I believe the later wits and aesthetes were more accomplished, but here we have their prototype. Cyrano, by the way, is the one who seems most directly influenced by Lucian, as their moon-travel stories intersect at multiple points, yet they remain quite distinct works in both style and substance.

The first work in the collection is Lucian's instructions for writing history, which he titled "Instructions for Writing History." It is a letter to a friend in which Lucian first points out the faults of many contemporary and earlier historians, then lays out his ideas for how history should actually be written. As a critic, he certainly has his points, though his wit is not quite as sharp and entertaining as his reputation would have it. This is more like the kinds of quibbles and snipes he would most likely have preferred to post to his blog, if he'd had one. For example, he gets rather snooty about issues of dialect. But, surely one must appreciate the absurdity of his one contemporary who believed that "Parthian Dragons" were actual giant serpents carried upon poles which could be unleashed to destroy the enemy, when in fact they were pennants used for signaling, which represented military units of 1000 soldiers. Anyway, when Lucian goes on to disclose his own theories on how history should be written, they turn out to be quite good and reasonable. They also would be regarded as more controversial in his day, whereas they now represent the standard way we think of history: historians should write what actually happened, rather than lionizing, flattering, condemning, praising, and fabricating for the purpose of making a more thrilling or inspirational tale. Historians should not be self-serving either, but rather they should write for the benefit of posterity. These are the ideals which are generally espoused today, even if our own historians may often fall short of reaching the ideal, and even while there may be legitimate argument to support a different approach to history.

In summation, I would say that anyone curious about Lucian would do well to read Icaro-Menippus... and True History next... and probably everything if you're of a mind to. But now you have my take.

Oh yeah, one more thing. The freebie translation on Gutenberg is a good read, while the translator Thomas Francklin writes many notes which... well, he may just be the kind of commenter that inspired Kinbote in Nabokov's Pale Fire. I.e., he's just a bit nutty. He somewhat inappropriately inserts his own opinions and interpretations from time to time... okay not all that crazy, but I imagine Nabokov may have been frustrated by guys like him... and I can imagine what a bizarre meta-novel would have occurred if Lucian could have written a parody of the work of his own translator/commenter.

[new york, no shoes · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very witty, very well-written, and very true. It's amazing how advanced in thinking these ancient civilizations were - and then how utterly and completely backwards society was within a few thousand years. Crazy how we're just now beginning to think the same things within the last few centuries... imagine how much progress the human race could have made if there hadn't been such destruction of knowledge by rival empires.

[Melissa Chalhoub · Rating 4 out of 5]

The missing link between Ulysses and Alice in Wonderland. Would definitely recommend if you're a fan of over the top absurd journeys.

[Tim Robinson · Rating 4 out of 5]

A lecture and two tall tales. Yes, there are trips to the moon, but more as allegory than science fiction.

[Bettie]

Love this nonchalant footnote within a footnote from a late 19th century edition of Lucian's Trips to the Moon from his True History (2nd century): 'The moon is not habitable.'

[Illiterate · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lucian’s instructions and satires distinguish fact from fiction. Icaro is amazing; it assimilates philosophy to fiction.

[Chris]

The most common title for this work is actually "True History". "A True Story" and "Trips to the Moon" are lesser-used titles.

The Gutenberg English translation (translation by Thomas Francklin, intro by Henry Morley) is here: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10430 although another reviewer notes that it may not be accurate. I have not yet read this.

Nearly all of what I can find sold as an individual book (eBook or print) under the title "Trips to the Moon" is actually the Francklin translation.

After doing some more research, I've found that there are of course a lot of translations. I found a very good list at the top of this page at University of Pennsylvania. Some I found on my own on Google Books:
Francklin (no need to post, see Gutenberg link above)
Wieland
Fowler & Fowler
Hickes

Of these, Fowler & Fowler seems to be the most pleasant to read and it was reprinted by Kessinger Publishing as part of "Works Volume 2" in 2004, although I have no idea how accurate it is compared to the others. Perhaps it's time to learn Greek and read the original. (ha!)

The cheapest way I've found to obtain the Fowler & Fowler translation of "True History" is to read it for free online. (For $0.99 here's the Kindle eBook.)

For print there are lots of options, just search your favorite store for "samosata fowler". For example: The Works of Lucian of Samosata: Complete with Exceptions Specified in the Preface, currently $21.95 on Amazon's US site. Still looking to see if I can find it in print for less...

[Adam McPhee · Rating 2 out of 5]

Introduction for Writing History was okay. Some useful advice like 'don't confuse history with poetry' and 'no one likes when a writer sucks up to his patron too much–it's not history. Have you tried not having a patron?' Then True History is uses the prior criticisms to create a story to show how not to write a history. Then the last part is a dialogue between one Menippus and a friend. Menippus relates how he contrived a Daedalusesque contraption to do some flying of his own. He goes to the Moon and the Moon complains about all the philosophers (they end up there in the afterlife), so Menippus agrees to take the Moon's complaints to Jupiter, who comes up with a compromise. It's a terrible translation bordering on unreadable. Thanks a lot, Thomas Francklin, 1780. The worst is in True History, when the names of the fantastic creatures are given in transliterated Greek with minimal description and you have to go to the footnotes (not added until 1887!) to get an explanation. Though I did like learning the word pismire, an old word for anthill, from the words 'piss' (which apparently is what anthills smell like, according to the Oxford dictionary built into my kindle? I've never noticed, but then I try not to spend too much time around anthills; or maybe with the bad sanitation back in the day people used to piss in them and so they stank, and now they don't smell so bad because we have indoor plumbing) and 'mire', an old word for ant. So there you have it.

His tips for writing history aren't very useful almost two millennia on, but here he reminds us not to fall for Fake News: All this, however, with regard to style and composition, may be borne with, but when they misinform us about places, and make mistakes, not of a few leagues, but whole day’s journeys, what shall we say to such historians? One of them, who never, we may suppose, so much as conversed with a Syrian, or picked up anything concerning them in the barbers’ {40} shop, when he speaks of Europus, tells us, “it is situated in Mesopotamia, two days’ journey from Euphrates, and was built by the Edessenes.” Not content with this, the same noble writer has taken away my poor country, Samosata, and carried it off, tower, bulwarks, and all, to Mesopotamia, where he says it is shut up between two rivers, which at least run close to, if they do not wash the walls of it. After this, it would be to no purpose, my dear Philo, for me to assure you that I am not from Parthia, nor do I belong to Mesopotamia, of which this admirable historian has thought fit to make me an inhabitant.


Others there are who, from ignorance and want of skill, not knowing what should be mentioned, and what passed over in silence, entirely omit or slightly run through things of the greatest consequence, and most worthy of attention, whilst they most copiously describe and dwell upon trifles; which is just as absurd as it would be not to take notice of or admire the wonderful beauty of the Olympian Jupiter, {43} and at the same time to be lavish in our praises of the fine polish, workmanship, and proportion of the base and pedestal.

I remember one of these who despatches the battle at Europus in seven lines, and spends some hundreds in a long frigid narration, that is nothing to the purpose, showing how “a certain Moorish cavalier, wandering on the mountains in search of water, lit on some Syrian rustics, who helped him to a dinner; how they were afraid of him at first, but afterwards became intimately acquainted with him, and received him with hospitality; for one of them, it seems, had been in Mauritania, where his brother bore arms.” Then follows a long tale, “how he hunted in Mauritania, and saw several elephants feeding together; how he had like to have been devoured by a lion; and how many fish he bought at Cæsarea.” This admirable historian takes no notice of the battle, the attacks or defences, the truces, the guards on each side, or anything else; but stands from morning to night looking upon Malchion, the Syrian, who buys cheap fish at Cæsarea: if night had not come on, I suppose he would have supped there, as the chars {44} were ready. If these things had not been carefully recorded in the history we should have been sadly in the dark, and the Romans would have had an insufferable loss, if Mausacas, the thirsty Moor, could have found nothing to drink, or returned to the camp without his supper; not to mention here, what is still more ridiculous, as how “a piper came up to them out of the neighbouring village, and how they made presents to each other, Mausacas giving Malchion a spear, and Malchion presenting Mausacas with a buckle.” Such are the principal occurrences in the history of the battle of Europus. One may truly say of such writers that they never saw the roses on the tree, but took care to gather the prickles that grew at the bottom of it.


I liked this: The only business of the historian is to relate things exactly as they are: this he can never do as long as he is afraid of Artaxerxes, whose physician {55a} he is; as long as he looks for the purple robe, the golden chain, or the Nisæan horse, {55b} as the reward of his labours; but Xenophon, that just writer, will not do this, nor Thucydides. The good historian, though he may have private enmity against any man, will esteem the public welfare of more consequence to him, and will prefer truth to resentment; and, on the other hand, be he ever so fond of any man, will not spare him when he is in the wrong; for this, as I before observed, is the most essential thing in history, to sacrifice to truth alone, and cast away all care for everything else. The great universal rule and standard is, to have regard not to those who read now, but to those who are to peruse our works hereafter.

To speak impartially, the historians of former times were too often guilty of flattery, and their works were little better than games and sports, the effects of art.

An anecdote about longterm thinking, which Lucian says a is a good attribute of historians: Recollect the story of the Cnidian architect, when he built the tower in Pharos, where the fire is kindled to prevent mariners from running on the dangerous rocks of Parætonia, that most noble and most beautiful of all works; he carved his own name on a part of the rock on the inside, then covered it over with mortar, and inscribed on it the name of the reigning sovereign: well knowing that, as it afterwards happened, in a short space of time these letters would drop off with the mortar, and discover under it this inscription: “Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to those gods who preserve the mariner.” Thus had he regard not to the times he lived in, not to his own short existence, but to the present period, and to all future ages, even as long as his tower shall stand, and his art remain upon earth.
Thus also should history be written, rather anxious to gain the approbation of posterity by truth and merit, than to acquire present applause by adulation and falsehood.

Bird's-eye view: when after all, to me, who looked from above, Greece was but four fingers in breadth, and Attica a very small portion of it indeed. I could not but think how little these rich men had to be proud of; he who was lord of the most extensive country owned a spot that appeared to me about as large as one of Epicurus’s atoms. When I looked down upon Peloponnesus, and beheld Cynuria, {176a} I reflected with astonishment on the number of Argives and Lacedemonians who fell in one day, fighting for a piece of land no bigger than an Egyptian lentil; and when I saw a man brooding over his gold, and boasting that he had got four cups or eight rings, I laughed most heartily at him: whilst the whole Pangæus, {176b} with all its mines, seemed no larger than a grain of millet.

Myrmidon origin story gets even more sordid: recollect, if you please, the ancient Thessalian fables, and you will find that the Myrmidons, {177} a most warlike nation, sprung originally from pismires.

Two fantastic footnotes from the 1780 translation, with an update from the 1887 edition: {83a} Modern astronomers are, I, think, agreed, that we are to the moon just the same as the moon is to us. Though Lucian’s history may be false, therefore his philosophy, we see, was true (1780). (The moon is not habitable, 1887.)

{83b} This I am afraid, is not so agreeable to the modern system; our philosophers all asserting that the sun is not habitable. As it is a place, however, which we are very little acquainted with, they may be mistaken, and Lucian may guess as well as ourselves, for aught we can prove to the contrary.

[Dan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Know ye, therefore, that I am going to write about what I never saw myself, nor experienced, nor so much as heard from anybody else, and, what is more, of such things as neither are, nor ever can be. I give my readers warning, therefore, not to believe me.

This is science fiction from 150 CE. It is wild. It is influenced by The Odyssey, and Odysseus and Calypso (as well as Homer) make an appearance. It begins, as these stories tend to do, with Lucian setting off on a boat and encountering a multitude of strange things. A freak storm sends his ship into the air, and after sailing through the sky for seven days, they make anchor on the Moon. Naturally, the people of the Moon are at war with the Sun.

And so, an Illiad-esque battle begins.

Behind these stood ten thousand Caulomycetes, heavy-armed soldiers, who fight hand to hand; so called because they use shields made of mushrooms, and spears of the stalks of asparagus. Near them were placed the Cynobalani, about five thousand, who were send by the inhabitants of Sirius: these were men with dog's heads, and mounted upon winged acorns...

The war is a disaster, Lucian is taken prisoner, but is eventually released. He returns to the Earth, where his ship along with Lucian and all his men are swallowed whole by a whale.

There is plenty more, and it's hard to summarize the insanity.

5/5: What excited me about this story is that it feels like an extension of Greek mythology, telling a version of events I have never read and injecting its own new ideas.

[Shane Moore · Rating 2 out of 5]

Have you ever seen a parody without first seeing the thing it was mocking?

Trips to the Moon is a satirical work mocking histories and travelogues written about 2,000 years ago.

It is a testament to the author's skill (and maybe how little people change) that it isn't completely incomprehensible, but it also isn't really a fun read. The introduction makes it clear that the ridiculous exaggerations and moralistic parables are lampooning specific authors, but if they haven't been lost to history they're at least obscure to me. I recognized a handful of references (like Diogenes and Helen of Troy) but a ton of other named characters and specifically referenced events went over my head even with footnotes and endnotes.

I think a modern translation, with sufficient notes, could make this more comprehensible, but it'd probably be a slog to read.

[Alan · Rating 3 out of 5]

A fantastical story about a trip to the moon, the sun, and mount olympus. Interesting for its historical place but a silly story.

[Sarah · Rating 3 out of 5]

I would like to find a better translation of these works, because the one I have (from Project Gutenberg) is not trustworthy. My copy of Trips to the Moon includes an essay about how it's important to write history as it is rather than how you wish it had been. However, the introduction talks about how the translator (Francklin, I believe) expurgated the text to remove all the naughty bits that are no longer relevant. The irony of that was lost on the introduction writer though, because he claimed that this was the best translation out there. Personally, I'd rather read a translation that stays as true to the original as possible--let the reader decide what has value and what doesn't.

Despite my distaste for the translation, I have been enjoying these works. Fiction must have been such a strange concept to Lucian's contemporaries. He spent a lot of time trying to defend the value in writing and reading something that wasn't true and repeatedly emphasizing that the sights in the story are totally made up. There's no real plot or character development in Trips to the Moon. Our narrator and his nameless crew travel from one bizarre place to the next, get involved in unexplained wars, and we never really find out why he's going on this adventure in the first place. Fiction has evolved greatly since Lucian first started dabbling in it. I wonder if he'd enjoy what people are writing now?

[David · Rating 2 out of 5]

This may be one of the first works of speculative fiction - that is, something written explicitly as fictional, but about incredible events. It's neither mythology which the writer imagined to be more or less factual, nor fiction of a social commentary sort with less incredible events.

As speculative fiction or "pre-science fiction" it leans more than I prefer to including mythological elements.

The Project Gutenberg edition begins with a forward by a (comparatively) modern scholar. Then there are 3 writings by Lucian. The first is an essay on writing history (advising against writing what isn't true to flatter the king nor telling of events of which you aren't well informed). The second is a short story - a sort of quick & short epic of traveling to the Moon and other celestial locations. The third begins as a dialog in which one man claims to have used large bird wings to fly beyond the Earth - and ends as a monologue about his trip. The latter two will appeal more to those who enjoy tales of ancient mythology.

[Rob · Rating 3 out of 5]

Got the Project Gutenberg edition, which is not on GoodReads yet.

The book has three parts:

1) Instructions for Writing History
An essay. Lucian snarks advises, criticizes the historians of his time for their highly fictionalized "factual accounts". Lucian's brand of skepticism feels a lot like James Randi. Must read.

2) The True History
A parody of those "factual accounts". A story about a group of bored men who set sail, got in trouble on the moon and in other places. The prose is dry by today's standards. Plenty of references to Greek myths. Project Gutenberg categorized this as a sci-fi precursor.

3) Icaro-Menippus, a dialogue
Another parody. Menippus tells his friend about his experiences on Mount Olympus. Menippus, of course, a pastiche of those bad historians/fiction writers and his friend the alter-ego of Lucian.

Enjoyable.

[Sarah · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've read a variety of Lucian's works, some in Greek, most in translation. I'm not entirely certain that the True History, as this book is most commonly called, is not some sort of bizarre fever dream I had after studying Homer too long. Lucian is a strange author to work with- he wrote tons and tons of things, most of it satire in perfectly regular Attic Greek, all of it with a charming sense of humor.
At this point I honestly think it's best to let Lucian speak for himself, because I don't think I can present this story any better than he does. In part of the True History, the narrator goes to the moon. On the moon are gay moon people, who give birth out of their legs. Alright, well, that's not entirely true. Some of them grow off of trees planted from each man's right testicle. The trees happen to be penis-shaped, and made of flesh.
If that doesn't entice you, well. Perhaps Lucian is not for you.

[Nicholas Whyte · Rating 3 out of 5]

http://nwhyte.livejournal.com/2491338.html

a work of classical literature, claimed by some as the first ever science fiction novel. Indeed, it does start rather well, with our hero unwittingly drawn to the Moon where he finds himself embroiled in a space war between the inhabitants of the Moon and the Sun over the colonisation of Venus (strictly Ἑωσφόρος, Lucifer) which seems very close to much more recent tropes of sf narrative. But apart from that particular shaft of forward thinking, it's a fairly standard odyssey tale of going to strange places, seeing strange things and meeting strange people, and I think it is better to let classical scholars hang onto it as a mildly imaginative outlier in classical literature than for sf fans to spuriously (and unnecessarily) claim classical legitimacy for the genre starting here.

[bup · Rating 2 out of 5]

More than half the edition of this book translated by Francklin is meta - it's about the book, rather than the book itself.

This is worth reading if only because it does deliver what the title promises. Also because the protagonist makes a trip to the land of the dead, as well, where he meets "all the philosophers except Plato," because Plato, he explained, got his own special afterlife where he lived in a nation he devised and in which he was the only citizen. There were probably like 500 other equally funny bits of snark that flew right over my head.

2000 year old snark, though,. Gotta love it.

[Cheri · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some study of the world of Lucian would enhance appreciation of this peculiar & surprising book. Is this the earliest example of lampooning and a sense of humor? General knowledge of ancient Greek history and mythology certainly helped but was not quite enough to bring out all that it offers, IMHO.

Next time I think I'll start with "The Inline Translation as recommended by Mr. Locke" found on "The Lucian of Samosata Project" website. A quick scan showed that Locke's footnotes pointed out some viewpoints of Lucian's contemporaries, especially with respect to mythologies, plus helped to explain comments that had a different emphasis 2,000 years ago.

[Becky · Rating 3 out of 5]

An enjoyable little book. Lucian first admonishes his contemporary historians for adding to much flair to the record, making their works untrustworthy and outlandish. In the second part he basically mocks them by explaining his trips to the moon and out to Jupiter, quite an excellent little satire. The work is especially famous for being considered the very first written scifi. The whole second half of the work is about interplanetary travel and interspecies war, very ahead of its time, and actually, reads a lot like an Edgar Rice Burroughs novella.

[Dmk · Rating 3 out of 5]

Other piece apart from True Histories were quite pointless...

Style of writing was too fast, rather description of events than real storytelling. Which is pitty becouse it made a great story into one that bored me in the end. But well plot is great. So they fighted on the side of people from moon and as a gift they recieved kings son (becouse selenians have no females)... isn't it lovely?

Not the most entertaing book, but you should read it anyway. It's so interesting to read such an old piece about such futuristic theme....

[Kent Archie · Rating 2 out of 5]

Interesting, probably funnier if I was a Greek living 2000 years ago. I got some of the humor like the Academicians (a group of philosophers) wasn't present in the Greek heaven because they spent all their time arguing if heaven existed.
A historically interesting SF story but a little tedious.

[Fred Conrad · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read the Gutenberg version that includes two other essays. The Trips to the Moon section reminded me very much of Lewis Carroll.

[Lawrence · Rating 3 out of 5]

http://gnomeship.blogspot.com/2015/05...

[Arlette · Rating 4 out of 5]

first half , painful . Second half , very interesting

[Rain · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a wild ride. 2 parts sci-fi 1 part shitposting. This book was honestly so chaotic and hilarious.

[Luís Garcia · Rating 5 out of 5]

(read in Bang Nam Chuet, Thailand)

[Mary Carpenter · Rating 4 out of 5]

I genuinely would love to see this adapted into a cartoon or something. It's a piece of scifi that comes from such a unique perspective that it's essentially a must read for any fans of the genre.

[Mathew · Rating 4 out of 5]

Short but entertaining. I picked this up because I was curious about the story that is widely considered the first piece of science fiction ever written.