The story of Echo and Narcissus in the Metamorphoses begins when Narcissus’ mother visits a sage and inquires if her son will live to a “ripe old age.” She receives an ambiguous response: Narcissus will live to a ripe old age “if he knows himself—not” (3.449). The anapest meter of the line emphasizes two key terms of the prophecy: “knows” and “not.” The strong syllables emphasize Narcissus’ knowledge of his identity, leaving “knows” and “not” echoing in the mind, just as the prophecy haunts Narcissus’ story.  The emphasis dash makes the phrase syntactically imprecise; either the sentence implies that if Narcissus knows himself, then he will not live to a ripe old age, or that if he knows himself not, then he will live to a ripe old age. The emphasis dash could mimic a dramatic pause in Tiresias’ speech, which would lend credence to the first reading of the prophecy, or the prophecy could be delivered with inverted syntax, rendering the second reading more likely. Determining the way in which Tiresias intended the prophecy becomes of utmost importance when, through one of his signature narrative interjections, Ovid guarantees that one way or the other, the prophecy will be fulfilled: “For a long time that prophecy appeared completely groundless, / until the boy’s unusual obsession, which took his life, proved the foretelling true” (3.450).

Ultimately, the prophecy is fulfilled on both counts. When Narcissus sees his reflection in the pool, he becomes entirely enamored with it. He knows the reflection well, which is in fact a reflection of himself, but he does not know the reflection as himself. He both knows himself and knows himself not. He can not reconcile “he” as a subject with “himself” as the object; he can not see that they are one and the same. Ultimately, it is Narcissus’ failure to bridge the subject-object divide which leads to him to abuse his own body until he dies. 

Failures to bridge the false subject-object divide crop up in more than just literature. Think of the myriad philosophical circles spun ever since Descartes imagined he could separate himself from his subjective experience and inquire into his being as a separate object. For decades, this false step has led philosophy, like Narcissus, to abuse itself, almost even to death. Quantum physicists, too, struggled to interpret crucial findings until they came to terms with the “Observer’s Effect,” the idea that the simple presence of an observer-subject can alter the observed object. 

Luckily, there is at least one antidote to bridging the subject-object divide: historical memory. In his work The Remembered Past, historian John Lukacs defines history as just that—the remembered past. History can not be defined as the sum of all things that have happened. When we say we study history, we do not mean we study all things that have ever happened, which is impossible. Rather, we study history based on records we retain and narratives we re-tell; we study that portion of the past which is remembered. Remembering is an action which is conducted by a subject. That which is remembered is the object of that action. It seems as though we are left with a subject-object divide once again.

However, the nature of studying history mends this subject-object divide. When a subject studies the remembered past, he or she is changed by the experience. Who would deny the study of history alters the student? Such could be said of any truth-oriented pursuit. History is unique, however, in that not only is the subject altered by encounter with the object, but the object—the remembered past—is altered by encounter with the subject. The remembered past is changed when a student engages with it; what the student does or does not remember—what a society of students does or does not remember—in a meaningful sense changes the history. It does not change the events of the past, but it does change the study and remembrance of them, which is a more precise definition of history. The student becomes aware that he is not outside of that which he studies, and the study is informed by the student. The subject recognizes himself in the object, and the object bears co-extension with the subject. When we recognize the fact that we are, in many respects, intimately involved in everything we study, we become less prone to unnecessary criticism, less bound up in our own presentist flattery, and more receptive to reality. In more ways than one, history can serve as an antidote to Narcissism. 

Jennifer Leonard is a senior studying history and philosophy.