Here’s the movie trailer version: “In a time of witchcraft, in a lawless country, one young man had the courage—to pressure a slave girl who is infatuated with him into letting him spy on her mistress transforming herself into a bird.” *

[Shot of Lucius’s face as the ointment he has now wheedled from the girl turns out to be different from the one the witch used, and he feels his body begin turning into another, non-avian species, a form that will provide much less fun, excitement, and freedom.]

Why not a trailer, for the most cinematic piece of Roman literature, Apuleius’s Golden Ass? This series of asinine adventures, with inset tales of mythological sublimity and bawdy low-life, is the first full manifestation of the ideal for fiction that John Gardner famously described as the “vivid, uninterrupted dream.” Physical details abound, the characters—especially the naïve but pretentious protagonist narrator—are distinct individuals, and even supernatural events have a convincing inner logic.

Why not a trailer, for the most cinematic piece of Roman literature, Apuleius’s Golden Ass?

Most astonishingly, the story manages to be as much about its own language as its content. In a manner that would not re-emerge for many centuries (most resoundingly in Ulysses), the author interweaves a parallel narrative of wordplay, parody of rhetoric, and strikingly high or vulgar language (and often both) into almost every scene. The pre-asinine Lucius cannot even mistake himself for a triple murderer—he has actually killed three magically animated wineskins—without his servile girlfriend making a precious joke: he’s “not an ax-murderer but a sacks-murderer” (as I render it), but her actual words are “not a homicide but an utricide.”

The stylistic stunts do not interrupt the dream but are part of the novel’s blanketing irony. The narrator, until his conversion to the worship of Isis, remains an over-educated, preening post-adolescent even when he is imprisoned in a donkey’s body. Moreover, the worldly life he is destined to escape is full of high-flown clichés and endless posing and prosing: these are real people—and real animals, because even beasts have vivid personalities—earnestly leading made-up lives.

Apuleius’s linguistic mode exquisitely suits the book’s final chapter: though written at least a hundred years after the start of Christianity, it—rather than anything in scripture—is the first detailed, personal account of a religious conversion. Lucius the donkey’s last intellectual flight, his indignant, Neoplatonic inward sermon inspired by a pantomime, yields to his escaping headlong from the sex show in which he is to perform next and casting himself out of his individual self altogether into the mysterious power of the goddess. The language quiets down during the final chapter as the magnificent story burns itself out in a series of submissive visions and initiations. It is almost as if—though the religion is the wrong one—the greatest exuberance of Classical period is yielding to the full-blown Age of Faith before our eyes.

Book 3, 21–29

One day (after we had passed several nights in the lascivious manner), Photis scurried to me, all nervous and excited. She informed me that her mistress, because no other devices had advanced her work of seduction, was going to feather herself out as a bird the very next evening and in this form swoop down on the object of her desire. This meant that I should discreetly prepare myself to survey these proceedings. Accordingly, during the first watch of the night, she led me on soundless tiptoe to that upper chamber and bade me observe through a chink in the door what was taking place.

First Pamphile divested herself of all her clothing. Then she unlocked a casket and took out quite a few jars. She removed the cover of one and spent some time rubbing between her palms the unguent it disgorged. She then smeared herself all over with it, from the tips of her toenails to the summit of her hair. After holding a long, secret discussion with the lamp, she shook her arms and legs, quivered, jolted. As they then gently waved, a soft down sprouted, strong feathers, grew, her nose bent back and hardened, and hooked claws solidified on her feet. Pamphile became an owl. She let out a querulous screech and made some gradually heightening jumps, testing her own airworthiness. Then she hovered, made her exit, and flew off with a broad-spread display of wings.

22. She had deliberately transformed herself through her own magic technology; I in my turn seemed to be anything but Lucius, though no spell had been cast on me. I was rooted to the floor, stupefied by what I’d just seen happen. This was a kind of waking dream, a banishment from my senses, and a deranging shock. I rubbed at my eyes for some time and started to wonder whether I was in fact conscious. At very long last recalled to an awareness of my surroundings, I snatched Photis’s hand and lifted it to touch my eyes.

“I’m begging you,” I said, “and the circumstances just cry out for it: let me get some good out of the tenderness you feel for me—it would be a lot of good—nobody could ever do anything for me that I’d enjoy more. Let me have just a dab of that ointment. I’m asking it in the name of your precious breasts, my little honey pot. Bind me to you, use this favor to make me your slave forever, as I’ll have a debt I can never repay. Quick, arrange for me to attend my Venus as a properly winged Cupid.”

“So,” she replied, “weasel loverboy, you want me to slam an ax into my own shin? I can scarcely keep these little Thessalian whores away from you as it is, when you’ve got no special equipment. Once I’ve turned you into a bird, where will I look for you, and when will I ever see you again?”

23. “What a crime that would be! The gods in heaven couldn’t allow it! I could cross from horizon to horizon like an eagle soaring on high; I might be almighty Jove’s trusted messenger and blessed armor-bearer; yet I’d still alight again in my little nest after shedding my feathered uniform. I swear by that sweet little bun on your head, which has put my heart (as well as your hair) in bondage: I prefer no one to my Photis.

“And listen, another thought occurs to me. Once I’m covered with the ointment and turn into an owl, I’d better keep a good distance from any houses. What a charming party boy an owl would make for the ladies! They’d have so much fun! We see these birds of night nailed to doors, because when they get inside a house, the people get alarmed and chase them down. The owls are crucified to avert the doom their ill-omened flutterings threaten for the home.

“But I almost forgot to ask: What must I say or do to strip off the feathers and regain my own identity? How can I be Lucius again?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “That’s all taken care of. My mistress has shown me every step for reconstituting and rehumanizing animal formations. You mustn’t think she taught me out of kindness; it was only so that I could give her the antidotes when she comes back. You’d never guess how little and piffling the herbs are that perform so important a function in this case. You mix a bit of dill with bay leaves, steep the stuff in fresh spring water, and apply it internally and externally.”

24. Still giving me her repeated assurances, she crept with great trepidation into the chamber, took a small jar from the casket, and brought it out to me. I pressed this object to my heart and planted kisses on it, entreating its blessings for my flight, and quickly tossed off all of my clothes. Sinking my hands into the jar, I drew out a generous gob of the ointment and rubbed it over my entire body. Then I extended my arms, executed some practice flaps, and did my best to make like a bird. But fluff there was none, and feathers nowhere. Instead, my hair thickened into bristles, and my tender skin hardened into hide. On the edges of my palms, I saw the countable digits disappearing and melding into solid hooves. At the end of my spine, a big tail came forth. My face was already huge, with an elongated mouth, gaping nostrils, and dangling lips. Likewise, my ears covered themselves with spiky hair and reached a size beyond all reason. I could feel no comfort in my wretched metamorphosis, except that my endowment grew as well—beyond what would allow me to embrace Photis.

25. Helplessly surveying this new body, I saw I was not a bird but a donkey. I wanted to complain to Photis, but human voice and gesture had been taken from me. I did all I could: I let my lower lip droop and my eyes moisten, and gave her a sidelong look of silent complaint. As soon as she took in my new state, she struck her forehead violently and cried out, “I’m dead! This is terrible for me! My hurry and fear tripped me up, and the boxes look so much alike that I took the wrong one. But it’s fine. There’s quite an easy remedy for this particular transformation. You just need to nibble through some roses, and you’ll be rid of this ass in no time. You’ll be back where you belong, as my Lucius again. I wish I’d made some garlands this evening as usual, so that you wouldn’t have to endure even one night’s delay. But at the first glimmer of dawn, I’ll rush this medicine to you.”

26. This was her mournful version of it. As for me, though I was an ass from head to hoof, a beast of burden instead of the man called Lucius, I still had my human awareness. In fact, I deliberated long and seriously as to whether I should apply my heels hard and repeatedly to that dastardly, depraved female, assail her with my teeth, kill her. But prudent second thoughts held me back from such a rash course. By executing Photis, I would also snuff out her assistance, which was going to save me. Therefore, I lowered and shook my head and gulped down this temporary humiliation, submitting to my fate, excessively harsh as it was. I withdrew to the stable and the company of the horse who had brought me here, that model of probity.

There I found another donkey housed, which belonged to Milo, my host until a little while ago. I thought that if there were any silent, natural bond among mute beasts, my horse would recognize me and be moved by pity to offer the choicest hospitality. But what in the name of Jupiter, protector of guests?—what defiance of the unseen immanence of Loyalty! That distinguished mount of mine had a short conference with the ass, during which the two of them plotted my destruction. I suppose they were worried about their rations, because when they saw me making my way to the manger, they laid their ears back and with a furious onslaught of hooves drove me to the far side of the place, away from the barley—which I myself had set out the evening before, with my own hands, for my deeply thankful servant.

27. Battered and exiled to the wilderness, I slunk into a corner of the stable to brood on my colleagues’ outrageous behavior. The next day, after my rosy remedy, I’d be Lucius again, and I was rehearsing in my mind a fitting payback for my horse’s betrayal. But then my eyes fell on a pillar, set in the dead center of that interior and holding up the roof trusses. Halfway up the pillar was a statue of the goddess Epona sitting in a miniature shrine, which was elaborately decorated with garlands of roses—fresh roses!

So! Here was my rescue. Full of hope, I stretched my front legs out and planted them as high on the pillar as I could, then heaved myself mightily upward, straining to the limit of my strength, reaching with my lengthy neck and achingly extended lips, as I went for the flowers.

At last Jupiter granted me a rescue—but not the kind I hoped for.

Remarkable bad luck attended this attempt. The youngster who was my slave and the regular custodian of my horse quickly spotted me. Jumping up, he exclaimed, “How far indeed shall we allow this numb-nuts nag to go in his criminal career? Just now he attacked the animals’ allotments—and now it’s holy effigies! Nay, that temple robber’s going to be lame and infirm when I get through with him.”

Immediately he started to look around for a weapon, and he stumbled over a bundle of wood left on the floor. He rummaged out of it a leafy club more monstrous than the rest and didn’t cease to pound my miserable hide until we were interrupted by a violent clattering racket that rose at the gates. There was frightened shouting from the neighborhood: robbers were here! My assailant fled, terrified.

28. In no time, a gang of bandits forced their way into the house and rampaged through every corner. An armed contingent outside also surrounded the building, leaving no gaps. Help rushed in from all directions, but the enemy was deployed to meet and block it. The robbers all had swords and torches that lit up the night. Fire and steel gleamed tremulously, like the rising sun.

There was a storeroom stuffed full of Milo’s treasures, set in the middle of the house and locked up tight with sturdy bars and bolts. The robbers attacked it with stout axes and shattered their way through. Once the room had holes in every wall, they hauled all the contents out, quickly trussed them in bundles, and divided these up. But the quantity of loads exceeded the number of porters. Driven into a stalemate by the much-too-muchness of the riches, they brought us two asses and my horse out of the stable and loaded us to the limit with the heaviest sacks. The house was empty now. They left behind one of their comrades to keep watch and inform them about the inquiry into the crime, and the rest of the gang drove us away with them, waving rods in menace. Steadily pounding on our backsides, they sped us over trackless mountain slopes.

29. Under such a weight of stuff and on such a lengthy expedition up such a steep slope toward the summit, there was no salient difference between me and a corpse. But a promising thought came to me—it had taken long enough, which was tough, but here it was: I could have recourse to my civil rights, invoking the revered name of the emperor to free myself from this anguish. At last—and by this time the daylight couldn’t have been any broader—as we passed through a village full of busy market-day crowds, I tried to call, in my native Greek tongue, on the august name of Roman Caesar. Well, the “O” I shouted was powerful and eloquent, but Caesar’s name—that I couldn’t pronounce. The bandits, in their contempt for my raucous blaring, bashed my miserable hide from all sides and left it unsuitable even for making sieves.

At last Jupiter granted me a rescue—but not the kind I hoped for. We passed by a number of little farms with spacious cottages on them, and I saw a pleasant garden, Besides many other attractive ornamental plants, virgin roses covered with morning dew were flowering. I was making my way toward them open-mouthed in the heated hope of deliverance . . . joyfully I drew near . . . my face reached out . . . my lips were awash with drool. But then it occurred to me how much better off I’d be if I held back. Stripped of the donkey form and stepping forth as Lucius, I would meet certain death at the hands of the bandits, either on suspicion of being a wizard or as a possible witness against them in court. Therefore, I refrained from the roses—I had no choice—enduring my present fortune and chewing on my bit to look like any old ass.