Bildungsroman in Antiquity? Reexamining Apuleius’s The Golden Ass

When I first read The Golden Ass last summer, I was intrigued by many aspects of the story and soon began exploring its various roots. I eventually came up with a particular idea to focus on: I had in mind to address what I saw as the book’s philosophical foundation while also asserting that Lucius (The Golden Ass’s protagonist) develops as a character. But when I explained my idea to one of my mentors in this project, her reaction prompted me to change course. My mentor, like other scholars, shared the view that first and foremost, Lucius doesn’t really develop as a character. That interaction turned out to be a formative moment for my understanding of The Golden Ass, largely because I disagreed with my mentor.

I had, in fact, just taken an English course offered to juniors and seniors at my high school called Coming-of-Age Stories. There were many elements to this class, but a key one was the concept of character development and the forms of it that play out in the Bildungsroman. These concepts gave analytic expression to narrative features I had been experiencing and therefore learning about since I was a kid. When I reflected on what I had learned in the class and how broadly applicable its core concepts seemed to be, I realized that they applied to, and thus could help us understand, The Golden Ass, though, of course, such concepts are modern notions that came much later than Apuleius’s time. So while I still consider The Golden Ass to be a complex work with a fascinating mix of philosophical undertones, I now firmly see it also as a novel with an arc of character development—albeit a somewhat muddled one. And it’s through my training as a high school reader, I believe, that I’ve been able to see the story this way, looking for telltale signs of development.

In developing this claim, I have drawn on the work of the renowned classicist John J. Winkler, who held that there are many ways to read the narrative of The Golden Ass, and, in the end, it’s up to the reader to choose how they view it. Winkler himself preferred to “anachronistically” apply “nineteenth-and twentieth-century reading habits” to the text, viewing The Golden Ass as a kind of “detection story.”¹ But part of Winkler’s argument is also that, in structuring the novel as he does with its many tales, Apuleius purposely creates a sense of confusion, or aporia, for the reader as to the book’s meaning. So even though, as readers, we already have a license to interpret the novel as we see fit, this book is especially open to interpretation, including interpretations that put it into conversation with modern texts. Indeed, The Golden Ass shares some basic literary similarities with many of the modern texts that are most familiar to readers for their exploration of character development. If we are to look at The Golden Ass with such novels in mind, considering the flexibility that Winkler’s perspective affords the reader as well as his own approach to reading, it becomes even more evident that there are multiple ways to read this story, including mine. To me, Lucius’s movement from being an initially undeveloped character, through many trials, to his eventual arrival at a point where he dedicates himself to the goddess Isis and the god Osiris forms the arc of a character who has matured substantially, shaped by his experiences as a poorly treated and poorly regarded animal, the donkey.

The Golden Ass has been the object of quite a bit of study and analysis. One idea predominating in this area of scholarship is that there is no discernable arc of character development. At the same time, some scholars have made claims to the effect that the novel can be approached as “the account of someone’s personal development and salvation,” in the words of Thorsten Fögen.² James Svenden has even argued that the novel “in a way is a Bildungsroman focused on the education (or re-education) of the protagonist.”³ Here the term Bildungsroman is being used to describe, in the first place, a process of learning, something that may entail character development but doesn’t have to. But central to the Bildungsroman is precisely character development, or at least the idea of one’s Self breaking down and re-forming, usually into a more knowledgeable and somehow improved state. In my English class during the fall semester of my senior year, we had lots of discussions about the standard arc of the Western Bildungsroman and its characteristics, and as my teacher had it they are crisis or hardship, Self-realization, fracturing of the Self, and re-formation of the Self.

I would go a step further and emphasize a point previously noted: When the Self is re-formed, this happens in such a way that it’s improved. Moreover, usually there is some fundamental aspect(s) leading up to the crisis stage in which the protagonist is lacking with regard to their character. In fact, the German word Bildung, which is famously difficult to translate, can mean not only education but also development and cultivation; its use gained currency in the context of Enlightenment-era discussions of what it is to cultivate character productively (see, for example, how Moses Mendelssohn defines Bildung in his 1783 essay “What Is Enlightenment”).⁴ Thus, to me, the Bildungsroman entails hard-won positive character development, which has helped me see that the protagonist’s hard-won positive evolution is a central element in it.

Now that we have a basic framework for development, we can examine Lucius before he undergoes this development. When we meet Lucius, he’s very focused on what he wants and is unmoved by the threat of consequences. In a moment of inner dialogue in book 2, Lucius admits his desire to explore magic, though he knows it might end poorly, saying that he is “eager … to undergo such [magical] schooling willingly, and to pay a heavy price for it.”⁵ He also admits that he has feelings for Photis, an enslaved person in his hostess’s household, though he doesn’t describe these feelings in a particularly gentle or thoughtful way; he regards Photis as more of a conquest or a means to an end than a potential romantic partner (2.6).⁶ In both cases, his impulsivity and selfish desires indicate areas for improvement, and perhaps even his decision to consort with Photis is a morally questionable one when looked at from a modern-day perspective: After all, there is a strong power imbalance between the aristocratic Lucius and Photis, who, again, is enslaved. We as readers will soon see Lucius “pay a … price” for acting on such impulses in book 3 when he unintentionally undergoes a transformation into an ass, helped along largely by an error on Photis’s part.

Yet, even before his transformation, Lucius has to endure a kind of punishment, perhaps indicating what’s to come. In book 3, he is figuratively made an ass of at a Festival of Laughter, where he is led to believe that he has killed three robbers the previous night. When he wakes up on the day of the festival (about which he has no idea), Lucius remembers having supposedly killed the robbers but appears to have little remorse for his actions. He remarks that he has had a night of sleep that’s “untroubled,” which certainly doesn’t suggest that he was up all night grappling with the thought of having murdered three people (3.1).⁷ The remorse he does show, however, results almost entirely from his conviction that he will soon be punished. It’s very important to note just how selfish Lucius is here in the early part of this story. Though he cares about the consequences of having “killed” the robbers, his main concern is self-preservation and not at all the moral implications of having committed murder. Such instances, among others, serve as the points of reference for the early, undeveloped Lucius, whom we will be able to compare to the Lucius who moves throughout the book.

Though we see this egocentric and impulsive side of Lucius, it’s worth noting that he also exhibits some nurturing and thoughtful behavior early on. As Lucius makes his initial journey to visit Milo, he mentions that he cares for his horse, “stroking his ears” and “carrying/guiding him along on an easy path, until a natural and customary protection could refine the issue of his weary stomach.” (Lucius then proceeds to feed him.)⁸ Although Lucius gently cares for his horse, the use of language like incommodum (inconvenience), suggests that he views the animal as an object that needs fixing somehow (3.2). His language is such that it seems as though he cares less about the well-being of the animal and more about its potential as a mode of transportation, which is why he cares for it in the way he does, though the particular dedication with which he tends to the horse does suggest a bit of genuine empathy.⁹ Lucius’s views toward animals are fascinating to think about and seem to change in other parts of the novel, thus serving partly as a means through which we can think about his development as a character.

When reflecting back on the ways that Lucius is at first undeveloped, we might also notice that he becomes easily corrupted in his environment and is prone to slippery tendencies. It’s upon hearing about the magical capabilities of Milo’s wife Pamphile that Lucius makes the decision to turn away from his aunt, who seems to be quite caring and materially well off, and toward the less welcoming Milo, Photis’s master. His lack of loyalty, which involves rejecting a kind relative in order to fulfill an ill-conceived desire, shows Lucius to be what he is at the beginning of the novel: a complex but overall pleasure-seeking and morally unserious character.

Right after Lucius’s transformation, we can see that despite the physical metamorphosis, he has remained the same undeveloped character. In 3.26, after Photis has accidentally turned him into a donkey instead of the desired bird, Lucius becomes angry. His anger is understandable; being turned into a donkey and not a bird would be incredibly frustrating, especially since donkeys were not considered to be particularly noble animals and were often badly mistreated, a fact that Apuleius makes clear to the reader throughout the novel. Birds, on the other hand, were objects of veneration in Roman society, and it seems that this was particularly the case for Platonists, like Apuleius. Alastiar Harden points out in his work Animals in the Classical World that, according to Plato—and these are Plato’s own words, “the race of wild animals which go on foot come from those men who never make use of philosophy and are not at all observant,” while birds are representative of “men who are not wicked but light-headed, and students of lofty subjects.”¹⁰ This is an interesting point of conversation for multiple reasons, but, needless to say, Lucius is unhappy after the transformation.

Incensed, Lucius contemplates killing Photis and thinks about doing so in a horribly violent way. He considers “kicking her repeatedly … and tearing her apart” (3.26).¹¹ He resists this urge only because he believes that he needs her help in order to be transformed out of his donkey state. Again, we have an example of selfish behavior on the part of an early Lucius; he would otherwise end Photis’s life but chooses not to only because of his wish to return to his human form. Additionally, Lucius seems to lack perspective when considering work animals later in 3.26. He immediately assumes that the donkey he is sharing a stable with and his horse will take him in, per se, and when they do the opposite, he becomes angry and starts to “plot revenge on … [his] horse” (3.26–27).¹² While his rage is understandable, Lucius’s assumptions seem to indicate a narrow perspective on the situation of his fellow animals; he doesn’t understand that he should approach this new situation delicately, and he immediately applies human social norms. This phenomenon, a character who may lack perspective and has other significant flaws initially (Lucius), is quite familiar: We encounter it in many novels, and the same holds for the kind of evolutionary arc that Lucius’s story forms.

When considering his story in terms of the characteristics of the Bildungsroman, we can closely line up crisis or hardship with Lucius’s being transformed into an ass; it’s throughout his time as an ass that he experiences the most trauma and, as we will see, learns the most. Self-realization, a key step toward development as the protagonist makes important personal strides, remains a bit more difficult to pin down. However, there may be an early moment of Self-realization, or perhaps just minidevelopment, in book 4. At this point, Lucius is with another donkey from the stable in book 3, after the two of them have been taken for use by a group of robbers. The robbers load down the two donkeys with goods, and in order to avoid carrying them, the other donkey fakes being lame (4.5). The robbers brutally kill him, and Lucius, who was just expressing how unfriendly his companion had been in 3.26, appears to feel genuine sympathy and remorse. He refers to this poor donkey as a “fellow-soldier,” which suggests a strong sense of camaraderie (4.5).¹³ This expression of care suggests growing maturity on Lucius’s part, as he’s confronted, in his precarious new existence as a beast of burden, with his increased vulnerability to violence. Additionally, this killing of the other donkey prompts him to “renounce guile and deceit” in order to “show … [himself] a good ass to … [his] masters” (4.5).¹⁴ While one could interpret Lucius’s reaction as simply being a move of self-preservation in response to the unfortunate fate of the other donkey, his decision here could instead be taken as a moment of Self-realization. Lucius has begun to understand how to behave as a laboring animal and that he will have to maintain extremely good behavior and working capacity if he wants to remain alive. He also genuinely grieves for his commilito. While this scene may not be the most positive instance of Self-realization since it’s so heavily underscored by violence, it could very well be the case that Lucius is in fact elevated by learning about the perils of existence as a laboring animal. This moment of death and subsequent contemplation perhaps indicates an early instance of growth and learning as Lucius is taught important lessons in the donkey form.

Lucius’s assertions of maturity and growth are complicated by the structure of the story. In books 4 through 8, we as readers are met with lots of tales and interwoven stories, in many of which Lucius doesn’t feature centrally (though, there is of course the question of the parallels between Lucius and Psyche in the main inserted tale, Cupid and Psyche). And though there are interesting Lucius moments to consider in books 7 and 8, it’s the later book 9 that sticks out in some respects. In book 9, Lucius is nearing the end of his time as a donkey, though he doesn’t know it yet. He spends some time reflecting, however, on the aspects of human living conditions that he is now deprived of; when he discovers a “made-up bed,” he is able to finally have what he has been craving, “the sleep of a human being” (9.12).¹⁵ Although one could say that this is an instance of Lucius being indulgent, really he is expressing a basic desire: to sleep under good conditions. Additionally, his appreciation for something (a comfortable bed) that he may have taken for granted in the past is indicative of a small, but very real, level of maturity gained from his experiences with deprivation.

Lucius’s reflections in book 9 provide us with further insight into the ways he’s changing, apparently for the better. Upon being taken to a mill, Lucius sees the state of the animals and people working there and then begins to eloquently describe the suffering and deprivation among his “fellow-beasts” (9.13).¹⁶ This is another formative moment for Lucius; his reaction to the plight of these animals, and what appears to be genuine sympathy, point to a broader and more altruistic perspective than what we find in book 3 and, in general, earlier in the novel. And once again, the use of a military term (contubernio, which literally means “tentmate,” as in tents that soldiers would pitch in a military encampment) is interestingly applied to describe other animals, evoking a strong sense of connection. It’s likely Lucius’s own miserable experience as an ass that enables him to make these strides; he is beaten, tortured, and overworked many different times before book 9 and thus has come to understand what kinds of challenges these animals are facing. However, Lucius’s state as an animal also creates an internal challenge for him. This is perhaps what leads to the “Self-fracture” stage of the Bildungsroman, if that’s how we are to view this text. When reflecting on his time as a donkey, the human version of Lucius who narrates the story says that he thanks his donkey [Self, presumably] because even though it made him less careful, it made him wiser (9.13).¹⁷ The particular words he uses are prudentem, which can mean “careful,” and multiscium, which can mean “wise” or just “knowing,” and this complex mental situation speaks of difficulty. He also thanks his “ass,” as himself (i.e., his human self), which suggests a confusing separation between the human and donkey Lucius; it seems as though they are two completely different beings in Lucius’s mind. Although it’s hard to pin down a stage to a single moment, this may be when Lucius undergoes the stage of Self-fracture. After all, his identity and capacities have changed, though he can’t fully understand how in a logical way (even as he reflects from his firmly human state). Lucius has clearly gone through quite a bit, and his uncertain state (which can be seen in book 10 as he toggles between human experiences and his existence as a donkey) as he nears book 11 speaks of a fracture, setting the stage for his looming conversion.

Up to this point, Lucius’s path of development has certainly not been the smoothest, but, again, it’s around book 9 that it becomes particularly difficult to distinguish the dominant Bildungsroman stage guiding Lucius. Being a complex character, Lucius certainly doesn’t follow a linear path through the “ideal” developmental stages of the Bildungsroman. Then again, modern Bildungsromane often themselves follow a more twisting path. At the end of book 9, for example, he is hiding with his kind master who has gotten into some trouble. Although he is supposed to remain hidden, he wants to listen to a nearby conversation, and he sticks his head up. He is caught, as is his unlucky master, who is presumably executed (9.42). Lucius doesn’t really try to fight his urges, hiding instead behind the fact that he is a “naturally inquisitive ass imbued with restless impulses” (9.42).¹⁸ One might take this scene as an instance of regression or perhaps as reflecting a lack of character development altogether; after all, it’s partly his curiosity, coupled with impulsiveness, that led him to become an ass in the first place.

However, Lucius also shows that he is able to use his curiosity for reasons he believes are morally right. Earlier in book 9 he is appalled by the fact that the wife of his master (a different master from the one at the end of book 9) is having an affair. In a comical scene, the man with whom she is consorting hides under a giant “tub,” and Lucius contemplates how he can expose this man in a way that suggests a powerful and present curiosity (9.23 and 9.26). He goes along with his urges and steps on the little bit of the “adulterer’s fingers” that are present under the tub, getting him to cry out in pain and thus expose himself (9.26). Lucius’s conviction here suggests that he is trying to do what he perceives will benefit his master, even though he is also acting on his curiosity-driven urges. His complex harnessing of curiosity throughout book 9 thus simultaneously indicates a regressive pattern and also one of growth, as he uses his curiosity to back up his principles.

In book 10, however, Lucius’s behaviors indicate further fracturing and complications. Although he is certainly still a donkey, he is beginning in various ways to return to human society. For example, he returns to eating largely human food at one point, which, like the bed in book 9, is something that he’s been deprived of. He also begins to have sex again; a wealthy woman contacts his masters to ask about having sex with him in return for payment. While Lucius admits to enjoying his relations with this woman, there is a later setup for him to have sex with a different woman, one who is about to be publicly executed for horrible crimes against her family.¹⁹ The plan for this execution is particularly violent; she and Lucius are expected to perform together as wild beasts are sent out to eat the woman. Upon hearing this, Lucius fears for his life because of the animals but also worries about his honor; he frets that he will “be defiled” if he consorts with this vile woman in public (10.29).²⁰ His mixed-up feelings in this complicated situation reflect a larger confusion that Lucius is undergoing. He gets to enjoy sex with a respectable woman, but he also wishes to avoid it as a participant in a horrible punishment, not just because of his safety but more so because he worries about his shame. He uses the word for shame twice within the span of a few lines when expressing his fears (10.34 and 10.35).²¹ Although he is likely anonymous as a donkey, he still cannot bring himself to have sex with this woman, suggesting a deep sense of internal honor and perhaps morals. It’s perhaps also here that we can say Lucius has another moment or experience of Self-fracture. This is the point in the story where he has most clearly hit rock bottom, and the clear next step from here is resolution of some kind. As Lucius reenters human society, he is met with these kinds of complex issues that confuse and disturb him, paving the way for a more centering presence to appear in book 11.

As Lucius returns to a place among humans and the story approaches its conclusion, there is a natural space for resolution, or Self-re-formation. In fact, perhaps the most apt phase of the Bildungsroman arc with respect to The Golden Ass is the re-formation of the Self, which we can see in book 11. Though it’s not objectively clear that Lucius’s Self is re-formed—interpretation is, of course, subjective—we do get highly suggestive signs if we look from the Bildungsroman perspective. One indication is his change in tone. At the very beginning of book 11, Lucius adopts a tone that suggests clarity and resolution; before his transformation he says that he “became aware that the supreme goddess [Isis] wielded her power with extreme majesty” (11.1).²² His mention of becoming certus, which may be better translated as “assured,” indicates a new kind of understanding and grounding, especially in a religious sense.

I would stress here that, while I don’t necessarily think that becoming religiously faithful is a sign one has become a better or wiser person, it seems as though that was the dominant perception at Apuleius’s time. As Nancy Shumate notes, for characters who have converted, “a center is again located, and the result is that the entire world is reanchored and restabilized.”²³ Such a newfound sense of center and meaning could suggest a Self that has been re-formed. In this particular case Lucius has been through a period of hardship that has led to moments of Self-realization that have primed him to move on to the final step, Self-re-formation.

However, it’s not merely that Lucius has converted to the cult of Isis that suggests his successful Self-realization. Rather, this conversion appears to have improved his way of being in some fundamental respects. When a priest presents Lucius with rosebuds to eat, the magical cure for ending the donkey state, his natural instinct is to immediately devour them. This impulse is understandable; after all, Lucius has suffered quite a bit as a donkey. However, he has a moment of reflection and decides that if he were to go after the rosebuds, “the tranquil course of the ritual would be disturbed,” so he walks slowly and carefully instead (11.12).²⁴ Although this may be a small instance of self-control, Lucius’s hesitation and reflection suggest that he has adopted a new seriousness, especially concerning “ritual,” as compared to book 3, where he jumps into the magical ritual of being turned into a bird without a second thought—and, consequently, suffers.

However, in the next paragraph, Lucius also admits to having an “eager mouth” and being “desirous of” the fulfillment of the “promise” to turn back into a human (11.13). Though he demonstrates patience, he can still be quite impatient; later in book 11 he will try to rush through some of his initiation processes. However, his slow walk and his later bouts of vegetarianism and other forms of Self-deprivation (after having been largely deprived as a donkey) do indicate that he has developed more patience and affords ritual much more respect. Though these are not necessarily heroic acts of Self-restraint, it’s hard to imagine similar behavior from the Lucius we see at the beginning of the novel. Thus, one could make the argument for an accumulation of better qualities, even though they are small and complex, signaling a more developed character than the one we encounter at the story’s beginning.

Later, though, it becomes clear that there might be some differing opinions about Lucius’s salvation and what he has done to have earned it. Right after his transformation, Lucius interacts with a priest who suggests that, although Lucius has suffered greatly, it’s neither because nor in spite of these “troubles” that he is now saved (11.15). As the priest has it, this salvation appears more to have been the result of suffering enough at the hands of the goddess Fortune. In his speech to Lucius, he says that “somehow Fortune in her blind course … has in her random persecution guided you to this state of religious blessedness” (11.15).²⁵ His use of the language “somehow” and “blind course” suggests that what Lucius has gone through has a random element to it and that the long-awaited end to his misfortune comes simply because it has gone on for long enough (in Fortune’s eyes). In this interpretation, it may not seem like Lucius has done anything in particular to merit his salvation.²⁶ However, the fellow worshipers in the following passage appear to have a different view, which suggests that Lucius may have actually developed in such a way that he now deserves salvation. The crowd speaks of the qualities in his “former life” through which potentially “he has now deserved such sovereign protection from heaven,” thereby conveying that they believe Lucius’s current fortune is due to his development (11.16).²⁷

But the two things aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s possible that multiple casualties are at work, that Lucius deserved his salvation and also that it happened just as Fortune had begun to relent. Or, in keeping with the line of thinking held by scholars like Winkler, perhaps it’s up to the reader to determine which view they believe is most fitting.²⁸ If that’s the case, then let us consider the image of a crowd pointing at and talking about Lucius, especially where they offer positive remarks about him as a person. Whereas in book 3 at the Festival of Laughter, in the other key scene of a crowd talking about Lucius, they were laughing at him, in 11.16, he is an object of positive attention, and it’s this contrast that I think speaks for his development. Not only is the crowd arguing for a potential development (they do use the word scilicet, which suggests uncertainty), they are also doing so in the context of a previous negative image of Lucius among a crowd.²⁹

While this may seem insignificant, such scenes of coming full circle are quite prevalent in lots of character development stories. In the story of Bambi by Felix Salten, for example, we meet Bambi in a “thicket” and end with him in a “thicket,” but by the end he is quite different from the Bambi at the beginning of the story, no longer so dependent on parental figures.³⁰ This phenomenon being present in The Golden Ass thus begs the question: Is Lucius, like these other characters, being shown to have developed in 11.16?

Additionally, other phenomena that appear in book 11 share a connection to those in character development stories and Bildungsromane. An interesting development that could potentially be taken as an example is that of Lucius’s horse. In the beginning we meet this animal, who is with him until book 4, when the robbers take Lucius and the other donkey. At the end of the book, after Lucius’s conversion, his horse is miraculously returned to him, and it’s only then that we learn his name, Candidus. This episode is symbolic for multiple reasons. First, the idea of a miraculous reunion is something that plays out in many character development stories, such as in Hansel and Gretel when the children return to their father’s house newly independent and strengthened by their trials.³¹ Lucius has similarly gone through hardship and is now being rewarded with the presence of a familiar figure in his life. Also, Candidus’s name and its revelation at the end indicate growth on Lucius’s part. The word candidus in Latin carries a sense of purity, and it’s interesting that Lucius only tells the reader his horse’s name postconversion, when Lucius himself has ostensibly become “pure.” Scholars have discussed the issue of Candidus for quite some time, yet its relevance remains, especially when considering how it may play into a tale of character development.

Another point to note is that at the very end of book 10 and into book 11, Lucius is largely near the ocean. His proximity to water is suggestive, especially because water plays such a big role in many character development stories or at least has a presence in them, particularly toward the end (see, for example, Robinson Crusoe).³² The symbolic significance of the ocean can be taken in many ways, but it’s not implausible here that this water is serving as a cleansing agent, which is one role that it plays in other pieces of more modern literature.³³ Of course, pointing to modern literature and its relationship to water may be anachronistic, but Lucius himself identifies the water as a source with which he is cleansing himself, as he describes “eagerness” for “purifying” himself with a “bath from the ocean” (11.1).³⁴ His literal purification might very well have more metaphorical implications, though; Lucius is cleansing himself of his past hardships and preparing for a rebirth of sorts. Again, the presence of a character development trope, in this case water, raises the question, Do and can these phenomena indicate that The Golden Ass’s protagonist is growing in the manner of a Bildungsroman?

In thinking about parallels and character development, it’s perhaps also interesting to put The Golden Ass into conversation with epic tales like the Aeneid and the Odyssey. Lucius actually compares himself to Odysseus in book 9 when talking about how he has learned and matured through his trials. He says that the poet Homer, “when seeking to depict a man of the greatest circumspection, was justified in singing of him [Odysseus] who had attained the highest virtues by visiting many cities and gaining acquaintance with various peoples” (9.13).³⁵ His reference to Odysseus is interesting for multiple reasons, but chief among them is that one could argue that Odysseus likewise has an arc of character development; after all Svensden, who admittedly employs the term Bildungsroman rather loosely, argues that the Odyssey is also one.³⁶ In addition, like Aeneas in the Aeneid, Lucius receives visions from the gods that motivate him to take action in various ways; we see this in 11.30, after the god Osiris comes to him in a dream. Multiple times in the Aeneid visions from the gods propel Aeneas to make difficult decisions but therefore encourage positive qualities in him, like when a vision from Mercury tells him to leave Carthage. Though he leaves Dido heartbroken, Aeneas continues his journey to establish proto Rome, making it clear that he’s becoming more and more skilled at putting others and his country before his personal desires.³⁷ While Lucius never does anything on this scale, the godly visions he receives do encourage him to devote himself to Isis’s cult and thereby become more faithful. One could make the argument that because we see development in these other protagonists whose situations are somewhat similar to Lucius’s, there is therefore a similar pattern happening in Lucius.

The confusing nature of The Golden Ass is certainly a challenge for younger readers like myself, readers whose knowledge of novels comes mostly from their nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-first century versions and who are approaching Apuleius’s text without a scholar’s erudition in literary history and ancient cultures. Winkler himself says that “the novel is clearly a difficult one to read.” Crucially, however, he also asserts that readers who come to the story with too established “a set of questions derived from ancient religion, philosophy, or rhetoric” can have trouble “distancing themselves from what they already know.”³⁸ There was little danger of that happening in my case: I was initially worried that I didn’t know enough about the novel’s nuanced context. But I was equipped with a certain literary knowledge, having from an early age consumed literature that centers around character development (Grimm’s fairy tales, for example, provide stories of children learning to become more resourceful and gaining wisdom about the world around them). While this perspective might not have enabled me to identify a key aspect of many other ancient works, I believe it proved to be an effective lens through which to analyze The Golden Ass. Here, in short, I could productively hold onto what I knew: signs of movement as a character. As my vocabulary and knowledge about the Bildungsroman expanded, Lucius’s story made more and more sense, though as mentioned the concept of the Bildungsroman is a much more modern phenomenon than Apuleius’s novel and is tied in various ways to distinctly modern notions of the Self.

Let me put this another way. In their training as readers, high school students are generally made to look for certain trends and patterns. While such a focus can be limiting, as it certainly is in the face of the complexities The Golden Ass confronts us with, with its religious, philosophical, and historical nuances, and while this approach obviously won’t work for every novel, it helped guide me to evidence in The Golden Ass that has justified applying my approach to Apuleius’s iconic novel. It equipped me to identify an arc of character development, even where that arc is hard to find and has been overlooked. Still, it has felt odd and presumptuous to develop an argument at this stage in my life that goes against the position of established scholarship. Here, an idea from an established scholar has been a source of inspiration, emboldening me in a way that has contributed to my own character development, namely Winkler’s idea that The Golden Ass invites multiple interpretations. It’s one that I will keep in mind as I read this story again, as part of a required literature course at the college I’m attending, where I plan to engage with and produce further interpretations of the novel.