Publius Ovidius Naso, known today as Ovid, was a Roman poet of great acclaim and some infamy. His works remain controversial for their lasciviousness, as well as his depictions of sexual violence in the Metamorphoses (which I, a survivor myself, find suitably nuanced). He writes with wit and beauty, vividly capturing the emotional rollercoasters of love and lust, hate and violence, often from the perspectives of various mythological characters.
Born in 43 BCE, his blush-making poems ultimately aroused the ire of the first Roman emperor, Augustus Caesar—a traditionalist who sought to instill values like monogamy and chastity in his subjects. In 8 CE, Augustus personally banished Ovid, who lived out the end of his days in rural exile near the Black Sea. All because of, in the words of the poet himself, “carmen et error”: a poem and a mistake.
Ovid frequently referenced poppies and opium in his work, and his personal relationship with the drug has drawn speculation in recent years.
The nature of the mistake has been a matter of debate for centuries, while the poem is generally agreed to be his somewhat skeevy Ars Amatoria, a kind of bisexual guide to courting.
Ovid frequently referenced poppies and opium in his work, and his personal relationship with the drug has similarly drawn speculation in recent years. As a classics student who previously used opioids, I am not wholly immune to this game.
Famously, his depiction, in Book XI of his Metamorphoses, of the cave of Somnus—a deity who personified sleep—relies heavily on heady imagery, which to a modern reader almost suggests a fantastical opium den:
Near the Cimmerians, in a deep recess there is a cave, home and innermost chambers of idle Sleep, which neither rising, nor midday, nor falling Phoebus [i.e., the sun] could reach by his rays.
[…]
Beyond the entrances of the grotto fertile poppies and innumerable herbs flourish, through which the night gathers the sleep-draught from the poppy-milk and scatters it through the shaded lands. And no door produces shrill squeaks by oft-turned hinges, no guard stands at the threshold nor through the whole house.
But in the middle of the cave is a single-colored, ebony, elevated, downy bed covered by a dusky veil, in which sleeps the god himself, with languor of loose limbs. Here, in every direction lie empty dreams imitating varied shapes, as many as there are ears of harvested corn or leaves carried by a forest, or scattered sands upon a beach.
[Lines 593-595 & 605-615, my translation]
Yet there is no evidence that dimly-lit dens devoted to the pleasures of opium were a feature of Ovid’s Rome. In his day, the papaver somniferum, or opium poppy, more swiftly brought to mind religious and mythological associations.
Members of the Cult of Ceres, the Roman goddess of agriculture and fertility, may have used opium in their initiation rituals. To the ancient reader, these verses likely evoked the brief ritual sleep of devotees or the temporary “death” of winter more than hedonistic pleasures. To Romans, opium represented death, rebirth and fertility.
But what, if anything, does this tell us about his life? Some have argued that Ovid used opium for pleasure, and perhaps even experienced addiction.
Poppies were associated not only with Ceres, but also with the fictitious, infernal river Lethe, whose waters bring amnesia to those who drink them. As Ovid writes in the same section of Metamorphoses, “silent repose dwells here. The waters of the river Lethe flow forth from the depths of the stones, their gliding waves inviting sleep with a murmur through rustling pebbles” (Lines 602-604, my translation).
Given Lethe is located in the underworld, Hades, rather than above amongst the Cimmerians, this may suggest that Ovid wished to portray the cave—and sleep itself—as straddling the border between life and death.
But what, if anything, does this tell us about his life? Some have argued that Ovid used opium for pleasure, and perhaps even experienced addiction.
Researcher Paolo Necini notes the regularity with which opium appears in Ovid’s work, as well as referencing the poet’s “suspected opium addiction.” He stops short of explicitly opining on this question, instead suggesting that Ovid likely “had a personal interest in poppy derivatives,” rather like his famous contemporary Virgil. As Necini notes, Virgil’s interest seems related to the religious symbolism of the plant.
D.C.A. Hillman, meanwhile, writes, “Ovid’s description of the precise effects of opium is proof that he was no stranger to the power of the drug.” Perhaps he wasn’t. But to suggest, as Hillman goes on to do, that this, together with references to other substances, forms compelling evidence that Ovid himself used opium seems a stretch.
Ovid’s other references to the psychoactive properties of papaver occur, for example, in works like his more autobiographical Tristia, which depicts in moving verse his despair in exile. Yet even these examples are too vague to prove his own use.
Nencini argues that despite widespread use of opium in antiquity, addiction to it was likely uncommon because of the context in which it was consumed.
We’re never entitled to assume that an author who displays understanding of a practice or state of being in their fiction experienced it personally. Poetry, in particular, is not necessarily factual, even when autobiographical. While Ovid’s apparent fascination with opium could be a sign that he partook regularly, it could just as easily be seen as a tool to illuminate the psychology of his characters. We have no clear evidence that Ovid ever consumed opium, let alone often.
Even if he did, the possibility that he might have experienced addiction seems remote, considering the lack of demonstrated impacts on his life and the culture in which he lived. Nencini, for example, argues that despite widespread use of opium in antiquity, addiction to it was likely uncommon because of the context in which it was consumed. Addiction, after all, is not determined by drug use per se but by the relationship a person has with their use.
“It was Zinberg who helped us realize the impact of any drug not only depends upon the substance, but crucially the ‘set and setting,” Professor Julian Buchanan, a drug policy researcher in New Zealand, told Filter. “So the person, their disposition, mood and expectation, play an important role, as does the culture and the environment where the drug is taken.”
These “contextual factors,” Buchanan added, also affect the level of risk.
I would argue that his artistic output matters far more than the question of whether the “poppy-milk” flowed through his veins.
In antiquity, opium use occurred largely in a ritual or medicinal context—the latter described, for example, by Pliny the Elder, who lived shortly after Ovid—and not so much a recreational one. Today, we know that only a tiny proportion of people—less than 1 percent of those with no history of addiction—experience substance use disorder related to opioids prescribed to them by a doctor. Drug prohibition, which makes use significantly riskier, also didn’t exist in ancient Rome. Buchanan emphasized that some societies can be structured in ways that decrease the risk of problematic drug use.
We cannot deny the prominence of opium in Ovid’s poetry. But despite the temptation to speculate about the lives of long-deceased luminaries, any personal relationship he may have had with the drug remains unknown and unknowable. And I would argue that his artistic output matters far more than the question of whether the “poppy-milk” flowed through his veins.
Ovid’s flair for psychological realism and gripping interpersonal drama have ensured his lasting influence. Opium user or not, he remains a fascinating and significant poet whose elegantly composed verses are still widely read. I prefer immersing myself in these enthralling poems to engaging in unwinnable debates.
Image of the John William Waterhouse painting Sleep and his Half-brother Death via Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain
