Audentes Fortuna Iuvat (Non)

In Book Ten of the Aeneid, Virgil has the Rutulian prince Turnus rally his warriors against the Trojans. “Audentis Fortuna iuvat!” — “Fortune favors the bold!” — he cries up and down the line, urging them to fight with courage, certain that Fortune will reward them handsomely. Yet the attack ends in disaster, leading to their decimation.

Later, in the Ars Amatoria, the poet Ovid turned the maxim into cheeky advice on love and seduction, almost mocking its solemn use in Virgil — imagine Robert Greene in Latin. Still later, Pliny the Elder invoked it as a motto of action when he sailed toward the erupting Vesuvius to rescue a senator’s wife — an act of bravery that, like Turnus’ charge, did not end well for him.

It doesn’t take a podcast to see that boldness — especially when it borders on rashness — can end badly for everyone involved. It’s almost as if audentes Fortuna iuvat should come with a disclaimer, like any modern service agreement: “Terms and conditions apply.” Or, perhaps more fittingly, caveat emptor — “buyer beware!”

Inspired by Ovid, I recently found myself on the losing end of an agreement that turned out not to be an agreement at all. At best, you could describe it as an understanding between two adults — but even then it was unspoken, unacknowledged, moved by forces lying in the depths. In the chill of early morning, an objective observer might call my version of the agreement a “delusion.” That’s harsh, though, since relationships (situationships?) are more complicated than, say, a warranty for an electric fan.

I think my rejection by the other party had less to do with what I said than when I said it. Timing, as any stand‑up comedian knows, is everything (see Rudy Frimmel, Where Art Thou?). As in comedy, so in love. One ill‑timed phrase, word, or gesture may end in catcalls from the audience — which is nowhere near as bad as smothering to death under hot ash and pumice, but it still leaves a mark on the heart.

Aut non tentaris, aut perfice/Either don’t attempt it at all, or make sure you succeed.

Ovid, Ars Amatoria, Book I, line 389

There’s something deeper going on, of course, and it has to do with risk. I seem to be drawn to it the way plants are drawn to sunlight — slowly, methodically, almost imperceptibly. Approaching it this way feels reassuring, like wading into the water at the beach an inch at a time, as if sneaking up on it. It doesn’t prevent you from freezing — at least not in Northern California waters — but it does get you used to being wet.

I know a man, a recovering alcoholic and chronic gambler, who, in response to my claim that I do not gamble, accused me of playing a different kind of game. He thought it was worse than his addiction to video poker, since I gambled with things like career and relationships. His words hit home — not enough to stop me entirely from risky behavior, but enough to make me aware of where the lines are drawn, and how to step close without crossing them.

In putting one foot over the line this time, I have no excuse — not with Ovid’s injunction sitting front and center. “If you’re going to seduce someone,” Ovid says, “make sure you succeed.” The irony is that I wasn’t aiming for success. The other party to the agreement isn’t available, and I’m not even sure what I would do if they were. My goal wasn’t the chase or conquest, but expression — to release what had been smoldering for months, slowly, methodically, almost imperceptibly. Except I released it with as much pumice as Vesuvius.

This is where emotional maturity and psychological insight can save a situation. Not all acts of boldness are final. But I wonder how many times I must make the same mistake before changing my ways. At this point in my life — after winning, losing, and drawing, as in any country song worth its barstool — things are getting old. Suffering without learning, without modifying behavior, becomes an endless grind of stupidity and insensitivity — a kind of romantic saṃsāra.

A hard look in the mirror helps. When I do that, I remind myself of Peter O’Toole playing Don Quixote. By spending time charging after windmills and longing for sweet‑throated Dulcinea, I betray my own worth. That worth lies in being an older man with wisdom, memories, and scars — all of which can help others, whether they are parties to the agreement or not. If friendship leads to other things, so be it. But boldness need not be used rashly.

And that may be the best seduction.

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