Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.
Wise was I—smart as Aristotle. Could related we be? You may wonder why I’m disordering my words. Disorder is the beginning of order! When I was growing up, my mother Zinophrasis, would yell this at our chickens and they would obediently line up for the tossing of the corn, then, the first five in the line would peel off and follow mother to the barn for their beheading and gutting in preparation for the evening’s supper. In addition to laying eggs, this is what they lived for. Mother would feed the chicken’s heads and guts to our neighbor’s dog Philostasis—named for his tendency to lay around and think all day. Like my dad, Protogarastor. Dad was a bust inspector. The subject of the bust would stand alongside it and Dad would judge its accuracy as a likeness. If it failed to measure up, it would be smashed on the spot. This didn’t happen very often, but when it did all hell would break loose. Dad traveled with four armed guards who were prepared to kill if necessary. We lived in a secret place so we were safe from the enraged bearers of dad’s negative judgments. It was called the Acropolis Hotel. It was an elaborate apartment carved in stone and concealed by the base of Athena’s statue. There was a keypad lock that blended into Athena’s dress. We could only enter and exit under cover of darkness. So, I would get to school really early. I won the “Early Boy Award” in recognition of my reverse tardiness. In fact, I won the award every year. I won a full scholarship to the University of The Titans. I had done well making shields in wood-shop. In fact, I had invented a shield. It was 8 pous (feet) wide. 6 soldiers could shield themselves behind it. But it was too heavy—they had to put it down every 10 pous (feet) for a rest, and sometimes it would fall forward and the soldiers would tumble forward, vulnerable on the ground. Needless to say my shield was a failure and it was determined that I could not go on to advanced shield-making studies. However, given my golden hair, blue eyes, and “perfect” build, I was granted a scholarship in cosmetology. After finishing my training, I went to work at “Hair Today” in the center of Athens. My first customer was a man named Samson, an Israelite who had traveled far to compete in the World Wrestling Competition. His girlfriend Delilah usually cut his hair, but she didn’t have time before he left for Athens. He had a foot-long pony tail emanating from a man bun. He told me to take off about a daktylos (a finger’s length). I sharpened my scissors and was ready to go, when an earthquake struck. My scissors slipped and I cut off the whole ponytail. Samson screamed and became a wrinkled, drooling, bleary-eyed, toothless, old man. After the dust cleared, I told him “no charge.” His toga had fallen to the floor. He pulled it up and turned leave and stumbled over it and fell. He finally got up and left. Meanwhile, I brewed tea from some of his hair. When I drank it, thick black hair replaced my golden hair with his locks. I grew taller and stronger. When I walked down Crete Street, women would follow me, and some were bold enough to squeeze my butt.
I received a letter from Delilah saying she was going to get me. She said she had a pair of scissors with my name on them. Evidently, she had been paid by a rival wrestler to cut off Samson’s hair. I had gotten to him first and now the wrestler was demanding his money back. I did not know what to do, so I ignored her. Three weeks later, I ran into a woman in the market square holding a pair of scissors and yelling “For Samson!” She scuffled with my bodyguard, fell on her scissors, and was slightly wounded. I don’t know why, but I felt compassion for her, maybe it was her beauty. I said, “Don’t try to kill me any more and we can be friends. I am the most powerful hairstylist in Athens.” She started crying and sad “I never wanted to be a prostitute, but my parents were killed in an ox cart accident on the road to Damascus. I found out later that they were driven off the road by a Bible salesman named Saul. I have been unable to find hm because he has changed his name.” She walked up to me sobbing and put her arms around my neck. She was wearing jasmine oil. I felt dizzy. Then, we kissed and all was forgiven. We fell in love. We married. We have two children. They are named Nicholas and Sophia.
Life is strange. Hate can become love in a flash. By the way, Samson asked for reparations for what I did to him. Delilah pushed him down a flight of stairs and solved the problem.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.
The Daily Trope 