Final Essay
Once I Was a Muse
Synesius wrote again today, about the hydrometer. He is convinced that this tool would be able to ascertain the specific gravity of the water; I quite agree. This tool could easily measure the density of liquids, as it is heavier at the bottom so as to remain erect in the liquid. Synesius prefers a hydrometer made of wood, while I prefer glass—each, however, works if the average density is smaller than the density of the liquid. I have to question, though, even with Synesius’ confidence in the tool, if densities can be measured directly. I may need to perfect the tool further. For now I will put those doubts aside, and revel in the possibilities of this hydrometer which Synesius speaks of.
After I quickly read through the letter, I send a note to cast a hydroscope in brass for Synesius upon his request. Even though I have my doubts, I do believe this particular instrument may be able to most accurately determine the specific gravity of liquids. I am excited to share this invention with all of my students, so they may experience heightened acuity in their studies.
Having sent out instructions for the hydroscope, I am suddenly invaded by a memory of my mother. I do not speak of her often, but my mind is always full of her. She was the one who persuaded my father, every single day, even if he was not feeling well, to continue on with my studies. It is from her that I learned to demand to be mathematically and philosophically literate—I wanted to know the world which my parents seemed to be so knowledgable about. And I didn’t just want to know about it, I wanted to be in it and learn more, more, more, until I could surpass our mortal knowledge. During progymnasmata, my mother taught me about Plato. This is the moment I am remembering now.
She taught me about one saying on a fresh morning in our special spot in the shade under a certain olive tree. We were sitting down and I could feel the gentle dew making my clothes wet. She laughed in a rhythmic burst, as she often did before she started speaking, and then commenced with the teaching. She told me that in The Republic, Plato expressed, “If women are expected to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things.” My mother paused then, and looked at me for a reaction. Before I could give her one she went on to say, “Hypatia, I will teach you everything I know. Your father will soon take you to his school for mathematics and philosophy. But always know that even though we will teach you, you must take it all without blindly trusting it. You must think for yourself, think past what we tell you, believe that there are things further on, that there is knowledge past what we could imagine. The beginning—the doubting—is the most important part, and you must put everything that you have, everything that you are, in beginning your journey.”
I looked at my mom, in the shade of the olive tree, and loved her more than I had ever loved anything before. That’s how the memory ends. I still feel the softness of that love as strongly as I had so many years ago.
I come back to the present, suddenly, and remember that I must hurry out to begin my teachings. I must start from the beginning everyday, from the hardest part. Yesterday I sought to show my students that mathematics and philosophy are intimately connected. We cannot get far unless I can make them see that. Mathematics can greatly serve philosophy, an idea which troubled my finite mathematician father, but which I have never questioned. Today I will talk of Plotinus’s philosophy more directly.
I think of my work as I walk. It is the astrolabe which I am musing over. I am planning to show off my newest, most improved version to my students in the following days. It is, I will re-explain to them, a navigational instrument. They will see the pair of rotating discs made of metal, spinning on top of each other around a strong wooden peg which one may remove. This tool can solve problems in spherical astronomy, measure the positions of the sun and stars and accurately calculate the ascendant zodiac sign. I believe this has been my greatest triumph yet—other than my lectures. The astrolabe could help many, and will bring me to life in homes and conversations when I am long gone.
I arrive to the Platonist school and go to greet my students. I begin by surveying the room and looking for the potential in the curious faces of the students. They are excited and anxious to learn—this makes me smile, slightly out of sight. I see Olympius, smirking to himself about something I will never know. Near him is Herculian, Synesius’ closest friend, and it is plain to see how he misses his confidant. Their friendship truly embodied the Platonic, as Synesius wrote in a letter which he let me read prior to sending it. “According to the divine utterance of Plato, he fuses those who love one another by his art, so that from being two they become one.” I know Synesius is struggling with their separation. He is lonely and desolate, and his recent letters have told me that he wishes for his friend to visit, and take up their discourses on philosophy again. Seeing Herculian creates an empathetic yearning in my own heart, and I must look away quickly before I betray my emotions.
And so we begin. As always, I try to convey to my learned students that philosophy is a sacred, religious-like mystery. I must awaken their own feelings towards the divine as I teach about philosophy. It is my duty to place all of my efforts into extracting the eye—buried within each of us—from our inner selves.
This inner eye, the intellectual eye, is a luminous child of reason waiting and yearning for release from our bodily constrains that push it down. Once this eye arises in us, we are able to destroy material limitations and transcend above. I often talk of Plotinus’ own words during lectures, and today is no different. When explaining breaking from material constraints, I pause what I am saying and survey the entirety of the room. I look at each individual, into their eyes, in silence. And then I recite Plotinus’s words from his deathbed: “I am trying to bring back the divine in us to the divine in the All.”
This divine, which we can find within each of us, kindles a spark of wisdom. Everybody is capable of creating a burning fire of understanding from that small hidden spark. I pause so that drama can seep into my lecture and make it more compelling.
It is time for our break. I go over to Olympius, who questions me about Synesius and his whereabouts. I sense that Olympius is struggling internally with something; he does not seem to be himself. He rustles in his clothing as if he cannot stand still and cannot catch my eye. Perhaps he is missing his old friend, or perhaps something within my lecture tugged at an unconscious string within himself. Perhaps his faith or church is what he is thinking about. I wish I could be of more help to him, but I cannot ascertain what is swirling around in his fogged conscience.
The break is over and we continue. I talk mostly of anagoge, Plotinus’s word which explains this journey of the soul toward divinity. Once you have reached this transcendental state, I explain to the wide-eyed students, the goal of philosophizing is reached. One’s mind is in a completely altered state of revelation and contemplation. This is true reality, where our minds must stay to truly understand our world. Synesius once wrote about anagoge, that it is “to be given over to the things above and entirely to the contemplation of Reality and the origin of mortal things.” With that, Synesius surprised and flattered me as a teacher; this is a fine explanation from a student who understands.
Once you have achieved this, I go on to explain to my students, you can attain a true life. Once you merge with this divine Being, your contemplative efforts will reach above what they have ever been.
I am getting louder now, more excited, pacing around the circular room. You are able, with this newly opened mind, to contemplate Beauty and Goodness. And no, I tell them, not the beauty and goodness which man understands in this material world, but the elevated ideas of the ideal Beauty and Goodness. When you all had lived your lives in the material realm, before you decided to learn the divine teachings of philosophy, you had lived a mistake. The ineffability of philosophy must unravel for you all, I tell my students in the room lit with the pink of the sunset, the mystery of being and the pursuit of abstract contemplation is our goal.
I end with this thought. We have gone through a lot of material in our lecture today. I say goodbye as my students trickle out of the room, like water flowing through my fingers.
On my walk back home I see a man looking at me with thirst in his eyes. He does not recognize me and is charmed by my appearance. Although I am wearing my ascetic tribon, he continues to stare. He should attend my lectures to really understand the madness that is Eros, I think to myself as I pass by without connecting eyes.
Plotinus describes, as I have read many times, that “When a man sees the beauty in bodies he must not run after them; we must know that they are images, traces, shadows, and hurry away.” If a man runs to this image in an attempt to have it, he grips onto the unreal and will sink to the depths of Hades without any intellectual strives to speak of. I feel sorry for these men and must inspire my students to tear themselves away from illusions of the material world, to turn away with disgust from the world of objects, and to embrace a heightened contemplation; to endeavor to achieve anagoge.
The wind rustles my clothes and dirt swirls around me. I see an olive tree bent over, as if to say, “Hypatia, come and sit—I wish to hear your secrets and tell you mine.” I stare for a minute or an hour before I walk away hurriedly, ashamed to waste time in rest.
Having returned home, I sit down to decide what my next lecture will contain. I may speak about divine geometry, in addition to Eros, whose holy principles can be applied to the achievement of a true reciprocation within an equal friendship.
Whenever I speak about mathematic principles, I think of my father. He bestowed onto me, above all, a self-respect in my studies. I was his closest collaborator in his scientific endeavors, and he always included my mathematical studies in his works. He told me that I was, by nature, more refined and talented than he was. He made sure I always knew my worth, and how important it was for me to always remember what my ideas could accomplish.
I remember how we would always look up to the stars. He would say, with etchings in his brow and a strict look in his eyes, “Hypatia, you must remember, I wish both for you, but if you must, choose rather to be strong of soul than strong of body.” My soul, my philosopher’s soul, burst open with those words my father quoted from one of his greatest luminaries, and a tear ran down my cheek as I looked up to the stars, the sphere of gods beyond the sun and moon.
~~~~~
This morning, a balmy March breeze wakes me, and I dress for the day of teaching. I first go talk to my friend, Orestes, who relays anxious news as he often does. He tells me that men of the Christian belief are spreading the rumor that I am a lion in their path to reconciliation between the bishop and himself. A lion. So powerful. I chuckle at the image, and at the monstrous rumor. “Be calm, my friend, they will soon realize that I am no one to fear,” I tell him. I think to myself, however, that the authority of any bishop should not exceed to areas meant for municipal administration. This expanding authority is unjust. I sigh deeply.
Orestes, however, is not calm and continues his worried speech. He tells me of Cyril’s propaganda; “Cyril is completely mad, Hypatia,” Orestes declares in a fit of rage. “He is telling people that you practice black magic, a messenger of Hell devoted to magic, astrolabes and instruments of music. They think you are casting your spells over me!” I pause, but do not wish to make Orestes even more scared, so I brush off this absurd rumor by smiling and saying, “my friend, people will soon understand this has no truth to it, just give them time.” Orestes blinks and breathes deeply, and then, after a slight nod, he turns away and leaves. He does not believe me.
After class I return home, not walking but instead riding in a chariot, feeling the breeze on my skin and playing with my hair. The air smells like Spring—fresh and clear. I smile slightly, and start to rearrange my clothes while I turn away out of sight. Suddenly, the chariot stops, and men with covered faces take my arms and drag me out. The ground is hard against my back, pebbles digging into my flesh. I think I let out a scream. I recognize Peter as the leader of these men, a perfect believer in his Jesus Christ. If I were not in so much pain, with the men tearing off my clothes and pelting me with broken pottery, I would chuckle.
I would chuckle because I realize that, in the end, it is religion which is my undoing. Religion. My teachings of Reality and Truth and Beauty and Goodness are not saving me. My students, who will learn regardless of religion, who will learn about the world in a transcendent realm, who will learn to not be bounded by material or object or mortal realms—it is not them or me but religion which people see. Religion overtaking Truth. So be it. I cry out as the pain becomes unbearable.
I scream and then I see no more.
Bibliography
1. Synesius of Cyrene. “Synesius, Letter 015.” Received by Hypatia of Alexandria, 402AD. (https://www.livius.org/sources/content/synesius/synesius-letter-015/). This letter is from Synesius of Cyrene, a Neo-Platonic philosopher who was a disciple of Hypatia. Synesius’ intense scientific interests seem to stem from teachings from Hypatia; this specific letter (to Hypatia) contains the first ever written description of a densimeter/hydrometer. I will use this letter in my creative project to include real details about these scientific instruments that Hypatia would have been thinking about. I also included this information about the hydrometer in my story through Hypatia’s inner monologue concerning when she thinks about her exploits in perfecting this technology.
2. Dzielska, Maria. Hypatia of Alexandria. Harvard University Press, 1995. (https://alliance-primo.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/primo-explore/fulldisplay?docid=CP71133123590001451&context=L&vid=UW&search_scope=all&tab=default_tab&lang=en_US). I used this non-distorted view of Hypatia’s life to describe her lecture to her students in the most realistic way possible. This book included Neoplatonist philosophy which she taught, which I wrote about during her first lecture—I especially found the explanation of “anagoge” in this book helpful. This book also talks about her clothing, and in depth about her students, so I was able to include real names and relationships with her students during her lecture. I also found information about her friendship with Orestes, and about the cause of her death in this book which I was able to use for the ending of my story.
3. Watts, Edward Jay. “Childhood and Education.” Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher, Oxford University Press, New York, NY, 2020. ((https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=xjLjDQAAQBAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PP1&dq=Hypatia%27s+childhood&ots=eC1JVodBz3&sig=7t_qEjV00qobQ6P3Y5zcQ9HNAwY#v=onepage&q=Hypatia's%20childhood&f=false).
This book, “Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher” by Edward Watts, contains very useful and unique descriptions of Hypatia’s childhood (in the chapter “Childhood and Education”). While writing from her perspective, I have Hypatia muse about her childhood, and both her mother and her father in turn. This chapter includes details about her relationship with her father, Theon of Alexandria, which was very useful to know before attempting to write a story from her perspective. It also helped me understand what Theon would teach her, so I could write about that a bit. In this chapter, it describes that nothing is known about Hypatia’s mother. However, I did not feel right about excluding the mother entirely so I added her in a realistic way through Hypatia’s fictitious flashback.
Once I Was a Muse
Synesius wrote again today, about the hydrometer. He is convinced that this tool would be able to ascertain the specific gravity of the water; I quite agree. This tool could easily measure the density of liquids, as it is heavier at the bottom so as to remain erect in the liquid. Synesius prefers a hydrometer made of wood, while I prefer glass—each, however, works if the average density is smaller than the density of the liquid. I have to question, though, even with Synesius’ confidence in the tool, if densities can be measured directly. I may need to perfect the tool further. For now I will put those doubts aside, and revel in the possibilities of this hydrometer which Synesius speaks of.
After I quickly read through the letter, I send a note to cast a hydroscope in brass for Synesius upon his request. Even though I have my doubts, I do believe this particular instrument may be able to most accurately determine the specific gravity of liquids. I am excited to share this invention with all of my students, so they may experience heightened acuity in their studies.
Having sent out instructions for the hydroscope, I am suddenly invaded by a memory of my mother. I do not speak of her often, but my mind is always full of her. She was the one who persuaded my father, every single day, even if he was not feeling well, to continue on with my studies. It is from her that I learned to demand to be mathematically and philosophically literate—I wanted to know the world which my parents seemed to be so knowledgable about. And I didn’t just want to know about it, I wanted to be in it and learn more, more, more, until I could surpass our mortal knowledge. During progymnasmata, my mother taught me about Plato. This is the moment I am remembering now.
She taught me about one saying on a fresh morning in our special spot in the shade under a certain olive tree. We were sitting down and I could feel the gentle dew making my clothes wet. She laughed in a rhythmic burst, as she often did before she started speaking, and then commenced with the teaching. She told me that in The Republic, Plato expressed, “If women are expected to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things.” My mother paused then, and looked at me for a reaction. Before I could give her one she went on to say, “Hypatia, I will teach you everything I know. Your father will soon take you to his school for mathematics and philosophy. But always know that even though we will teach you, you must take it all without blindly trusting it. You must think for yourself, think past what we tell you, believe that there are things further on, that there is knowledge past what we could imagine. The beginning—the doubting—is the most important part, and you must put everything that you have, everything that you are, in beginning your journey.”
I looked at my mom, in the shade of the olive tree, and loved her more than I had ever loved anything before. That’s how the memory ends. I still feel the softness of that love as strongly as I had so many years ago.
I come back to the present, suddenly, and remember that I must hurry out to begin my teachings. I must start from the beginning everyday, from the hardest part. Yesterday I sought to show my students that mathematics and philosophy are intimately connected. We cannot get far unless I can make them see that. Mathematics can greatly serve philosophy, an idea which troubled my finite mathematician father, but which I have never questioned. Today I will talk of Plotinus’s philosophy more directly.
I think of my work as I walk. It is the astrolabe which I am musing over. I am planning to show off my newest, most improved version to my students in the following days. It is, I will re-explain to them, a navigational instrument. They will see the pair of rotating discs made of metal, spinning on top of each other around a strong wooden peg which one may remove. This tool can solve problems in spherical astronomy, measure the positions of the sun and stars and accurately calculate the ascendant zodiac sign. I believe this has been my greatest triumph yet—other than my lectures. The astrolabe could help many, and will bring me to life in homes and conversations when I am long gone.
I arrive to the Platonist school and go to greet my students. I begin by surveying the room and looking for the potential in the curious faces of the students. They are excited and anxious to learn—this makes me smile, slightly out of sight. I see Olympius, smirking to himself about something I will never know. Near him is Herculian, Synesius’ closest friend, and it is plain to see how he misses his confidant. Their friendship truly embodied the Platonic, as Synesius wrote in a letter which he let me read prior to sending it. “According to the divine utterance of Plato, he fuses those who love one another by his art, so that from being two they become one.” I know Synesius is struggling with their separation. He is lonely and desolate, and his recent letters have told me that he wishes for his friend to visit, and take up their discourses on philosophy again. Seeing Herculian creates an empathetic yearning in my own heart, and I must look away quickly before I betray my emotions.
And so we begin. As always, I try to convey to my learned students that philosophy is a sacred, religious-like mystery. I must awaken their own feelings towards the divine as I teach about philosophy. It is my duty to place all of my efforts into extracting the eye—buried within each of us—from our inner selves.
This inner eye, the intellectual eye, is a luminous child of reason waiting and yearning for release from our bodily constrains that push it down. Once this eye arises in us, we are able to destroy material limitations and transcend above. I often talk of Plotinus’ own words during lectures, and today is no different. When explaining breaking from material constraints, I pause what I am saying and survey the entirety of the room. I look at each individual, into their eyes, in silence. And then I recite Plotinus’s words from his deathbed: “I am trying to bring back the divine in us to the divine in the All.”
This divine, which we can find within each of us, kindles a spark of wisdom. Everybody is capable of creating a burning fire of understanding from that small hidden spark. I pause so that drama can seep into my lecture and make it more compelling.
It is time for our break. I go over to Olympius, who questions me about Synesius and his whereabouts. I sense that Olympius is struggling internally with something; he does not seem to be himself. He rustles in his clothing as if he cannot stand still and cannot catch my eye. Perhaps he is missing his old friend, or perhaps something within my lecture tugged at an unconscious string within himself. Perhaps his faith or church is what he is thinking about. I wish I could be of more help to him, but I cannot ascertain what is swirling around in his fogged conscience.
The break is over and we continue. I talk mostly of anagoge, Plotinus’s word which explains this journey of the soul toward divinity. Once you have reached this transcendental state, I explain to the wide-eyed students, the goal of philosophizing is reached. One’s mind is in a completely altered state of revelation and contemplation. This is true reality, where our minds must stay to truly understand our world. Synesius once wrote about anagoge, that it is “to be given over to the things above and entirely to the contemplation of Reality and the origin of mortal things.” With that, Synesius surprised and flattered me as a teacher; this is a fine explanation from a student who understands.
Once you have achieved this, I go on to explain to my students, you can attain a true life. Once you merge with this divine Being, your contemplative efforts will reach above what they have ever been.
I am getting louder now, more excited, pacing around the circular room. You are able, with this newly opened mind, to contemplate Beauty and Goodness. And no, I tell them, not the beauty and goodness which man understands in this material world, but the elevated ideas of the ideal Beauty and Goodness. When you all had lived your lives in the material realm, before you decided to learn the divine teachings of philosophy, you had lived a mistake. The ineffability of philosophy must unravel for you all, I tell my students in the room lit with the pink of the sunset, the mystery of being and the pursuit of abstract contemplation is our goal.
I end with this thought. We have gone through a lot of material in our lecture today. I say goodbye as my students trickle out of the room, like water flowing through my fingers.
On my walk back home I see a man looking at me with thirst in his eyes. He does not recognize me and is charmed by my appearance. Although I am wearing my ascetic tribon, he continues to stare. He should attend my lectures to really understand the madness that is Eros, I think to myself as I pass by without connecting eyes.
Plotinus describes, as I have read many times, that “When a man sees the beauty in bodies he must not run after them; we must know that they are images, traces, shadows, and hurry away.” If a man runs to this image in an attempt to have it, he grips onto the unreal and will sink to the depths of Hades without any intellectual strives to speak of. I feel sorry for these men and must inspire my students to tear themselves away from illusions of the material world, to turn away with disgust from the world of objects, and to embrace a heightened contemplation; to endeavor to achieve anagoge.
The wind rustles my clothes and dirt swirls around me. I see an olive tree bent over, as if to say, “Hypatia, come and sit—I wish to hear your secrets and tell you mine.” I stare for a minute or an hour before I walk away hurriedly, ashamed to waste time in rest.
Having returned home, I sit down to decide what my next lecture will contain. I may speak about divine geometry, in addition to Eros, whose holy principles can be applied to the achievement of a true reciprocation within an equal friendship.
Whenever I speak about mathematic principles, I think of my father. He bestowed onto me, above all, a self-respect in my studies. I was his closest collaborator in his scientific endeavors, and he always included my mathematical studies in his works. He told me that I was, by nature, more refined and talented than he was. He made sure I always knew my worth, and how important it was for me to always remember what my ideas could accomplish.
I remember how we would always look up to the stars. He would say, with etchings in his brow and a strict look in his eyes, “Hypatia, you must remember, I wish both for you, but if you must, choose rather to be strong of soul than strong of body.” My soul, my philosopher’s soul, burst open with those words my father quoted from one of his greatest luminaries, and a tear ran down my cheek as I looked up to the stars, the sphere of gods beyond the sun and moon.
~~~~~
This morning, a balmy March breeze wakes me, and I dress for the day of teaching. I first go talk to my friend, Orestes, who relays anxious news as he often does. He tells me that men of the Christian belief are spreading the rumor that I am a lion in their path to reconciliation between the bishop and himself. A lion. So powerful. I chuckle at the image, and at the monstrous rumor. “Be calm, my friend, they will soon realize that I am no one to fear,” I tell him. I think to myself, however, that the authority of any bishop should not exceed to areas meant for municipal administration. This expanding authority is unjust. I sigh deeply.
Orestes, however, is not calm and continues his worried speech. He tells me of Cyril’s propaganda; “Cyril is completely mad, Hypatia,” Orestes declares in a fit of rage. “He is telling people that you practice black magic, a messenger of Hell devoted to magic, astrolabes and instruments of music. They think you are casting your spells over me!” I pause, but do not wish to make Orestes even more scared, so I brush off this absurd rumor by smiling and saying, “my friend, people will soon understand this has no truth to it, just give them time.” Orestes blinks and breathes deeply, and then, after a slight nod, he turns away and leaves. He does not believe me.
After class I return home, not walking but instead riding in a chariot, feeling the breeze on my skin and playing with my hair. The air smells like Spring—fresh and clear. I smile slightly, and start to rearrange my clothes while I turn away out of sight. Suddenly, the chariot stops, and men with covered faces take my arms and drag me out. The ground is hard against my back, pebbles digging into my flesh. I think I let out a scream. I recognize Peter as the leader of these men, a perfect believer in his Jesus Christ. If I were not in so much pain, with the men tearing off my clothes and pelting me with broken pottery, I would chuckle.
I would chuckle because I realize that, in the end, it is religion which is my undoing. Religion. My teachings of Reality and Truth and Beauty and Goodness are not saving me. My students, who will learn regardless of religion, who will learn about the world in a transcendent realm, who will learn to not be bounded by material or object or mortal realms—it is not them or me but religion which people see. Religion overtaking Truth. So be it. I cry out as the pain becomes unbearable.
I scream and then I see no more.
Bibliography
1. Synesius of Cyrene. “Synesius, Letter 015.” Received by Hypatia of Alexandria, 402AD. (https://www.livius.org/sources/content/synesius/synesius-letter-015/). This letter is from Synesius of Cyrene, a Neo-Platonic philosopher who was a disciple of Hypatia. Synesius’ intense scientific interests seem to stem from teachings from Hypatia; this specific letter (to Hypatia) contains the first ever written description of a densimeter/hydrometer. I will use this letter in my creative project to include real details about these scientific instruments that Hypatia would have been thinking about. I also included this information about the hydrometer in my story through Hypatia’s inner monologue concerning when she thinks about her exploits in perfecting this technology.
2. Dzielska, Maria. Hypatia of Alexandria. Harvard University Press, 1995. (https://alliance-primo.hosted.exlibrisgroup.com/primo-explore/fulldisplay?docid=CP71133123590001451&context=L&vid=UW&search_scope=all&tab=default_tab&lang=en_US). I used this non-distorted view of Hypatia’s life to describe her lecture to her students in the most realistic way possible. This book included Neoplatonist philosophy which she taught, which I wrote about during her first lecture—I especially found the explanation of “anagoge” in this book helpful. This book also talks about her clothing, and in depth about her students, so I was able to include real names and relationships with her students during her lecture. I also found information about her friendship with Orestes, and about the cause of her death in this book which I was able to use for the ending of my story.
3. Watts, Edward Jay. “Childhood and Education.” Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher, Oxford University Press, New York, NY, 2020. ((
This book, “Hypatia: The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher” by Edward Watts, contains very useful and unique descriptions of Hypatia’s childhood (in the chapter “Childhood and Education”). While writing from her perspective, I have Hypatia muse about her childhood, and both her mother and her father in turn. This chapter includes details about her relationship with her father, Theon of Alexandria, which was very useful to know before attempting to write a story from her perspective. It also helped me understand what Theon would teach her, so I could write about that a bit. In this chapter, it describes that nothing is known about Hypatia’s mother. However, I did not feel right about excluding the mother entirely so I added her in a realistic way through Hypatia’s fictitious flashback.