The Homeric poems are very ancient and very alien and very formulaic. They are also vivid, direct, gripping, beautiful, enjoyable, ethically and psychologically complex works of narrative and poetic art. Translators have to choose which matters most: to alienate, or to engage.
Why do some reviewers assume that translations that play up the poem’s repetitiveness & foreignness are self-evidently more “faithful” or less “partial” than those (like mine) that play up Homer’s beauty and clarity and depth?
A couple of recent reviews (Colin Burrow in LRB, & Susan Kristol in Weekly Standard) complain that (like many translators) I do creative things with the repeated epithets, & and various characters and relationships sound different in from other modern English translations.
Most reviewers (NYT, WP, Atlantic, NPR, Telegraph, Guardian, New Republic, etc.) observed more or less the same qualities (meter, vividness, speed, emotion, readability, depth, humor, stylistic range), but treated them as positive attributes. Many ways of looking at a blackbird.
There’s often slippage between two quite different claims. 1. Translators shouldn’t interpret (as if that were possible). 2. The interpretation of X. translation is superior to that of Y translation.
Scholars debate about e.g. the representation of Telemachus, & of Penelope, & of Odysseus himself, in the Greek text. I tried to show the psychological complexity of these characters. Other translations, IMHO, tend to simplify the characters more.
Like ancient readers, I'm interested in what the Homeric poems have to say about ethics, society, politics, human behavior. I don’t find easy answers. It seems to me a very modern idea, to try to read Homer with no emotional or ethical engagement, & no pleasure.
Oddly, we tolerate the assertion that a boring or un-metrical or pompous, or obscure or ethically simple version of the complex, fast-paced, deeply moving Homeric poems might be the “literal” or "impartial" version, before the poetic fluff gets added in. Er…
Translators always have to make decisions about what the text they’re translating does & means. The translator knows she can’t convey everything 100% from one language into another, unless she’s an idiot, or just copies out the original (cf Borges’ “Pierre Menand”).
I'm trying to decide what lessons I can learn, for the Iliad, to fail better. Should I aim for a more foreignizing style? Is there any point in that, when the original is powerful, beautiful & clear, and there are plenty of unreadable English Iliads already? I don't know.
Many recent translations are v. similar, in form (unmetrical), style (foreignizing), interpretation (heroizing), & cover art: often a boat, tho' most of the poem is set on land. This isn't the whole truth about Homer, and I'm not sure the world needs more of the same.
It also depends on the author. I am working on OT now, struggling to deal with the densely strange mixed metaphors. Sophocles is not clear & direct like Homer, so the translation's style needs to be different. The domesticizing/ foreignizing binary is always a simplification.
I reread this thread & maybe it's misleading: my Odyssey translation has many repeated components ("winedark sea... winedark sea..."), & I hope lots of linguistic & cultural alienation. I don't want total domestication. I want the dizzying sense of multiple time-frames.
All translators of ancient poetry know they have impossible task of engaging readers in an alien world. How, on the level of the word, the line, the sentence? There are many solutions, none perfect. I work on this for hours every day, and every day I know how little I know.
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Most readers seem to get upset about the poor old dog, and not so much about the human suffering (slavery) evoked in the same passage. Here's a thread I wrote a while ago about this bit of the poem, & translation thereof.
Niche interest, because people ask me about process sometimes: I’m using an old notebook and it has a few pages of early drafts for the Odyssey. Here is a single line from book 6. I didn’t use any of these in the end.
One of the things I struggled with in this line, as you can see, is what to do with "pompe". It's a very important word in the Odyssey, a noun cognate with the verb "pempo", "to send". It suggests providing a traveler with a good "sending", aid to continue in the onward journey
Sendings matter in this poem. Calypso gives a wonderfully begrudging one: she makes her guest build his own transport. Circe gives a great one: detailed instructions, plus helpful wind. The wind-god Aeolus gives two sendings, one nice, one not so nice.
If you are, for any reason, in the mood for a long poem about the abuse of power, I'd like to recommend Ovid's Metamorphoses.
I spent the last month rereading the Met. and writing an introduction for a Norton reissue of the Charles Martin translation, which I like. I want to give a shout out for how great Ovid is, before I move back to the Iliad next week.
I love that the Metamorphoses is so obviously written for smart people, who will snicker if a story is dumb or told in a predictable way. I love that it totally works as an intro to Greek myth, but it's in no way boring if you know 100% of the stories already.
I have been mostly off Twitter recently for mental health. I am in the midst of my current translation projects, and I would not feel comfortable creating comparative translation threads, looking at other people's work and treating mine as finished, when I'm in medias res.
But here are some scattered comments on my current challenges with the Iliad.
There needs to be big energy, the thrill & excitement & terror of storms, floods, great armies clashing, so many young men rushing, killing, dying. I need lots of words for noise & quick momentous movement. "Clash" & "Dash" are useful words. But I can't over-use them
There was a young man called Telemachus
who was bullied and in a dilemma 'cause
he missed his lost dad
and his mom made him mad
and he almost got killed by Eurymachus.
A majestical goddess, Athena,
swooped down from the sky -- you'd have seen her
as some kind of bird ¬–
when she gave the word,
men's yearning for fighting got keener.
A man who lived all on his own-some
was invaded by someone called no-one,
who gave him some wine
and then made him blind
so he called to his father, Poseidon.