The Fagles translation is brilliant.

(will write a review after all my schoolwork

Περισσότερα από 3000 χρόνια ταξιδεύουν τα ομηρικά έπη, μέσα στον κυκλικό και γραμμικό χρόνο των θεών και των ανθρώπων, για να θρυμματίζουν σταθερά κι απαράγραπτα τις καρδιές σ' αυτό το σημείο:

[...]ἔνθα κύων κεῖτ᾽ Ἄργος, ἐνίπλειος κυνοραιστέων.
δή τότε γ᾽, ὡς ἐνόησεν Ὀδυσσέα ἐγγύς ἐόντα,
οὐρῇ μέν ῥ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἔσηνε καὶ οὔατα κάββαλεν ἄμφω,
ἄσσον δ᾽ οὐκέτ᾽ ἔπειτα δυνήσατο οἷο ἄνακτος
ἐλθέμεν· αὐτάρ ὁ νόσφιν ἰδών ἀπομόρξατο δάκρυ,
ῥεῖα λαθών Εὔμαιον [...]

Κι ενώ εκείνοι συναλλάσσοντας τα λόγια τους μιλούσαν,
ένα σκυλί που ζάρωνε, σήκωσε ξαφνικά τ᾽ αφτιά και το κεφάλι του
—ο Άργος του καρτερικού Οδυσσέα! Τον είχε ο ίδιος
μεγαλώσει, όμως δεν πρόλαβε να τον χαρεί· πρωτύτερα
αναχώρησε να πάει στην άγια Τροία.
Τα πρώτα χρόνια οι νιούτσικοι τον έβγαζαν κυνήγι,
και κυνηγούσε αγριοκάτσικα, ζαρκάδια και λαγούς.
Μετά τον παραμέλησαν, αφότου ο κύρης του ταξίδεψε μακριά,
και σέρνονταν στην κοπριά, χυμένη σε σωρούς από τις μούλες
και τα βόδια στην αυλόθυρα μπροστά, απ᾽ όπου
του Οδυσσέα οι δούλοι σήκωναν κάθε τόσο να κοπρίσουν
το μέγα τέμενός του.
Εκεί τώρα σερνόταν το σκυλί, μ᾽ αμέτρητα τσιμπούρια ο Άργος.
Κι όμως, αναγνωρίζοντας τον Οδυσσέα στο πλάι του,
σάλεψε την ουρά του και κατέβασε πάλι τ᾽ αφτιά του,
όμως τη δύναμη δεν βρήκε να φτάσει πιο κοντά στον κύρη του.
Τον είδε εκείνος, και γυρίζοντας αλλού το βλέμμα του,
σκούπισε ένα δάκρυ —από τον Εύμαιο κρυφά,
για να τον ξεγελάσει.

"Din tot ce-n lume mișcă și răsuflă,
Nimic mai șubred pe pămînt ca omul.
Nu crede el c-are să dea vr-odată
De rău pînă ce zeii-i dau norocul
Să-i meargă toate-n plin și-i pot genuchii.
Iar cînd trimit răstriști asupra-i zeii,
Le rabdă el pe vrute, pe nevrute,
Căci mintea-ai se tot schimbă după ziua
Ce-o luminează Cel-de-sus."
"Să nu fie dar omul niciodată
Nedrept și rău, ci-n sine să se-mpace
Cu darurile ce-i făcură zeii."

The Odyssey is, well, the Odyssey. Beyond being a tremendously exciting read, it is a foundational work in Western literature.

It is a glorious story of love and war, gods and humans, adventure in and around the Mediterranean (and, some argue, out to the West Indies). On the surface simply the story of Odysseus's adventures after the fall of Troy, it is a rich tapestry of places, characters, and creatures which have entered into the basic language of Western literature.

For academic study of the Odyssey, Lattimore's translation is the preferred text, in part because it remains closest to the Greek text. And Lattimore's is a fine translation. But I find Fitzgerald's translation more alive, more exciting, more compelling. It is modern without being overly glib, a fault I find Fagles and Lombardo sometimes falling into.

For serious teaching and study, I stick with Lattimore. But for reading pleasure -- I have read the Odyssey perhaps a dozen times in at least a half-dozen translations, and still find it has riches I never previously noticed -- I turn by preference to Fitzgerald.

If you haven't read this Odyssey, do so. Definitely do so. What else can I say?

Really enjoyed this new translation very much.
4.5*

Homer’s The Odyssey is a story I frequently return to, but it’s been a while since I’ve read the whole book. I read works by Homer and Greek Myths to understand the stories in art works (by painters from Raphael, to Reubens to Pre-Raphaelites and later) better.

This translation is originally by E V Rieu (which decades later was updated by his son). I like it because the prose style means I don’t constantly need to look things up, where I can just enjoy reading the book as is. I also like tis translation because every time I read it, I take away a little bit more understanding of the many sub-plots and story details that would be easy to miss with modern eyes.

It starts with

Tell me, Muse of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy.

In less than 15 words I have a clear picture of this story and what’s already happened. What follows is a touch dizzying with the mention of many characters, but the main conflict is clear: will Odysseus ever find his way back home?


Some of my favourite scenes are a mix of comedy and drama:

-tBook 4 – when Eurymachus, one of the suitors, discover that Odysseus’s son, Telemachus, has slipped out without them knowing to find out if his father is dead or alive. Worried, he and the other suitors plan to assassinate him.

-tBook 14 – the chat between Eumaeus and Odysseus. Odysseus, with Athena’s help, is guised as an old beggar but Eumaeus, his old faithful servant does not recognise him.

-tBook 23 – Penelope asks Odysseus to prove who he is. I also like the scene when Telemachus is keen to leave to get back home but Menelaus won’t stop talking.
There are moments in Homer’s The Odyssey that make this a difficult read, but it’s been a thrill to unpuzzle this story for myself.

Ever since I first read Homer’s epic describing the adventures of Odysseus back in my school days, three of those adventures fired my imagination: The Lotus Eaters, The Cyclops and the Sirens, most especially the Sirens. I just did revisit these sections of this Greek epic and my imagination was set aflame yet again. How much, you ask? Here is my microfiction as a tribute to the great poet:

THE SIRENS

This happened back in those days when I was a member of an experimental performing-arts troupe down in Greenwich Village. We would read poetry, dance and act out avant-garde plays in our dilapidated little theater. For a modest charge people could come in and watch for as long as they wanted.

Somehow, a business executive who worked downtown in the financial district heard of what we were doing and spoke with our director about an act he has all worked out but needed a supporting cast and that he would pay handsomely if we went along with him.

Well, experimental is experimental and if we were going to be well paid we had nothing to lose. The first thing he did was pass out our costumes. In addition to himself, he had parts for three men and three women. The play we were to perform was so simple we didn’t even need a written script. He was to be Odysseus from Homer’s epic and three men would be his sailors. As for the women, we would be the singing Sirens.

So, after he changed – quite a sight in a loincloth, being gray-haired, jowly, pasty-skinned and potbellied – we went on stage and he told the sailors how no man has ever heard the hypnotic songs of the Sirens and lived to tell the tale but he, mighty Odysseus, would be the first. He instructed the sailors to tie him to the ship’s mast. They used one of the building’s pillars and when he cried out as the Sirens sang their song the sailors, who had wax in their ears, were to bind him to the mast even tighter.

Meanwhile, three of us ladies were on stage as the Sirens, in costume, bare-breasted and outfitted with wings. We began singing a sweet, lilting melody. Mike – that was the businessman’s name – started screaming and the sailors tightened the ropes that bound him. The sailors were glad their ears were plugged as Mike screamed for nearly half an hour.

When the ship passed out of earshot of the Sirens, the sailors unbound mighty Odysseus and he collapsed on our makeshift stage, a mass of exhausted middle-aged flesh. The audience applauded, even cheered and we continued our performance of Odysseus and the Sirens every night for more than a week. Then one night Mike outdid himself. His blue eyes bulged, the veins in his neck popped and his face turned a deeper blood-scarlet than ever before. And what I feared might happen, did happen – Mike had a heart attack. We had to interrupt our performance and call an ambulance.

We all thought that was the end of our dealing with Mike aka Odysseus until our director received a call from the hospital. Mike told her he was going to be just fine and would be back on stage next week. We called a meeting and everyone agreed that we would suggest Mike seek psychiatric help but if he insists on playing Odysseus, he will have to take his act elsewhere.

3.5 stars.

As a lover of the Greek myths I've always thought it odd that I've never read The Odyssey. I think the sheer size of it, and the epic way it has always been written in the past has always put me off. Plus, surely by this point everyone knows the story of Odysseus and how he gets home after the Trojan War. What I didn't expect was a lot of talk of the sacred right of hospitality and how it is used both respectfully and also abused.

Strangers are sacred to Zeus, and as such are protected when asking for shelter. We all know what happened in Game of Thrones at the Red Wedding when this type of thing goes wrong, so it should come as no surprise that some things go down when Odysseus returns to Ithaca to find his home ruined by men looking to take his loyal wife Penelope as their new bride. Everyone believes him dead, but Odysseus is the prime example of a trickster, an intelligent man bent on scheming. It's one of the reasons Athena loves him so much after all. So taking on various disguises he sets about constructing his plan to take the men down with the help of his son, Telemachus.

I didn't expect this section of the story to be so long. I genuinely thought that the bulk of the story would consist of Odysseus's travels home facing the sirens and the cyclops and the sacred cows. It wasn't - and for that I felt a little let down as it was by the far the most interesting part of the story. Also, Odysseus at times just isn't that likeable. He's proud, with a quick temper, and he seems to think he's better than everyone else. Except his beloved Athena. He doesn't even seem to give Penelope any credit for remaing loyal for 20 years for a husband she thinks is dead.

I will give credit to this translation, which I found made the text incredibly accessible and easy to read. It flows in a way that makes it feel like it should be read aloud, and adds to the overall experience.

Con "La Ilíada" me tomé mi tiempo, pero "La Odisea" lo he devorado, y de haber tenido más tiempo libre, creo que habría tardado en leerlo solo tres días como mucho. Me enganchó desde el principio y se me hizo súper ligero; es un libro lleno de aventuras en el que no dejan de ocurrir cosas. Lo he pasado pipa leyéndolo y, el hecho de tener a mis espaldas ya "La Ilíada", que es bastante más denso, ha hecho de esta lectura un libro muy ágil y accesible para mí.

Se puede observar mucho en "La Odisea" sobre la vida cotidiana de la Antigua Grecia y todo lo que de ellos adoptaron los romanos, como por ejemplo la práctica de la hecatombe, que parece un simple sacrificio en masa de vacas y ovejas, pero en realidad la carne de esos animales era la que después iba a comerse o venderse (no concebían griegos y romanos quitarle la vida al animal sin el acto sacrificial y la libación a los dioses). También se habla de la vida después de la muerte y las cosas que hacen las almas en el Hades, lo que nos lleva a entender la mística de la muerte en el mundo griego clásico. La mayoría de las aventuras de este libro son de dominio público cultural, pero leerlas en la obra original me ha resultado una experiencia magnífica, de la que he sacado innumerables matices históricos.

¿Hay que leer antes "La Ilíada"? Bueno, diría que no es del todo imprescindible, pero sí recomendable, ya que los cuatro primeros cantos y alguno más de los que van por en medio hacen referencia directa a hechos y personajes del primer libro y, aunque se coge el hilo, creo que se disfruta mucho más si sabes al 100% de qué te están hablando. Pero si no sabes nada sobre mitología griega o sobre la guerra de Troya, pues sí, para ti es imprescindible leer antes "La Ilíada". Esa es mi impresión y mi recomendación.

Sobre el tratamiento a las mujeres, se puede combinar esta reseña con la que hice de "La Ilíada", pero básicamente: no me gusta, pero este libro se escribió hace unos 2.800 años y, sin duda, ver el machismo y el trato a la mujer nos lleva a entender cómo funcionaba aquella sociedad. Relatar lo contrario sería olvidar el pasado, a mi juicio un gran error. Así pues, estoy deseando leer otras novelas, como "Penélope y las doce criadas", de Atwood, que narra "La Odisea" desde el punto de vista femenino. Va a ser muy interesante.

Con todo, ya digo que he disfrutado mucho de este libro, que además ha sido la lectura de julio y agosto del Club Pickwick y, de momento, el libro del club que más me ha gustado este año.

To this day, the most interesting research project that I’ve ever done was the very first. It was on the Homeric Question.

I was a sophomore in college—a student with (unfortunate) literary ambitions who had just decided to major in anthropology. By this point, I had at least tacitly decided that I wanted to be a professor. In my future lay the vast and unexplored ocean of academia. What was the safest vessel to travel into that forbidden wine-dark sea? Research.

I signed up for a reading project with an anthropology professor. Although I was too naïve to sense it at the time, he was a man thoroughly sick of his job. Lucky for him, he was on the cusp of retirement. So his world-weariness manifested itself as a total, guilt-free indifference to his teaching duties. Maybe that’s why I liked him so much. I envied a man that could apparently care so little about professional advancement. That’s what I wanted.

In any case, now I had to come up with a research topic. I had just switched into the major, and so had little idea what typical anthropology research projects were like. And because my advisor was so indifferent, I received no guidance from him. The onus lay entirely on me. One night, as I groped half-heartedly through Wikipedia pages, I stumbled on something fascinating, something that I hadn’t even considered before.

Who is Homer? Nobody knew. Nobody could know. The man—if man he was—was lost to the abyss of time. No trace of him existed. We can’t even pin down what century he lived. And yet, we have these glorious poems—poems at the center of our history, the roots of the Western literary canon. Stories of the Greek Gods had fascinated me since my childhood; Zues and Athena were as familiar as Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. That the person (or persons) responsible could be so totally lost to history baffled me—intrigued me.

But I was not majoring in literature or the humanities. I was in anthropology, and so had to do a proper anthropological project. At the very least, I needed an angle.

Milman Parry and Albert Lord duly provided this angle. The two men were classicists—scholars of ancient Greece. But instead of staying in their musty offices reading dusty manuscripts, they did something no classicist had done before: they attempted to answer the Homeric question with field work.

At the time (and perhaps now?) a vibrant oral tradition existed in Serbo-Croatia. Oral poets (guslars, they’re called there) would tell massive stories at public gatherings, some stories even approaching the length of the Homeric poems. But what was most fascinating was that these stories were apparently improvised.

In our decadent culture, we have a warped idea of improvisation. Many of us believe improvisation to be the spontaneous outflowing of creative energies, manifesting themselves in something totally new. Like God shaping the Earth out of the infinite void, these imaginary improvisers shape their art from nothing whatsoever. Unfortunately, this never happens.

Whether you’re a jazz saxophonist playing on a Coltrane tune, a salesperson dealing with a new client, or an oral bard telling a tale, improvisation is done via a playful recombining of preexisting, formulaic elements. This was Milman and Parry’s great discovery. By carefully transcribing hundreds of these Serbo-Croation poems, they discovered that—although a single poem may vary from person to person, place to place, or performance to performance—the variation took place within predictable boundaries.

The poet’s brains were full of stock-phrases (“when dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more”), common epithets (“much-enduring Odysseus”), and otherwise formulaic verses that allowed them to quickly put together their poems. Individual scenes, in turn, also followed stereotypical outlines—feasts, banquets, catalogues of forces, battles, athletic contests, etc. Of course, this is not to say that the poet was not original. Rather, it is to say that they are just as original as John Coltrane or Charlie Parker—individuals working within a tradition. These formulas and stereotypical scenes were the raw material with which the poet worked. They allowed him to compose material quickly enough to keep up the performance, and not break his rhythm.

But could poems as long as The Odyssey and The Iliad come wholly from an oral tradition? It seems improbable: it would take multiple days to recite, and the bard would have to pick up where he left off. But Milman and Parry, during their fieldwork, managed to put our fears at rest. They found a singer that could (and did) compose poems equal in length to Homer’s. (I actually read one. It’s called The Wedding of Smailagic Meho, and was recited by a poet named Avdo. It’s no Odyssey, but still entertaining.)

All this is impressive, but one question remained: how could the oral poems get on paper? Did an oral poet—Homer, presumably—learn to write, and copy it down? Not possible, says Alfred Lord, in his book The Singer of Tales. According to him, once a person becomes literate, the frame of mind required to learn the art of oral poetry cannot be achieved. A literate person thinks of language in an entirely different way as a non-literate one, and so the poems couldn’t have been written by a literate poet who had learned from his oral predecessors.

According to Lord, this left only one option: Homer must have been a master oral poet, and his poems must have been transcribed by someone else. (This is how the aforementioned poem by Avdo was taken down by the researchers.) At the time, this struck me as perfectly likely—indeed, almost certain. But the more I think about it, the less I can imagine an oral poet submitting himself to sit with a scribe, writing in the cumbersome Linear B script, for the dozens and dozens of hours it would have taken to transcribe these poems. It’s possible, but seems unlikely.

But according to Ruth Finnegan, Alfred Lord’s insistence that literacy destroys the capacity to improvise poems is mistaken. An anthropologist, Finnegan found many cases in Africa of semi-literate or fully literate people who remained capable of improvising poetry. So it’s at least equally possible that Homer was an oral poet who learned to read, and then decided to commit the poems to paper (or whatever they were writing on back then).

I submit this longwinded overview of the Homeric Question because, despite my usual arrogance, I cannot even imagine writing a ‘review’ for this poem. I feel like that would be equivalent to ‘reviewing’ one’s own father and mother. For me, and everyone alive in the Western world today, The Odyssey is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Marvelously sophisticated, fantastically exciting, it is the alpha and omega of our tradition. From Homer we sprang, and unto Homer shall we return.

[Note: I'd also like to add that this time, my third or forth time through the poem, I decided to go through it via audiobook. Lucky for me, the Fagles translation (a nice one if you're looking for readability) is available as an audiobook, narrated by the great Sir Ian McKellen. It was a wonderful experience, not only because Sir Ian has such a beautiful voice (he's Gandalf, after all), but because hearing it read rather than reading it recreated, however dimly, the original experience of the poem: as a performance. I highly recommend it.]

Odysseus is the ultimate anti-hero, and that's probably why - as much as he annoys me at times with his antics - I'll always prefer him to Achilles. Sure, one can't deny how unreliable and n  prejudicedn he is as a narrator - just look at how he twists the reality when describing the Cyclops' life and culture - but that's precisely - in addition to the engaging structure - what makes The Odyssey so readable and less 'old-felt' than The Iliad. Well assuming you're reading a translation in verses, of course (but why wouldn't you now).

I can appreciate that Homer's trying to give his female characters a voice - much more than Virgile, anyway - but let's face it, as all classics it's still full of dudes who make the decisions (and end sleeping with every woman they meet, because why the fuck not?).

Still a must-read as far as I'm concerned, at the very least to be able to notice how far the references spread (colonization will do that to you, nudge nudge Alexander the Great).

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