Like many classic epics, Ovid's "Metamorphoses" is an anthology, retelling ancient oral tales, all lined up and arranged in a loose narrative arc, not much different in structure from the Odyssey, Iliad, Aeneid, not to mention the Hebrew Bible, New Testament, Gilgamesh epic, and Arabian Nights. Ovid focuses on tales of shape shifting identity twists....hence the title. So we get the tale of Diana and Actaeon in which the hunter becomes the hunted. With Narcissus and his reflection, beauty falls in love with itself. Then the artist Pygmalion falls in love with his own creation, that comes conveniently to life. The artist and his art are one, the dancer is the dance. And self-reflective story telling about the comforts of story telling is central to the main symbol of the poet-singer Orpheus. As with all these classic Greco-Roman stories, there is an abundance of rape and pillage, and badly misbehaving gods. In many ways these contentious, arbitrary and cruel gods provide a more logical explanation of history than the Judeo Christian notion of a noble and just god. It is the beauty of art and the magic of poetry and song that lift the stories from savage brutality to something transcendent. And highly ambiguous. After emphasizing the transitory nature of all things, Ovid boasts that his songs will live for ever, --where ever Rome rules -- a point he has already put in doubt. And he has this Roman leader turn divine and ascend into heaven in an apotheosis of ridiculous proportions, meant to flatter I suppose, but only if one accepts the nonsense. There are no ancient manuscripts of the text, but it did survive the collapse of the Roman Empire. What I cannot quite get a handle on is what was going through the minds of all those medieval monks who copied and recopied these pagan tales of lust and blood and magical transformations to preserve them after the fall of the Roman empire. What were those sedentary, theoretically celibate guys in the scriptoria actually thinking of. What was it that appealed to them? And did they make any changes in the text? We may never know...https://www.wdl.org/en/item/4524/

4/10

Don't get this rating wrong, I'm glad that I read this, it's one of my greatest literary accomplishments thus far with War and Peace, but damn, what a drag. I get it, I respect it, but the amount of eye roll I had while reading this is absurd. I don't think even twilight compares.

I think that for a book that's well over 700 hundred pages (in my edition,) it lacked depth and was very repetitive. Oh, you have ambition? Dare to have dreams? To not conform? To love? How about... no longer being human!

Not to go all fanfics here but, can we all agree that Ovid wrote this because he was heartbroken and needed to keep busy? Because the whole 'oh I'm sad I'm going to live in my poems from now on' screams Red Era Taylor Swift.

(personal highlights include:
- Narcissus and the nymphe Echo
- Scylla & Minos
-Medea & Jason
-Orpheus' songs
-the founding of Rome)

I think I'll read this again from time to time because it seems like that kind of book you revisit and get something new every time, but I don't think I'll ever do a full readthrough again.

The only way this could be better is if Ovidius himself recited it while I reclined on a couch listening to him.





And while the other creatures on all fours
Look downwards, man was made to hold his head
Erect in majesty and see the sky,
And raise his eyes to the bright stars above.
----




And out on soaking wings the south wind flew,
His ghastly features veiled in deepest gloom.
His beard was sodden with rain, his white hair drenched;Mists wreathed his brow and streaming water fell
From wings and chest; and when in giant hands
He crushed the hanging clouds, the thunder crashed
And storms of blinding rain poured down from heaven
----




Seeing a man, all naked as they were,
The nymphs, beating their breasts, filled the whole grove
With sudden screams and clustered round Diana
To clothe her body with their own. But she
Stood taller, a head taller than them all;
And as the clouds are coloured when the sun
Glows late and low or like the crimson dawn,
So deeply blushed Diana, caught unclothed.
----




Distraught he turned towards the face again;
His tears rippled the pool, and darkly then
The troubled water veiled the fading form,
And, as it vanished, ‘Stay’, he shouted, ‘stay!
Oh, cruelty to leave your lover so!
Let me but gaze on what I may not touch
And feed the aching fever in my heart.’
Then in his grief he tore his robe and beat
His pale cold fists upon his naked breast,
And on his breast a blushing redness spread
Like apples, white in part and partly red,
Or summer grapes whose varying skins assume
Upon the ripening vine a blushing bloom.
And this he saw reflected in the pool,
Now still again, and could endure no more.
But as wax melts before a gentle fire,
Or morning frosts beneath the rising sun,
So, by love wasted, slowly he dissolves.
----




The crew, bewildered, rowed with dogged strokes
And spread the sails, twin means to make her move.
But ivy creeping, winding, clinging, bound
The oars and decked the sails in heavy clusters.
Bacchus himself, grape-bunches garlanding
His brow, brandished a spear that vine-leaves twined,And at his feet fierce spotted panthers lay,
Tigers and lynxes too, in phantom forms.
The men leapt overboard, all driven mad
Or panic-stricken. Medon’s body first
Began to blacken and his spine was arched
Into a curve. “What magic shape is this?”
Cried Lycabas, but, even as he spoke,
His mouth widened, his nose curved out, his skin
Turned hard and scaly. Libys, trying to pull
The thwarting oars, saw his hands suddenly
Shrink—hands no longer—fins they might be called.Another, when he meant to clasp his arms
Around a hawser, had no arms and jumped
Limbless and bending backwards into the waves.His tail forked to a sickle-shape and curved
Like a half moon. All round the ship they leapt
In showers of splashing spray. Time after time
They surfaced and fell back into the sea,
Playing like dancers, frolicking about
In fun, wide nostrils taking in the sea
To blow it out again. Of the whole twenty
(That was the crew she carried) I alone
Remained. As I stood trembling, cold with fear,
Almost out of my wits, the god spoke words
Of comfort: “Cast your fear aside. Sail onTo Naxos.” Landing there, I joined his cult
And now am Bacchus’ faithful follower.’
----




Losing no time, malign Tisiphone
Seized a torch steeped in blood, put on a robe
All red with dripping gore and wound a snake
About her waist, and started from her home;
And with her as she went were Grief and Dread,
Terror, and Madness too with frantic face.
She stood upon the threshold of the palace;
The door-posts shook, it’s said; the maple doors
Turned pale, the sunlight fled.
----




The dragons and set out in search of Hunger,
And found her in a stubborn stony field,
Grubbing with nails and teeth the scanty weeds.
Her hair was coarse, her face sallow, her eyes
Sunken; her lips crusted and white; her throat
Scaly with scurf. Her parchment skin revealed
The bowels within; beneath her hollow loins
Jutted her withered hips; her sagging breasts
Seemed hardly fastened to her ribs; her stomach
Only a void; her joints wasted and huge,
Her knees like balls, her ankles grossly swollen.
----




The gods agreed. His royal consort too
Seemed not to mind his words, until the last,
Aimed at herself, received an angry frown.
Meanwhile whatever parts the flames could ravage
Mulciber had removed; of Hercules
No shape remained that might be recognized,
Nothing his mother gave him, traces now
Only of Jove. And as a snake will slough
Age with its skin and revel in fresh life,
Shining resplendent in its sleek new scales,
So Hercules, his mortal frame removed,
Through all his finer parts* gained force and vigour,
In stature magnified, transformed into
A presence clothed in majesty and awe.
The Almighty Father carried him away,
Swept in his four-horsed chariot through the clouds,
And stationed him among the shining stars.
Atlas could feel his weight.
----




Exhausted by her quest, and lay face down,
With tumbled hair, among the fallen leaves.
Often the wood-nymphs tried to cradle her
In their soft arms and often sought to salve
The fever of her love, and comforted
With soothing words her heart that heard no more.
She lay in silence, clutching the small sedge,
And watering the greensward with her tears.
And these, men say, the Naiads made a rill,
For ever flowing—what could they give more?
At once, as resin drips from damaged bark,
Or asphalt oozes from the earth’s dark womb,
Or, when the west wind breathes its balm, the sunUnlocks the water that the frost has bound,
So, wasting by her weeping all away,
Byblis became a spring.
----




Venus’ day came, the holiest festival
All Cyprus celebrates; incense rose high
And heifers, with their wide horns gilded, fell
Beneath the blade that struck their snowy necks.Pygmalion, his offering given, prayed
Before the altar, half afraid, “Vouchsafe
,O Gods, if all things you can grant, my bride
Shall be”—he dared not say my ivory girl—
“The living likeness of my ivory girl.”
And golden Venus (for her presence graced
Her feast) knew well the purpose of his prayer;
And, as an omen of her favouring power,
Thrice did the flame burn bright and leap up high.
And he went home, home to his heart’s delight,
And kissed her as she lay, and she seemed warm;
Again he kissed her and with marvelling touch
Caressed her breast; beneath his touch the flesh
Grew soft, its ivory hardness vanishing,
And yielded to his hands, as in the sun
Wax of Hymettus softens and is shaped
By practised fingers into many forms,
And usefulness acquires by being used.
His heart was torn with wonder and misgiving,
Delight and terror that it was not true!
Again and yet again he tried his hopes—
She was alive! The pulse beat in her veins!
And then indeed in words that overflowed
He poured his thanks to Venus, and at last
His lips pressed real lips, and she, his girl,
Felt every kiss, and blushed, and shyly raised
Her eyes to his and saw the world and him.
----




He drove his chariot against his foe
And cried, his strong arm brandishing his spear,
‘Whoever you are, take comfort when you die,
That great Achilles killed you!’ Those high words
His huge spear followed fast. Yet, though no fault
Deflected the sure shaft, that steely point
Achieved no good: it only bruised his breast
As if the blow were blunt. ‘You goddess’ son’,
Cried Cycnus,’—Yes, I know you by repute—
Why are you so surprised that I’ve no wound?’
(Surprised he was) ‘This helmet that you see
With chestnut horse-hair crest, this convex shield,
My left arm’s load, they’re not for my defence,
They’re for adornment. That’s why Mars too wears
His armour. Strip their guardian services
Away—I’ll leave the field without a scratch.
It’s something surely to be born the son,
Not of a Nereid, but him who rules
Nereus and Nereids and the whole wide sea.’

(Oh snap!)
----




And now that terror of the ranks of Troy,
The grace and guardian of the name of Greece,
Achilles, prince unconquerable in war
Had burned upon the pyre. The selfsame god
Had armed him and consumed him in the end.
Now he is ashes; of that prince so great
Some little thing is left, hardly enough
To fill an urn. Yet still his glory lives
To fill the whole wide world.
----




Our bodies too are always, endlessly
Changing; what we have been, or are today,
We shall not be tomorrow. Years ago
We hid, mere seeds and promise, in the womb;
Nature applied her artist’s hands to free
Us from our swollen mother’s narrow home,
And sent us forth into the open air.
Born to the shining day, the infant lies
Strengthless, but soon on all fours like the beasts
Begins to crawl, and then by slow degrees,
Weak-kneed and wobbling, clutching for support
Some helping upright, learns at last to stand.
Then swift and strong he traverses the span
Of youth, and when the years of middle life
Have given their service too, he glides away
Down the last sunset slope of sad old age—
Old age that saps and mines and overthrows
The strength of earlier years. Milo, grown old,
Sheds tears to see how shrunk and flabby hang
Those arms on which the muscles used to swell,
Massive like Hercules; and, when her glass
Shows every time-worn wrinkle, Helen weeps
And wonders why she twice* was stolen for love.
Time, the devourer, and the jealous years
With long corruption ruin all the world
And waste all things in slow mortality.
----




EPILOGUE

Now stands my task accomplished, such a work
As not the wrath of Jove, nor fire nor sword
Nor the devouring ages can destroy.
Let, when it will, that day, that has no claim
But to my mortal body, end the span
Of my uncertain years. Yet I’ll be borne,
The finer part of me, above the stars,
Immortal, and my name shall never die.
Wherever through the lands beneath her sway
The might of Rome extends, my words shall be
Upon the lips of men. If truth at all
Is stablished by poetic prophecy,
My fame shall live to all eternity.


(Bravo!)

reading this book made me feel like i was chained to ovid in the saw trap bathroom. now i’ve gnawed off my leg and am finally free

(Book 1000 from 1001 books) - Metamorphōseōn Librī = The Metamorphoses = Books of Transformations, Ovid

The Metamorphoses is a Latin narrative poem by the Roman poet Ovid, considered his magnum opus. Comprising 11,995 lines, 15 books and over 250 myths, the poem chronicles the history of the world from its creation to the deification of Julius Caesar within a loose mythic-historical framework.

تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و نهم ژانویه سال 2014میلادی

‏عنوان: افسانه‌های دگردیسی اوید، اثر: پوبلیوس اویدیوس نسو؛ برگردان: میرجلال‌ الدین کزازی، نشر تهران، معین، چاپ نخست سال 1389، در622صفحه، شابک 9789641650348، ‏موضوع آثار نویسندگان رومی (لاتین) - ترجمه شده به فارسی - سده نخست پیش از میلاد

اووید، یکی از نام‌ آورترین سخنوران «رومی»، یا همان «لاتین» است، و می‌توان ایشان را، پس از «ویرژیل»، و «هومر»، پرآوازه‌ ترین سخن‌سرای «لاتین» نامید؛ «افسانه‌ های دگردیسی»، در «پنجاه بخش» به نظم درآمده، که «اووید» هر بخش را، کتاب نامیده، و کوشیده افسانه‌ هایی از انواع «دگردیسی» را، در آنها بازگو کند؛ در این افسانه‌ ها به همه‌ گونه دگردیسی برمی‌خوریم، از دگردیسی آدم به جانداری دیگر، تا دگردیسی انسان به سنگ و کانی بی جان؛ کتاب، برگردان سروده‌ های «اووید»، و شرح «افسانه‌ های دگردیسی اووید» به زبان پارسایی این مرز و بوم همیشه جاوید است

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 20/07/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 25/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی

Isto foi uma grande empreitada, concluída com sucesso.

As Metamorfoses são um poema composto por quinze livros que reúne mais de 250 episódios (gregos e romanos), uns mitológicos outros não.
Ao longo destes 7 meses li, pesquisei, estudei e reli a maioria dos episódios desta obra, e adorei todos os minutos que passei com os heróis destas histórias, mas no meu coração ficaram:

Apolo e Dafne
Píramo e Tisbe
Perseu e Andrómeda
Medusa
Báucis e Filémon
Pigmalião
Mirra
Vénus e Adónis

Este vai directo para a prateleira dos favoritos.

Hoe geef je nou een rating aan een boek van 2000 jaar oud

Preface
Chronology
Introduction & Notes
Further Reading
Translator's Note

--Metamorphoses

Notes
Glossary Index
Map of Ovid's Mediterranean World

I received an advance reader copy of this book to read in exchange for an honest review via netgalley and the publishers.

The Golden Age: Ovids Metamorphoses is a beautiful illustrated book for children giving short 3 paged retelling of a handful of Ovids Metamorphoses. The book is written at a lovely children's can understand and would make a great short story literary resource for a KS2 classroom. The only thing I found difficult to get my head around at first was why the names of the famous Greek Gods was changed to the Roman counterpart - children will be more familiar with the Greek versions than the Roman names. I guess this is because Ovid was a Roman writer? Apart from that I enjoyed these short retelling and found they're perfect for a quick read or story to discuss with your child after reading.

Gods and their love affairs. Gods and their love affairs with mortals. Fate, covetousness, allegiance, brutalities, treachery and chastisements metamorphosing from the cocoon of mighty love. The discordant waves of love dangerously destabilizing romantic notions; overwhelming morality and raison d'être of Gods and mortals alike. Ovid makes you want to write intense poetry and feel affectionate to the idea of love as a device of alteration for better or worse. Love does not conquer all; it destroys and alters everything it touches. That is the best part in Ovid’s poems. They do not have happy endings. Lust or romantic love or ardent worship, acquired in any form changes a person, landscapes, communities mutating elements of fate and tragedies.

Metamorphoses elucidates the consequence of origin and transformation in its entirety.

My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed to bodies new and strange! Immortal Gods inspire my heart, for ye have changed yourselves and all things you have changed! Oh lead my song in smooth and measured strains, from olden days when earth began to this completed time!

Ovid commences his poems by showing appreciation to God (which he says is yet unknown) for carving a loose mass of earth into a picturesque bounty of nature. The amorphous chaos changed into a convex ecstasy of pathless skies, terrains, rivers, the color and prototypes of birds and animals came through a process of love and hate. Ovid represents the mythical world of story telling and repeating fables with morality lessons. The justifications of rape or incest in Ovid’s works segregate the idea of faithful devotion from the viciousness of powerful acquisition that overcomes delusional love. Betrayals are penalized and loyalties are commended. The treatment of love is sagacious and didactic in this book as compared to his other works in the relating genre. It moves onto a broader scenario, becoming a defining factor in wars, altering powers between constituencies, breaking and making of civilizations. Ovid intends the reader to see the probable metaphoric significance of change as a crucial and homogeneous factor in life itself.

And now, I have completed a great work, which not Jove's anger, and not fire nor steel, nor fast-consuming time can sweep away. Whenever it will, let the day come, which has dominion only over this mortal frame, and end for me the uncertain course of life. Yet in my better part I shall be borne immortal, far above the stars on high, and mine shall be a name indelible. Wherever Roman power extends her sway over the conquered lands, I shall be read by lips of men. If Poets' prophecies have any truth, through all the coming years of future ages, I shall live in fame.

As he concludes this epic of transforming love, he credits the survival of Rome to his own prominence making it one of the most influential and renowned works over centuries. Metamorphoses is translated frequently by several modern poets and literary elites.

I have intended to read this translation for a long time and finally got around to it (been on my shelves for years). It is the version read by Shakespeare; Ezra Pound called it "the most beautiful book in the language." Ez was opinionated and some of his literary judgements erratic; certainly this one was.

This is not a modernized version. While Nims has provided a lot of very helpful notes on obsolete terms, it can still be slow going. Golding is wordy and the translation is significantly longer than the Latin text. His verse can also become a bit sing-songy, whether you read it aloud or just hear it echoing in your mind.

Ovid's stories are good in any case, and not always the versions most commonly encountered elsewhere. His versions tend to be prettied up and literary, lacking the raw power of Hesiod, Homer, and the tragedians. Not surprising, since Augustan poets were more in tune with the Alexandrians, who tend to be to precious for my taste.

Benim gibi bazen bir resim heykel üzerinden bazen sözlükten, tekrar tekrar mit okumaya doyamayanlar için harika bir yörünge çiziyor Ovid..
Dönüşümler'in, tıpkı iyi bir heykelin doğası gereği mekanını yaratmasının ötesinde, kendi zamanını da yaratması gibi bir etkisi var!.