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just finished yet ANOTHER book for class baby! call me an enlightened scholar
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Tristia - Ex Ponto
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Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso, 43 BCE–17 CE), born at Sulmo, studied rhetoric and law at Rome. Later he did considerable public service there, and otherwise devoted himself to poetry and to society. Famous at first, he offended the emperor Augustus by his Ars Amatoria, and was banished because of this work and some other reason unknown to us, and dwelt in the cold and primitive town of Tomis on the Black Sea. He continued writing poetry, a kindly man, leading a temperate life. He died in exile.
Ovid's main surviving works are the Metamorphoses, a source of inspiration to artists and poets including Chaucer and Shakespeare; the Fasti, a poetic treatment of the Roman year of which Ovid finished only half; the Amores, love poems; the Ars Amatoria, not moral but clever and in parts beautiful; Heroides, fictitious love letters by legendary women to absent husbands; and the dismal works written in the Tristia, appeals to persons including his wife and also the emperor; and similar Epistulae ex Ponto. Poetry came naturally to Ovid, who at his best is lively, graphic and lucid.
The Loeb Classical Library edition of Ovid is in six volumes.
Ovid's main surviving works are the Metamorphoses, a source of inspiration to artists and poets including Chaucer and Shakespeare; the Fasti, a poetic treatment of the Roman year of which Ovid finished only half; the Amores, love poems; the Ars Amatoria, not moral but clever and in parts beautiful; Heroides, fictitious love letters by legendary women to absent husbands; and the dismal works written in the Tristia, appeals to persons including his wife and also the emperor; and similar Epistulae ex Ponto. Poetry came naturally to Ovid, who at his best is lively, graphic and lucid.
The Loeb Classical Library edition of Ovid is in six volumes.
560 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1,0013
This edition
- Format
-
560 pages, Hardcover
- Published
-
January 1, 1924 by Hardvard University Press
- ISBN
-
9780674991675
- ASIN
-
0674991672
- Language
-
English
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Publius Ovidius Naso (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18), known in English as Ovid was a Roman poet who lived during the reign of Augustus. He was a younger contemporary of Virgil and Horatius, with whom he is often ranked as one of the three canonical poets of Latin literature. The Imperial scholar Quintilian considered him the last of the Latin love elegists. Although Ovid enjoyed enormous popularity during his lifetime, the emperor Augustus exiled him to Tomis, the capital of the newly-organised province of Moesia, on the Black Sea, where he remained for the last nine or ten years of his life. Ovid himself attributed his banishment to a "poem and a mistake", but his reluctance to disclose specifics has resulted in much speculation among scholars.
Ovid is most famous for the Metamorphoses, a continuous mythological narrative in fifteen books written in dactylic hexameters. He is also known for works in elegiac couplets such as Ars Amatoria ("The Art of Love") and Fasti. His poetry was much imitated during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and greatly influenced Western art and literature. The Metamorphoses remains one of the most important sources of classical mythology today.
Ovid is most famous for the Metamorphoses, a continuous mythological narrative in fifteen books written in dactylic hexameters. He is also known for works in elegiac couplets such as Ars Amatoria ("The Art of Love") and Fasti. His poetry was much imitated during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and greatly influenced Western art and literature. The Metamorphoses remains one of the most important sources of classical mythology today.
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"I never corrupted
a single innocent girl or respectable bride
or matron, but wrote only for those who already were fooling
around on the wrong side of the sheets . . ."
[Besides, if you look at the classics, every poet
writes of love. The readers expect it, even demand it.
Anacreon writes of venery and wine;
Sappho, whom all the ladies read, teaches of love.
Callimachus confesses to wanton delights
of illicit love. Will you exile them, or will you ban
their books?]
". . . You know as well as I do, it wasn't only the poem
that got you sent out here, but the other business
—we needn't go into details . . . " —Epistulae Ex Ponto, 3.3; [Tristia,3]
__________
You have the choice
of walking away. Nobody's forcing you to read this.
Do you exclaim how awful this is, how sloppy?
I agree. I urge you to put it aside. Drop it,
read something with polish and wit. I would!
I'll tell you the truth: I don't even revise these things
but send them out as they are . . .
. . . My reputation? You think I still care about that? —Tristia, 5.1
___________
In 8 AD, Ovid was exiled from Rome to Tomis, by the Emperor Augustus. His crime? A poem, and a mistake; a blunder . . . All of which is pieced together from what he wrote in these works.
_____
This volume contains 3 works written by Ovid whilst he was in Exile:
• Tristia
• Epistulae ex Ponto or The Black Sea Letters
• Ibis
The first two are epistolary poems, the second of which contains poems addressed to, and talking about, individual people. The third is a rather strange work, which Wikpiedia informs us
n is "a stream of violent but extremely learned abuse," modeled on a lost poem of the same title by the Greek Alexandrian poet Callimachus.
The Ibis attracted a large number of scholia and was widely disseminated and referenced in Renaissance literature . . . An English translator noted that "a full reference to each of the allusions to be found in this poem would suffice to fill a small volume."n
The works have not garnered a lot of praise throughout the centuries, mostly because the works, as Ovid himself acknowledges, contain a large amount of sorrow and lamentation.
n I'm sorry, my old friend, that I don't seem to have much range.
I wish I could strike other notes from time to time,
but this is my life, its condition: I am mournful.n
I for one could sympathise with his situation; we are both
n gentle soul[s], used to the comforts of life . . .n
who
n agree that Rome
is the best of all possible places . . . n
Having said that, he can get a bit repetitive in these works, so
n Consider yourself warned: it won't be fun and games,
naughty double entendres, witty conceits,
or any of those things I used to do.n
Although there are some flashes of art to be found within the pages, I would only recommend reading these for two reasons:
1. To complete Ovid's Oeuvre
2. To mine the works for details regarding his exile
Otherwise, one will be very likely to give up halfway through . . .
__________
Tristia
Homer's talent burdens every poet (1.?)
I'm no Homer. I never was . . . (1.6)
The lesson is ancient. (3)
I wasn't cut out
for any of those serious, sensible public careers.
I gave it all up and returned to the Muse
whom I had been anyway meeting in surreptitious trysts. (4.10)
. . . strewing his path with flowers (4.2)
I was one of those happy youngsters
ages ago. (1.?)
Like old times when you and I
would talk about life and art on those rainy afternoons . . . (5.13)
It's life exaggerating art . . . (1.10)
What kind of world, what kind of life is this? (3)
__________
Expistulae ex Ponto
The world is harsh
and life is short and sad . . . (2.9)
But let's not be any gloomier than we have to. (3.1)
What is more useful than this art that has no use?
It isn't a mere means but an end in itself. (1.5)
A man of learning,
a patron of arts, a connoisseur of refinement . . . (2.9)
Your hair must be different now . . .
. . . but I rather suppose it feels the same and smells
the way it did. I yearn to touch it, to stroke it again,
to kiss it as I used to do. (1.4)
It's all I live for. (1.4)
. . . all his life
had reverenced her at the shrine he keeps for her in his heart. (3.6)
My heart is full
and cannot be restrained. (4.1)
There isn't a single literary work
without its risk to the soul to which it presumes to speak,
but that doesn't mean poetry ought to be banned. (3)
__________
I've been assuming
readers will know who I am. Probably some of you do,
or think you do—that clever naughty fellow
I used to be, the one who wrote so much about love.
Well, yes, I was. But time has changed all that
and will, no doubt, make further revisions. Who knows whether
in fifty years or in five hundred fame,
which is always fragile, will have deserted me utterly. (Tristia, 4.10)
My books are still on your shelves . . . (Tristia, 3.14)
Restored to the city of Rome, to life . . . (Tristia, 3)
__________
To the other obvious question, the answer is also, No—
I haven't been whoring around. (Epistulae Ex Ponto, 1.10)
Remove my one blunder, and I am entirely spotless. (Epistulae Ex Ponto, 4.8)
Be circumspect yourself—as I should have been. (Tristia, 1.?)
__________
We're all going to die . . . (Tristia, 1.?)
End quote. (Tristia, 3.1)
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“Writing a poem you can read to no one is like dancing in the dark.” EP IV.2 33-4.
In 8 AD, Augustus sentenced the poet Ovid to exile. The cause was twofold. First, because Ovid’s earlier love poetry, particularly the Art of Love with its anything-goes approach to sex, conflicted with Augustus’ conservative social reforms. Second, a mysterious mistake or indiscretion, possibly political in nature, apparently rubbed the princeps the wrong way. It marked the end of a literary era. The last 50 years had been a golden age for Latin literature, thanks to talents like Virgil, Horace, and Ovid. The Aeneid and the Metamorphoses were both composed during this span. But by 8 AD, Virgil, Horace, Propertius and the rest were all dead. Ovid was the last of the old guard: the last major Roman writer to remember the republic firsthand. By the time of Ovid’s exile the empire was in full swing, and Latin literature suffered for it. It would be decades until another major writer (Seneca) arrived on the scene, and over 50 years passed before the next major poems (Pharsalia: The Civil War and The Satyricon) were written.
Ovid’s exile was not destined to be a cushy one. Augustus banished the poet to Tomis, a dreary little outpost on the shores of the Black Sea. At the very edge of Roman territory, Tomis was wild, uncultured, dangerous, and subject to bitter winters. If Augustus had been motivated by cruelty, he could hardly have picked a better spot. Ovid spent the rest of his life there, until his death in AD 17/18.
Ovid created three original poetic works during his years in exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters (included in this book), and the Ibis (a bizarre poem where Ovid lays into some unknown enemy with serious vigor…sort of the 1st century version of Hit ‘Em Up). Ibis excepted, Ovid wrote the exile poems with a singular purpose: to obtain a pardon, or failing that at least be allowed a less horrific place of exile. He never succeeded on either front.
The exile poems can be repetitious: you can only read so many letters in a row where Ovid begs for release before you’ve kind of seen them all. It can also be bleak reading. Ovid was clearly miserable in Tomis, and only gets more desperate and unhappy as the years pass. It’s depressing to watch Ovid, who was notably less obsequious than most of his contemporaries, kowtow to a despot’s vanity by singing Augustus’ praises over and over, particularly since it was all for naught. Ovid was very prolific (he wrote more than Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, and Horace combined), and I’d say that for readers interested in his work these poems are probably fourth in importance (behind the Metamorphoses, Heroides, and love poetry). I wouldn’t say these are a must-read by any stretch for readers looking to hit the Latin highlights.
But for those who enjoyed Ovid’s other work, there’s a lot to appreciate here. Ovid makes the absolute most of his recurring theme by stretching his talents to their limit in order to keep his pleas from turning stale. Despite his protests to the contrary, Ovid has lost none of the formidable skills that created the Metamorphoses and the Heroides. And while the constant praising of Caesar is not much fun to read (even though it’s understandable), there is a constant undercurrent of dissent that I really enjoyed. It’s as if Ovid just couldn’t help himself: even when bowing before the emperor and begging for mercy, he can’t resist launching a loogie or two at the royal feet.
“What if some savage’s sword should cut short my existence? When I’m gone, my fame will endure, and while from her seven hills Mars’ Rome in triumph still surveys a conquered world, I shall be read.” EP III.7 49-52.
Ovid sold himself short in one respect. While Augustus’ empire is long gone, Ovid’s fame continues to endure. 3 stars, recommended for fans of Ovid’s other poetry.
I read the Peter Green translation. Green did his usual stellar job, providing an excellent introduction and extensive notes. For non-Latin readers interested in these poems, I highly recommend it.
In 8 AD, Augustus sentenced the poet Ovid to exile. The cause was twofold. First, because Ovid’s earlier love poetry, particularly the Art of Love with its anything-goes approach to sex, conflicted with Augustus’ conservative social reforms. Second, a mysterious mistake or indiscretion, possibly political in nature, apparently rubbed the princeps the wrong way. It marked the end of a literary era. The last 50 years had been a golden age for Latin literature, thanks to talents like Virgil, Horace, and Ovid. The Aeneid and the Metamorphoses were both composed during this span. But by 8 AD, Virgil, Horace, Propertius and the rest were all dead. Ovid was the last of the old guard: the last major Roman writer to remember the republic firsthand. By the time of Ovid’s exile the empire was in full swing, and Latin literature suffered for it. It would be decades until another major writer (Seneca) arrived on the scene, and over 50 years passed before the next major poems (Pharsalia: The Civil War and The Satyricon) were written.
Ovid’s exile was not destined to be a cushy one. Augustus banished the poet to Tomis, a dreary little outpost on the shores of the Black Sea. At the very edge of Roman territory, Tomis was wild, uncultured, dangerous, and subject to bitter winters. If Augustus had been motivated by cruelty, he could hardly have picked a better spot. Ovid spent the rest of his life there, until his death in AD 17/18.
Ovid created three original poetic works during his years in exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters (included in this book), and the Ibis (a bizarre poem where Ovid lays into some unknown enemy with serious vigor…sort of the 1st century version of Hit ‘Em Up). Ibis excepted, Ovid wrote the exile poems with a singular purpose: to obtain a pardon, or failing that at least be allowed a less horrific place of exile. He never succeeded on either front.
The exile poems can be repetitious: you can only read so many letters in a row where Ovid begs for release before you’ve kind of seen them all. It can also be bleak reading. Ovid was clearly miserable in Tomis, and only gets more desperate and unhappy as the years pass. It’s depressing to watch Ovid, who was notably less obsequious than most of his contemporaries, kowtow to a despot’s vanity by singing Augustus’ praises over and over, particularly since it was all for naught. Ovid was very prolific (he wrote more than Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, and Horace combined), and I’d say that for readers interested in his work these poems are probably fourth in importance (behind the Metamorphoses, Heroides, and love poetry). I wouldn’t say these are a must-read by any stretch for readers looking to hit the Latin highlights.
But for those who enjoyed Ovid’s other work, there’s a lot to appreciate here. Ovid makes the absolute most of his recurring theme by stretching his talents to their limit in order to keep his pleas from turning stale. Despite his protests to the contrary, Ovid has lost none of the formidable skills that created the Metamorphoses and the Heroides. And while the constant praising of Caesar is not much fun to read (even though it’s understandable), there is a constant undercurrent of dissent that I really enjoyed. It’s as if Ovid just couldn’t help himself: even when bowing before the emperor and begging for mercy, he can’t resist launching a loogie or two at the royal feet.
“What if some savage’s sword should cut short my existence? When I’m gone, my fame will endure, and while from her seven hills Mars’ Rome in triumph still surveys a conquered world, I shall be read.” EP III.7 49-52.
Ovid sold himself short in one respect. While Augustus’ empire is long gone, Ovid’s fame continues to endure. 3 stars, recommended for fans of Ovid’s other poetry.
I read the Peter Green translation. Green did his usual stellar job, providing an excellent introduction and extensive notes. For non-Latin readers interested in these poems, I highly recommend it.
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Every word you’ve read in this whole book was written
during the anxious days
of my journey: scribbling lines in mid-Adriatic
while December froze the blood,
or after we’d passed the twin gulfs of the Isthmus
and transferred to another ship,
still verse-making amid the Aegean’s savage clamour
(a sight, I fancy, that shook the Cyclades).
In fact, I’m surprised myself that in all that upheaval
of spirit and sea inspiration never flagged.
How to label such an obsession? Shocked stupor? Madness?
No matter: by this one care all cares are relieved.
Time and again I was tossed by wintry tempests
and darkly menacing seas;
time and again the day grew black with storm-clouds,
torrents of wind-lashed rain;
time and again we shipped water; yet my shaky
hands still kept writing verses – of a sort.
Now winds whistle once more through the taut rigging,
and massy-high rears up each hollow wave:
the very steersman, hands raised high to heaven,
his art forgotten, turns to prayer for aid.
Wherever I look, there’s nothing but death’s image –
death, that my split mind fears
and, fearing, prays for. Should I come safe to harbour
terror lurks there too: more hazards on dry land
than from the cruel sea. Both men and deep entrap me,
sword and wave twin my fear:
sword, I’m afraid, hopes to let my blood for booty,
wave wants the title of my death. Away
on our left lies a barbarous coast, inured to rapine,
stalked every by bloodshed, murder, war –
the agitation of these wintry waves is nothing
to the turbulence in my breast.
All the more cause for indulgence, generous reader,
if these lines fall short – as they do –
of your hopes: they were not written, as formerly, in my garden,
while I lounged on a favourite day-bed, but at sea,
in wintry light, rough-tossed by filthy weather, spindrift
spattering the paper as I write.
Rough winter battles me, indignant at my presumption
in ignoring its fierce threats, still scribbling away.
Let the storm have its will of the man – but let storm and poem
reach their end, I pray, each at the same time!
during the anxious days
of my journey: scribbling lines in mid-Adriatic
while December froze the blood,
or after we’d passed the twin gulfs of the Isthmus
and transferred to another ship,
still verse-making amid the Aegean’s savage clamour
(a sight, I fancy, that shook the Cyclades).
In fact, I’m surprised myself that in all that upheaval
of spirit and sea inspiration never flagged.
How to label such an obsession? Shocked stupor? Madness?
No matter: by this one care all cares are relieved.
Time and again I was tossed by wintry tempests
and darkly menacing seas;
time and again the day grew black with storm-clouds,
torrents of wind-lashed rain;
time and again we shipped water; yet my shaky
hands still kept writing verses – of a sort.
Now winds whistle once more through the taut rigging,
and massy-high rears up each hollow wave:
the very steersman, hands raised high to heaven,
his art forgotten, turns to prayer for aid.
Wherever I look, there’s nothing but death’s image –
death, that my split mind fears
and, fearing, prays for. Should I come safe to harbour
terror lurks there too: more hazards on dry land
than from the cruel sea. Both men and deep entrap me,
sword and wave twin my fear:
sword, I’m afraid, hopes to let my blood for booty,
wave wants the title of my death. Away
on our left lies a barbarous coast, inured to rapine,
stalked every by bloodshed, murder, war –
the agitation of these wintry waves is nothing
to the turbulence in my breast.
All the more cause for indulgence, generous reader,
if these lines fall short – as they do –
of your hopes: they were not written, as formerly, in my garden,
while I lounged on a favourite day-bed, but at sea,
in wintry light, rough-tossed by filthy weather, spindrift
spattering the paper as I write.
Rough winter battles me, indignant at my presumption
in ignoring its fierce threats, still scribbling away.
Let the storm have its will of the man – but let storm and poem
reach their end, I pray, each at the same time!
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Ovidius, İÖ 1-2 yıllarında kaleme aldığı Ars Amatoria (Aşk Sanatı) adlı şiiriyle Romalı genç erkeklere ve genç kızlara aşk öğretmenliği yapmak isterken tanık olduğu, görmemesi gereken bir olay hakkında boşboğazlık ettiği için İS 8 yılında Augustus tarafından Karadeniz kıyısındaTomis’e sürgün edilmiş.
Bütün bu Karadenizden Mektuplar'da eşine dostuna yakınıyor, affedilmek istiyor. Milattan önce yazılmış bir eser olduğu için ilgimi çekmişti. O günün insanlarının meseleleri, kendilerini ifade ediş biçimleri hakkında bir örnek görmek istemiştim. Kitap, bu merakımı gidermiş oldu ancak bir yerden sonra gerçekten katlanılmaz yakınmalara dönüştü. Nitekim Ovidius da bunun farkında olarak adeta kitabı özetlercesine şöyle söylüyor:
"Birbirinin aynısı şiirlerden size gına geldiğini,
ve dileğimi hepinizin ezberlediğini düşünüyorum."
Allah kimseyi sürgün etmesin diyor ve incelemeyi burada noktalıyorum.
Bütün bu Karadenizden Mektuplar'da eşine dostuna yakınıyor, affedilmek istiyor. Milattan önce yazılmış bir eser olduğu için ilgimi çekmişti. O günün insanlarının meseleleri, kendilerini ifade ediş biçimleri hakkında bir örnek görmek istemiştim. Kitap, bu merakımı gidermiş oldu ancak bir yerden sonra gerçekten katlanılmaz yakınmalara dönüştü. Nitekim Ovidius da bunun farkında olarak adeta kitabı özetlercesine şöyle söylüyor:
"Birbirinin aynısı şiirlerden size gına geldiğini,
ve dileğimi hepinizin ezberlediğini düşünüyorum."
Allah kimseyi sürgün etmesin diyor ve incelemeyi burada noktalıyorum.
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Ovid was the bad boy of Augustus' Rome. He lacked Virgil's patriotic mythmaking or Horace's skeptical breadth, but his Latin is said to be more fluid than that of either of them. Ovid's youthful books are about love, common enough among Roman poets, but with a callowness beyond youth; one of them instructs women on applying make-up. After a middle age trying his hand at retelling myths, including the "Metamporphoses", August exiled Ovid from Rome for reasons that have not come down to posterity but are thought to be related to the sex scandal of the age, which involved the Emperor's daughter. (If so, it is one more of Augustus' hypocrisies, the Emperor having set the tone in that subject). If Augustus' intent was to wound Ovid in what mattered most to him, he hit his mark; this most sociable of poets apparently found living among the Getae unbearable. Howerver, Ovid's loneliness inspired his most moving poetry, including this volume, which is a translation of the five books of the "Tristia." One can question translator A.D. Melville's to use rhyme, no doubt to give a sense of the original, but English has nowhere near the number of rhyming words that Ovid had at his disposal. Still, this translation captures the bitterness of this poetry, some of it composed of letters to the Emperor, to friends both false and true, and to his wife. This is how he started the first book: "You'll go, my little book -- I feel no envy --/Without me to the City where, alas,/Your master may not go." On hearing of his exile, he tells how his wife fell to the ground. A man who lived by language, he is reduced to gestures for communication with the locals, who even dress in the Persian style. "I'm the barbarian--no one understands me;/My Latin speech the stupid Getae mock,/Safely, before my face, the will malign me;/Exile, no doubt, a laughing-stock." And "This 'health' from Getic shores your Ovid sense you,/If anyone can send a thing he lacks." Bitterness, sad to say, made Ovid's poetry more fully human.
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It's true that these poems are repetitive, locked in a theme of "get me out of here." At the same time, they capture the obsessive nature of exile, how it blinds one to present surroundings and makes vivid a nostalgia for a different time and a different place. Ovid writes of Rome and mentions Tomis only in passing, exaggerating its faults. Everything here is repellent, all would be well if I could only return.
It is amazing that a poet writing 2000 years ago can so clearly capture these feelings, and how universal these feelings are. We all want to be at the center of where we feel our life should be lead, and it can twist the mind to be forced to live away from home.
It is amazing that a poet writing 2000 years ago can so clearly capture these feelings, and how universal these feelings are. We all want to be at the center of where we feel our life should be lead, and it can twist the mind to be forced to live away from home.
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Increíble cómo Ovidio escribió el libro más pandémico posible dos milenios antes de la pandemia.
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