This translation is completely readable. The notes are helpful and as thorough as I could want.

“i’m falling apart, ramshackle, dilapidating to ruin,”

What I have to say here matters little because this is an immortal work by an immortal writer. However my only complaint was that Ovid's response to his exile. I bought this book expecting a more poetic treatment of the how's and why's of this but it is not that. But its perhaps my loss. What was the man to do but just write what he felt.

Well worth reading.

Ovid is insufferable most of the time in this work; however, Peter Green’s notes were terrific and saved the book. I found his notes more interesting than Ovid’s words. For the best Ovid, see his Metamorphoses and Heroides.

It must be noted that if you aren't a fan of sychophants or have no pateince for what seems like whining you should stay clear.

If these things don't deter you then you are in for a scarcely seen spectacle. A person whose achieved all the trapping of success lamenting on the loss of their Eden.

The first few books were ladled heavy in the the two points I noted earlier. It is upon reaching the latter books that one truly begins to marvel at the depths of despair. I (in my un-scholarly opinion) believe his metaphors begin to bite with that much more bitterness in these latter books. You begin to see him deal with people not writing him back, like friends slowly falling off of his regal chariot, why you even begin to see himself fall off that very same chariot. Yet all the while the poems mature and ripen with a clarity laced in sincere emotion.

To say the least this is a harrowing look at how people react when great people fall from grace. You see what people are reduced to and begin to wonder how you would fair in such a state.

“I’m not what I was. Why trample an empty shadow?
Why stone my ashes, my tomb?
Hector was Hector while fighting but Hector’s cadaver,
dragged by Achilles’ horses, was not…
…I beg you, stop troubling my ghost!”

The verses of exile are rough, conversational, contentious, confessional, and often saturated with language that has spoiled being left so long untouched in the damp nest of mourning. The nouns and verbs and adjectives are deployed here with far more caution and groaning. Ovid, at this time, was a most ambivalent, even suspicious poet. Either (as he claims) he was first gotten in trouble by the Art of Love and then compounded his misfortune with some sort of serious (albeit unmotivated) faux pas OR whatever it was that threw him across the sea, his poetry in no way SAVED or SPARED him the horror of exile to “the wintery pole.” And yet, despite this realization almost all of these works contain some plea, somewhere, to Augustus, for reconsideration (even if Augustus isn’t the one initially/directly addressed).

My one caution—this is a profoundly repetitive book and most of the Black Sea Letters (Epiatulae ex Ponto) are close echoes of Tristia if not carbon copies of the language, imagery, and tone. If anything Tristia is the true, haunting work whereas the Black Sea Letters are desperate, sparse, and frankly monotonous finally concluding with Ovid lamenting that “There is no space in me now for another wound.” If you read only Tristia, you’ve read his true work in exile.

A final note—when these works are most effective it is due to their autobiographical and “day in the life” moments. When he complains of having to strap on a breast plate and buckler to defend against Goths (something he had never imagined doing in his wildest dreams) one cannot help but smile. Maybe it wasn’t all “that bad” for the man of many changes?

4

Deux textes poétiques (sous forme de poèmes pour Les Tristes et sous la forme d'épîtres pour Les Pontiques) dans lesquels Ovide partage sa "Triste" vie après avoir été exilé à Tomes, près de la Mer Noire. A travers ces vers émouvants, on y voit la mélancolie d'un homme banni de Rome pour avoir écrit son Art d'aimer (qu'Auguste, dit-on, n'a même pas lu mais lui a fait prendre la décision de l'exiler). Il devient victime de l'éloignement à tel point même qu'écrire des vers lui est difficile parce que la langue "barbare" vient interférer avec la sienne dans son esprit et qu'il n'a plus guère l'opportunité de profiter de tout son art loin des siens...

"Je suis jeté sous une lumière d'hiver, dans un abîme indomptable,
Et l'eau sombre frappe même mon papier
L'hiver mauvais me fait la guerre et s'indigne que j'ose
Ecrire tandis qu'il lance ses menaçantes rigueurs.
L'hiver a raison de l'homme ; mais au moment où je déciderai
De terminer mon chant, de grâce, qu'il termine le sien" (Les Tristes, I, XI)

For exiles throughout the ages.

Marvelous translation by the great classicist Peter Green. Apparently used by Bob Dylan when writing the lyrics for his 'Modern Times' album. Universal truths written in exile.

Peter Green's translation and notes are so, so satisfying. The only reason why it took me so long to read was that it was so very sad. Tristia does what it says on the tin, srsly.

Interesting insights into how Ovid handled his "exile."

I picked this up to complement my recent reading of The Last World. It turned out not to be much of a complement, but rather lots of complaints and pleadings relating to Ovid’s exile. I always enjoy reading Slavitt’s witty translations, but the content was too dull and full of references I didn’t know for me to make it all the way through.