Homer: The Odyssey
Translated by Robert Fagles, introduction and notes by Bernard Knox
Viking, 541 pages, $35
Seldom is there a question about whether to read Homer. His companion epics, “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey,” are the cornerstones of Western literature and art, and in 2,500 years no one has written more compellingly of friendship or war, reckless wanderlust or spousal devotion. Yet unless we can read Ionian Greek, the question must always become: In whose translation?
What the best translations convey is the force of Homer’s oral improvisation in the quieter medium of writing. Two of the most famous are those by George Chapman, composed with distinct allegorical overtones in high-flown Elizabethan rhetoric, and the heroic couplets and subtly nuanced commentary of Alexander Pope in the early 18th Century–although in neither case is the text readily available anymore. Our own century has given us a wondrous verse translation by T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia); less conventionally, we have James Joyce’s 1922 novel, “Ulysses,” Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey” and Christopher Logue’s in-progress verse screenplay of “The Iliad.”
Since the 1960s, as English has become the predominant language of the planet, readers have had a bounty of faithful Homeric translation. The two best verse alternatives have been the swiftly lyrical compression of Robert Fitzgerald and the statelier verses of Richmond Lattimore, who also maintained a higher fidelity to Homer’s epic hexameter. It is our great good fortune to still have the work of both of these poets in print.
Our most recent “Odysseys” are the work of Allen Mandelbaum and, now, Robert Fagles. Their strengths can be measured against the previous two by comparing a passage from Book 5. Odysseus has been held in sexual captivity for seven years on the island of Ogygia by the nymph-goddess Calypso, who offers to make him ageless and immortal if only he will forgo his desire to return home to Ithaca. Odysseus, however, continues to yearn for his son, Telemachus, and wife, Penelope, neither of whom he has seen since he sailed for Troy with Agamemnon’s army 19 years earlier. When Calypso finally demands to know what’s wrong with her offer, Odysseus responds with his usual cunning and tact (see excerpts below).
Even within the longer line and elevated diction of Lattimore, we can see that his hero’s tact and courage is very much matter-of-fact. Mandelbaum’s pentameter, much like Fitzgerald’s, is gorgeously plain and succinct, so it isn’t surprising that their hero’s worldly tactfulness remains more implicit. Fagles’ line accommodates greater metrical variety (six beats as a rule, but when narrative pacing impels it, as few as four or as many as eight) and other lyrical flourishes (“Ah . . . please,” for example, or the entire last line). His Odysseus is explicitly worldly; when he insists that the gods “bring the trial on!” he is also considerably bolder.
The supple and luminous Fagles “Odyssey” has just been published in a beautifully designed companion edition to his 1990 “Iliad.” Once again, Bernard Knox’s glossaries, notes and pronunciation guide are models of usefulness and clarity, and his august introduction summarizes most of what is known about the poem: its relationship to “The Iliad,” the myths and historical events that probably inspired it, the etymology of essential Greek phrases, the scholarly fringe (some of which has become the consensus), and the amoral role of the Olympian gods. Knox is particularly helpful on Homer’s technique as a poet: “He is improvising,” he tells us, “along known lines, relying on a huge stock of formulaic phrases, lines and even whole scenes; but he is improvising. . . . The outline remains the same, but the text, the oral text, is flexible. The poem is new every time it is performed.”
Ironically, it may turn out to be the spoken word, Homer’s primary medium, that determines to which version of his poems we and our children return. Since the first Greek edition was printed in Florence in 1488, we’ve relied on fixed texts (in hundreds of languages and idioms) to experience a poem designed to be performed aloud by a bard, often accompanying himself on a harp. Recording technology now makes it possible for actors of the caliber of Anthony Quayle, Derek Jacobi and Ian McKellen to collaborate with our best poet-translators to produce oral performances of unsurpassed power. Jacobi’s stirring renditions of Fagles’ “Iliad” and Mandelbaum’s “Odyssey” are both intelligently abridged, providing in each case nine hours of narrative pleasure and virtually all the key episodes. Caedmon’s hour-long selections from each of Lattimore’s poems, intensely recited by Quayle, are also worthwhile. And for those who prefer the full treatment, there is McKellen’s soaring, dramatic 13-hour performance for Penguin Audiobooks, embracing all 12,109 lines of the Fagles “Odyssey”–renditions that readers and listeners will be able to savor well into the poem’s fourth millennium.
FOUR TRANSLATORS NAVIGATE A PASSAGE FROM `THE ODYSSEY’
“My lady goddess, here is no cause for anger.
My quiet Penelope–how well I know–
would seem a shade before your majesty,
death and old age being unknown to you,
while she must die. Yet, it is true, each day
I long for home, long for the sight of home.
If any god has marked me out again
for shipwreck, my tough heart can undergo it.
What hardship have I not long since endured
at sea, in battle! Let the trial come.”
Now as he spoke the sun set, dusk drew on,
and they retired, this pair, to the inner cave
to revel and rest softly, side by side.
Robert Fitzgerald, 1961
“Goddess and queen, do not be angry with me. I myself know
that all you say is true and that circumspect Penelope
can never match the impression you make for beauty and stature.
She is mortal after all, and you are immortal and ageless.
But even so, what I want and all my days I pine for
is to go back to my house and see my day of homecoming.
And if some god batters me far out on the wine-blue water,
I will endure it, keeping a stubborn spirit inside me,
for already have I suffered much and done much hard work
on the waves and in the fighting. So let this adventure follow.”
So he spoke, and the sun went down and the darkness came over.
These two, withdrawn in the inner recess of the hollowed cavern,
enjoyed themselves in love and stayed all night by each other . . .
Richmond Lattimore, 1967
“Great goddess, don’t be angered over this.
I’m well aware that you are right: I, too,
know that Penelope, however wise,
cannot compete with you in grace or stature:
she is not more than mortal, whereas you
are deathless, ageless. Even so, each day
I hope and hunger for my house: I long
to see the day of my returning home.
If once again, upon the wine-dark sea,
a god attacks, I shall survive that loss:
the heart within my chest is used to patience.
I’ve suffered much and labored much in many
ordeals among the waves and in the wars;
to those afflictions I can add one more.”
These were his words. The sun sank. Darkness came.
And they, within the hollow of the cave,
taking delight in love, together lay.
Allen Mandelbaum, 1990
“Ah great goddess,”
worldly Odysseus answered, “don’t be angry with me,
please. All that you say is true, how well I know.
Look at my wise Penelope. She falls far short of you,
your beauty, stature. She is mortal after all
and you, you never age or die . . .
Nevertheless I long–I pine, all my days–
to travel home and see the dawn of my return.
And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,
I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure.
Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now
in the waves and wars. Add this to the total–
bring the trial on!”
Even as he spoke
the sun set and the darkness swept the earth.
And now, withdrawing into the cavern’s deep recesses,
long in each other’s arms they lost themselves in love.
Robert Fagles, 1996
