Over the last two years, I have led a small group of fellow travelers through a sort of Homeric curricula, with the aim of learning more about this foundational poet of Western culture and civilization. The curricula was as follows:
- Homer’s Iliad
- Homer’s Odyssey
- Why Homer Matters by Adam Nicholson
- The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours by Greg Nagy
- “Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey” course from Scranton University by Harmar Brereton
- Homer’s Iliad (different translation)
- Homer’s Odyssey (different translation)
- Reader-selected relevant book #1
- Reader-selected relevant book #2
- Translation of a passage of Homer
The cycle — for that is what a “curriculum” is, bringing you back around to where you started, ideally — was incredibly rewarding. But the fulfilment of the whole process really came to a head at the end, in the process of translation, where the convergent elements of these epics all came together.
Translating poetry is not like translating philosophy or history, which requires only a correspondence of meaning. Nor is it like a translation of literature, which requires the preservation of meaning as well as the feeling and tone of the words. Poetry is meaning, feeling, and rhythm. To do all three of these well is extremely difficult. Of the three of us which completed the curriculum, only one of us even tried to maintain the rolling, dactylic hexameter of Homer’s epic, that most English-speakers only see in works like The Charge of the Light Brigade. Mark and I opted for more-or-less prose translations — incidentally, of almost exactly the same line selection — aiming more at semantic literalism (with myself going for a somewhat Quixotic ultra-literalism, attempting to maintain even the approximate grammatical ordering, as much as possible).
It’s hard to explain the nuanced details and interesting choices that go into this sort of thing, without knowledge of or ready-reference to the Greek (and an ability to work through an understanding of it), but for those few with an interest, or those merely looking for something inspiring to follow (and perhaps try to out-do…), I present our translations of Homeric Greek, the culmination of our two-year journey, and perhaps a spur to dive once more into the text, or another like it, in the coming year.
Sam’s Translation (Iliad 13.389-393)
He fell as the oak or the poplar, the great mountain pine tree,
hewn down by the sharp-edged axes of workmen as timber.
So before horse and chariot he lay like a keel in the dirt there,
Drawn out and bleeding, and clutching the blood-blackened dust tight.
Mark’s Translation (Iliad 23.304-345)
Antilochus, fourth to ready his fine-maned horses, the radiant son of Nestor, the valiant king, grandson of Neleus. His horses were Pylos-bred and swift-footed, carrying his chariot. His father stood close at his side, speaking with good intent to his son, who already understood.
“Antilochus—even though you are young, you have been favored by Zeus and Poseidon, and they taught you every form of horsemanship. There is no great need, therefore, to teach you further, for you know well how to turn tightly around the posts. But I tell you this: your horses are the slowest to run, and for that reason I expect you will have trouble. Their horses, on the one hand, are faster, though they themselves lack your skill in clever planning.
But come now, my dear—put cunning into your heart, of every kind, so that the prizes do not slip away from you. A woodcutter is far more effective using cleverness than brute force. And likewise, by cleverness, the helmsman on the wine-dark sea guides the swift ship while being shaken by the winds. And through cleverness the charioteer prevails over another charioteer.
But he, on the one hand, who puts his trust in his horses and chariot foolishly swerves far this way and that, so that the horses wander all over the track and he does not keep them under control. But the man who knows how to gain advantages while driving worse horses and always watches the turning post turns closely and does not let it escape him: from the very start he keeps the oxhide reins drawn tight. Instead he keeps firm control and carefully watches the driver ahead.
Now I will tell you of a sign, very clear, and it will not escape you. There stands a dried-out tree trunk about a fathom above the ground, either oak or pine; for it does not rot in the rain, and two white stones are set on either side of it. Where the track narrows, it is smooth all around. Or perhaps the sign is a grave-marker of some mortal who died long ago, or else it has been made as a turning post in the time of earlier men—and now swift-footed, godlike Achilles has appointed it the turning point.
There you must press in close, driving the chariot and horses tight, and you yourself must lean in your well-crafted chariot slightly to the left of the pair. Spur the right-hand horse, calling to him, and loosen the reins with your hands. But at the turning post, let the left-hand horse be pressed in close, such that the wheel hub appears to almost reach the edge of your well-crafted wheel. Beware of grazing against the stone, so that you do not injure the horses and wreck the chariot—a delight for the others, but a disgrace for you yourself.
But you, possessing cleverness, put your skill to the test, so that you do not end up coming in behind, though blameless.”
Chris’ Translation (Iliad 23.306-348)
Antilochos, indeed you — young though you may be — are beloved
of both Zeus and Poseidon, and they taught you the arts of horsemanship
of all kinds: for them to teach you, there is no great need:
For you know well of the turning post to wheel about: but your horses,
are the slowest to run: therefore, I foresee ruin ahead.
Of them, the horses are the faster, but not the men
No more they know than you yourself of clever tricks
but come now, you beloved, into cunning cast your heart —
of all kinds — so that not past you will slip away the prize.
By cunning the woodcutter is much better than by strength
By cunning again, the pilot on the wine-dark sea
his swift ship guides straight, though battered by winds:
And by cunning the charioteer surpasses another charioteer.
But that man who in his horses and chariot puts his faith
Carelessly, by excess wheels here and there,
The horses go astray about the track, he can’t contain them:
But he who knows the tricks, driving lesser horses,
Always with the post in sight turns — nor does he forget
How at first to stretch the ox-hide reins
But holds fast, and the leading one watches.
A grave sign, to you I will tell — very clear — that will not from you escape.
There stands a post, withered, tall as a fathom above the ground
Either oak or pine: that one does not rot away from rain
And stones — about this post on each side — are set: two, white,
At the meeting of the road — smooth is the course around there,
Maybe it was someone’s grave marker, a mortal who long ago died
Or it was a turning post made, in times of earlier men,
And now the goal is set by swift-footed, godlike Achilles.
To that, you must go very close, drive near your chariot and horses
And yourself, you must lean in your well-woven chariot
A little to the left of the two: but the right-hand horse
Spur him, shouting, and relax to him the reins in hand.
But at the turning post, your horse of the left hand: press him close
So that your hub at least seems the edge to touch
The well-made wheel: but the stone avoid taking
Lest somehow your horses injure and your chariot wreck:
A joy, but for the others, disgrace for yourself
So it will be: but think kindly, be on your guard.
For if at the turning post driving past in pursuit,
There’s none who could catch you, leap after nor pass you,
Not even if from behind shining Arion were driving
Adrastus’ swift horse, who from the gods was descended,
Or even those of Laomedon, who here were bred, noble ones.
