τίς τ' ἄρ σφωε θεῶν ἔριδι ξυνέηκε μάχεσθαι;
Λητοῦς καὶ Διὸς υἱός: ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς
νοῦσον ἀνὰ στρατὸν ὄρσε κακήν, ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί, [10]
οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην ἠτίμασεν ἀρητῆρα
Ἀτρεί̈δης: ὃ γὰρ ἦλθε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν
λυσόμενός τε θύγατρα φέρων τ' ἀπερείσι' ἄποινα,
στέμματ' ἔχων ἐν χερσὶν ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος
χρυσέῳ ἀνὰ σκήπτρῳ, καὶ λίσσετο πάντας Ἀχαιούς, [15]
Ἀτρεί̈δα δὲ μάλιστα δύω, κοσμήτορε λαῶν:
Ἀτρεί̈δαι τε καὶ ἄλλοι ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί,
ὑμῖν μὲν θεοὶ δοῖεν Ὀλύμπια δώματ' ἔχοντες
ἐκπέρσαι Πριάμοιο πόλιν, εὖ δ' οἴκαδ' ἱκέσθαι:
παῖδα δ' ἐμοὶ λύσαιτε φίλην, τὰ δ' ἄποινα δέχεσθαι, [20]
ἁζόμενοι Διὸς υἱὸν ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλλωνα.
ἔνθ' ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες ἐπευφήμησαν Ἀχαιοὶ
αἰδεῖσθαί θ' ἱερῆα καὶ ἀγλαὰ δέχθαι ἄποινα:
ἀλλ' οὐκ Ἀτρεί̈δῃ Ἀγαμέμνονι ἥνδανε θυμῷ,
ἀλλὰ κακῶς ἀφίει, κρατερὸν δ' ἐπὶ μῦθον ἔτελλε: [25]
μή σε γέρον κοίλῃσιν ἐγὼ παρὰ νηυσὶ κιχείω
ἢ νῦν δηθύνοντ' ἢ ὕστερον αὖτις ἰόντα,
μή νύ τοι οὐ χραίσμῃ σκῆπτρον καὶ στέμμα θεοῖο:
τὴν δ' ἐγὼ οὐ λύσω: πρίν μιν καὶ γῆρας ἔπεισιν
ἡμετέρῳ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ ἐν Ἄργεϊ τηλόθι πάτρης [30]
ἱστὸν ἐποιχομένην καὶ ἐμὸν λέχος ἀντιόωσαν:
ἀλλ' ἴθι μή μ' ἐρέθιζε σαώτερος ὥς κε νέηαι.
ὣς ἔφατ', ἔδεισεν δ' ὃ γέρων καὶ ἐπείθετο μύθῳ:
βῆ δ' ἀκέων παρὰ θῖνα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης:
Λητοῦς καὶ Διὸς υἱός: ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς
νοῦσον ἀνὰ στρατὸν ὄρσε κακήν, ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί, [10]
οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην ἠτίμασεν ἀρητῆρα
Ἀτρεί̈δης: ὃ γὰρ ἦλθε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν
λυσόμενός τε θύγατρα φέρων τ' ἀπερείσι' ἄποινα,
στέμματ' ἔχων ἐν χερσὶν ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος
χρυσέῳ ἀνὰ σκήπτρῳ, καὶ λίσσετο πάντας Ἀχαιούς, [15]
Ἀτρεί̈δα δὲ μάλιστα δύω, κοσμήτορε λαῶν:
Ἀτρεί̈δαι τε καὶ ἄλλοι ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί,
ὑμῖν μὲν θεοὶ δοῖεν Ὀλύμπια δώματ' ἔχοντες
ἐκπέρσαι Πριάμοιο πόλιν, εὖ δ' οἴκαδ' ἱκέσθαι:
παῖδα δ' ἐμοὶ λύσαιτε φίλην, τὰ δ' ἄποινα δέχεσθαι, [20]
ἁζόμενοι Διὸς υἱὸν ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλλωνα.
ἔνθ' ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες ἐπευφήμησαν Ἀχαιοὶ
αἰδεῖσθαί θ' ἱερῆα καὶ ἀγλαὰ δέχθαι ἄποινα:
ἀλλ' οὐκ Ἀτρεί̈δῃ Ἀγαμέμνονι ἥνδανε θυμῷ,
ἀλλὰ κακῶς ἀφίει, κρατερὸν δ' ἐπὶ μῦθον ἔτελλε: [25]
μή σε γέρον κοίλῃσιν ἐγὼ παρὰ νηυσὶ κιχείω
ἢ νῦν δηθύνοντ' ἢ ὕστερον αὖτις ἰόντα,
μή νύ τοι οὐ χραίσμῃ σκῆπτρον καὶ στέμμα θεοῖο:
τὴν δ' ἐγὼ οὐ λύσω: πρίν μιν καὶ γῆρας ἔπεισιν
ἡμετέρῳ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ ἐν Ἄργεϊ τηλόθι πάτρης [30]
ἱστὸν ἐποιχομένην καὶ ἐμὸν λέχος ἀντιόωσαν:
ἀλλ' ἴθι μή μ' ἐρέθιζε σαώτερος ὥς κε νέηαι.
ὣς ἔφατ', ἔδεισεν δ' ὃ γέρων καὶ ἐπείθετο μύθῳ:
βῆ δ' ἀκέων παρὰ θῖνα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης:
Translation:
Which of the gods paired them together in conflict and strife?
Apollo, the son of Leto and Zeus.
Angry at the king, he launched a foul plague
upon the army, and the people were dying,
all because Atreus’s son had disgraced his priest,
Chryses. For he had come to the swift ships of the Achaeans
to free his daughter, bringing a boundless ransom
and bearing in his hands a golden staff wrapped
with the sacred bands of the farshooting god Apollo,
and he begged all the Achaeans but most of all
the two sons of Atreus, the commanders of the host:
Sons of Atreus and all you Achaeans clad in shining armor:
May the gods who dwell on Olympus grant that you
sack Priam’s city and return home safe and sound.
But let my beloved daughter go, accept this ransom,
respect Zeus’s son the farshooting god Apollo.
Then all the Achaeans shouted their approval,
to respect the priest and take the shining ransom,
but this galled Atreus’s son Agamemnon, irked his heart,
so he rudely drove the man away with harsh threats:
Old man, don’t you ever let me find you here by the hollow ships—
not lingering now, not returning later—
or the staff and bands of your god won’t save you.
The girl I will not set free. No, old age will find her first
in my halls, in Argos, far from her fatherland,
where she will work my looms and warm my loins.
Now go! Don’t anger me—that’s your safest way out.
So he spoke, and the old man was terrified and obeyed his word.
He went in silence along the shores of the loudroaring sea.
Comments:
As I am just getting started on this project, there are a lot of large-scale translation issues that I need to think about and discuss, but at the same time, I want these comments to be as specific as possible. So I’ll offer both sorts of comments today.
To begin with the specific, the key to translating this passage well is to capture how rapidly Homer sets the action in motion. Much of that rapidity simply has to do with the narrative style: how Homer just begins with one simple action (Agamemnon insulting Chryses) and then moves straight through the string of consequences. The plot, the structure of the action, the narrative design of literary works (however you want to phrase it) is perhaps the most translatable dimension of all. This is why in courses on literature in translation we talk so much about narrative, along with character and theme, at the expense of poetics. But what is challenging with regard to rapidity in this passage is in fact the rapidity of the poetry itself—how to get that over into English. If you look for example at lines 12-16 in the Greek, you’ll see that it’s all one extended utterance. Homer makes use of participles and conjunctions to get through quite a bit of plot material in a kind of breathless poetic style. Suddenly we are plunged into a swiftly unfolding set of very serious consequences to Agamemnon’s passing annoyance. I tried to get this over into the English in lines 12-17 simply by following Homer’s syntax, which we can often do in English, even if it’s not always the best strategy.
One smaller note is that I was tempted in Agamemnon’s speech to go with stronger language and say something like “or the staff and bands of your god won’t be worth a damn,” but I don’t really think Agamemnon’s language, abusive as it is, loses its decorum to that extent. He is still a king—is he speaking like some dude on the street? (Stanley Lombardo, whose work I greatly admire, often pursues these overly slangy effects . . . ok, I’m looking at his edition and he gives: “The god’s staff and ribbons won’t save you next time,” so here he shows some restraint).
My broader comment today is that I want to emphasize that this project is a way for me to feel my way slowly toward a voice and style that I think will work for translating Homer. Right now I’m just doing what comes naturally, but I need to examine the various assumptions that make the style I’m using feel “natural” to me. So my style will be changing and developing as I proceed, hopefully in response to feedback from others. I need to allow myself this experimental approach because otherwise I would just sit around for years pondering How It Ought To Be Done.
For now, I can say that I’m trying to find a style somewhere between Richmond Lattimore and Stanley Lombardo (some might say: that’s Fitzgerald!). What I like about Lattimore is his respect for difficulty, for archaisms, for repetitions—in short, his respect for the difference of Homer from modern poetic style. We all know that Homeric language is a kunstsprache—an artificial, artistic language that nobody ever spoke in real life. It is a language constituted by various historical and dialectic strands, by poetic neologisms, etc. So to Homer’s audience there would have been a definite weirdness factor to the language of the poems. How do we capture that in English? Do we resort to a King James kind of diction and style? I don’t think any of us want to go to that extreme. But it does seem like there should be some kind of weirdness factor in the English. I will work on that. But a couple of examples from above would be “launched a foul plague,” “bringing a boundless ransom,” “clad in shining armor,” and “but this galled Atreus’s son Agamemnon, irked his heart.” Not weird enough?
What I like about Lombardo, on the other hand, is in fact his rapidity and simplicity. Because it is true that much of Homer, weird as it may be in terms of diction, just flows on and on in a real beautiful and effortless kind of way. It has taken me eighteen years of reading Greek really to get to the point where I can appreciate this effortlessness.
To begin with the specific, the key to translating this passage well is to capture how rapidly Homer sets the action in motion. Much of that rapidity simply has to do with the narrative style: how Homer just begins with one simple action (Agamemnon insulting Chryses) and then moves straight through the string of consequences. The plot, the structure of the action, the narrative design of literary works (however you want to phrase it) is perhaps the most translatable dimension of all. This is why in courses on literature in translation we talk so much about narrative, along with character and theme, at the expense of poetics. But what is challenging with regard to rapidity in this passage is in fact the rapidity of the poetry itself—how to get that over into English. If you look for example at lines 12-16 in the Greek, you’ll see that it’s all one extended utterance. Homer makes use of participles and conjunctions to get through quite a bit of plot material in a kind of breathless poetic style. Suddenly we are plunged into a swiftly unfolding set of very serious consequences to Agamemnon’s passing annoyance. I tried to get this over into the English in lines 12-17 simply by following Homer’s syntax, which we can often do in English, even if it’s not always the best strategy.
One smaller note is that I was tempted in Agamemnon’s speech to go with stronger language and say something like “or the staff and bands of your god won’t be worth a damn,” but I don’t really think Agamemnon’s language, abusive as it is, loses its decorum to that extent. He is still a king—is he speaking like some dude on the street? (Stanley Lombardo, whose work I greatly admire, often pursues these overly slangy effects . . . ok, I’m looking at his edition and he gives: “The god’s staff and ribbons won’t save you next time,” so here he shows some restraint).
My broader comment today is that I want to emphasize that this project is a way for me to feel my way slowly toward a voice and style that I think will work for translating Homer. Right now I’m just doing what comes naturally, but I need to examine the various assumptions that make the style I’m using feel “natural” to me. So my style will be changing and developing as I proceed, hopefully in response to feedback from others. I need to allow myself this experimental approach because otherwise I would just sit around for years pondering How It Ought To Be Done.
For now, I can say that I’m trying to find a style somewhere between Richmond Lattimore and Stanley Lombardo (some might say: that’s Fitzgerald!). What I like about Lattimore is his respect for difficulty, for archaisms, for repetitions—in short, his respect for the difference of Homer from modern poetic style. We all know that Homeric language is a kunstsprache—an artificial, artistic language that nobody ever spoke in real life. It is a language constituted by various historical and dialectic strands, by poetic neologisms, etc. So to Homer’s audience there would have been a definite weirdness factor to the language of the poems. How do we capture that in English? Do we resort to a King James kind of diction and style? I don’t think any of us want to go to that extreme. But it does seem like there should be some kind of weirdness factor in the English. I will work on that. But a couple of examples from above would be “launched a foul plague,” “bringing a boundless ransom,” “clad in shining armor,” and “but this galled Atreus’s son Agamemnon, irked his heart.” Not weird enough?
What I like about Lombardo, on the other hand, is in fact his rapidity and simplicity. Because it is true that much of Homer, weird as it may be in terms of diction, just flows on and on in a real beautiful and effortless kind of way. It has taken me eighteen years of reading Greek really to get to the point where I can appreciate this effortlessness.
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