Homer
The Iliad
Translation by Richmond Lattimore
Chicago 1951
Sample
from the Opening of the Poem
[Taken from the Chicago Homer]
SING,
goddess, the anger of Peleus’
son Achilleus
and its devastation, which put pains
thousandfold upon the Achaians,
hurled in their multitudes to the house of
Hades strong souls
of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate
feasting
of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished
since that time when first there stood in division of conflict
Atreus’
son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.
What god was it then set
them together in bitter collision?
Zeus' son and Leto’s,
Apollo, who in anger at the king drove
the foul pestilence along the host,
and the people perished,
since Atreus’
son had dishonoured Chryses, priest of Apollo,
when he came beside the fast
ships of the Achaians to ransom
back his daughter, carrying gifts beyond
count and holding
in his hands wound on a staff of gold the ribbons of Apollo
who strikes from afar, and supplicated all the Achaians,
but above all Atreus’
two sons, the marshals of the people:
'Sons of Atreus and you other
strong-greaved Achaians,
to you may the gods grant who have their homes on
Olympos
Priam’s
city to be plundered and a fair homecoming thereafter,
but may you give me
back my own daughter and take the ransom,
giving honour to Zeus’
son who strikes from afar, Apollo.’
Then all the rest of the Achaians cried out in favour
that the priest be
respected and the shining ransom be taken;
yet this pleased no the heart of
Atreus’
son Agamemnon,
but harshly he drove him away with strong order upon him:
'Never let me find you again, old sir, near our hollow
ships, neither
lingering now nor coming again hereafter,
for fear your staff and the god's
ribbons help you no longer.
The girl I will not give back; sooner will old
age come upon her
in my own house, in Argos, far from her own land, going
up and down by the loom and being in my bed as my companion.
So go now, do
not make me angry; so you will be safer.’
So he
spoke, and the old man in terror obeyed him
and went silently away beside the
murmuring sea beach.
Over and over the old man prayed as he walked in
solitude
to King Apollo, who Leto of the lovely hair bore: 'Hear me,
lord
of the silver bow who set you power about Chryse
and Killa the sacrosanct,
who are lord in strength over Tenedos,
Smintheus, if ever it pleased your
heart that I built your temple,
if ever it pleased you that I burned all the
rich thigh pieces
of bulls, of goats, then bring to pass this wish I pray
for:
let your arrows make the Danaans pay for my tears shed.’
So he
spoke in prayer, and Phoibos Apollo heard him,
and strode down along the
pinnacles of Olympos, angered
in his heart, carrying across his shoulders the
bow and the hooded
quiver; and the shafts clashed on the shoulders of the god
walking
angrily. He came as night comes down and knelt then
apart and
opposite the ships and let go an arrow.
Terrible was the clash that rose from
the bow of silver.
First he went after the mules and the circling hounds,
then let go
a tearing arrow against the men themselves and struck them.
The corpse fires burned everywhere and did not stop burning.
REVIEW COMMENT
The
translation of the Iliad by
Richmond Lattimore (1951) was greeted in many quarters with widespread praise,
often bordering on hyperbole—the following comment, for example: “The feat
is so decisive that it is reasonable to foresee a century or so in which nobody
will try again the put the Iliad into
English verse. Taste may
change greatly, but it looks to me as if Mr. Lattimore’s version would survive
at least as long as Pope’s, for in its way it is quite as solidly
distinguished,” a remark, ironically enough, from Robert Fitzgerald, whose
translation of the Iliad
(which
many people, myself included, believe superior to Lattimore’s) appeared in
1963. And since its
appearance, Lattimore’s Iliad has
remained very popular (in a survey conducted in 1987, Lattimore’s translation
was preferred by three quarters of the respondents).
Lattimore
has also had his critics who complain about various things, including his syntax
(in Knopff’s words: “misprints, mistranslations, obscurities, or outrages to
the English language”). The plainness in the vocabulary is not matched by
the clarity in the sentences, so that (as in many of Lattimore’s other
translations—of Aeschylus, for example) there is a constant need to pause in
order to sort out just what a particular phrase or sentence
means (“I, who am such as no other of the bronze-armoured Achaians,” “My
mother bore me not utterly lacking in warcraft,” and so on). Here’s
a random sample, taken from a moment in Achilles’ response to Odysseus: “not
if he gave me gifts as many as the sand or the dust is.” Clear
enough perhaps, but not idiomatic English, for sand cannot be “many” any
more than “dust” can. We
have to supply the missing: “grains of . . .” A
small example but not untypical—and, in my view, very irritating. Here,
too, the rhythm maintains the hexameter but in the process ends up sounding
awkward and forced, anything but an outburst from a passionate man who has
worked himself up into a temper. Reading
Lattimore’s Iliad I’m
always reminded of Dr. Leavis’ comment about how Milton’s verse “calls
pervasively for a kind of attention … toward itself.”
one who still unhit and still unstabbed by the sharp bronze
spun in the midst of that fighting, with Pallas Athene’s hold on
his hand guiding him, driving back the volleying spears thrown.