On first looking into Wilson’s Homer
Michael Sedano
Much have I travelled in realms of Attic Greek, but that was as a college student, translating first Xenophon, then Lysias, with big plans to go to Texas and work with Richmond Lattimore, to translate Aristotle for the modern student. Then my Uncle Sam said, 'a-knock knock, here I am.
As I stared across the Pacific on the military flight to Korea, my Greek skills already waning after Basic and Radio School, I figured that dream had gone by the wayside. I was no Odysseus but I was, and am, a polytropos, a man of many means. I turned to other realms, contented myself with good memories and a literary fealty to translations--any and all--of Homer.
I would have been satisfied leaving it at that—Lattimore for the authentic flavor of a rhapsode, Fagles for a contemporary treatment of something so old it needs adaptation to a modern ear.
Then along comes Emily Wilson, whose consideration of the text attends entirely to the modern ear, endeavoring a colloquial story-telling voice. Wilson creates a loose verse form in conversational language peppered with archaisms inherent in the original source. It's a modern retelling of ancient lore.
That Wilson is the sole female interpreter among a history of male translators leads numerous readers to point to Wilson’s woman’s language being less attuned to a macho persona and nuanced to a woman’s view. Maybe nuanced isn’t right; Wilson’s is outright a woman’s interpretation.
Conventionally translated as clever, resourceful, a man of many means, Wilson starts off with “complicated.” This alters a reader’s perception of the lost sailor’s personality.
A complicated man is not necessarily a good nor heroic figure. Likewise, readers point to Wilson’s description of Penelope’s household staff not as maidservants but as slaves, used and raped by the suitors.
Lattimore, too, cites their slavery, but leans into the maidservant variant: twelve women who lay in secret with the suitors, Lattimore describes. These twelve are forced to and influenced by Aphrodite, in Wilson’s view. Ni modo; the twelve get strung up in hideous pain in both translations; it’s complicated.
I enjoy, and recommend, reading Lattimore and Wilson in tandem, to get a sense of how two masterful linguists understand the same story and characters, to witness how each handles Greek spelling in English, the one capturing the ancient tongue, the other accommodating contemporary mores. For example, Greek masculine nouns end with “os” and use kappa, “k”, with no “c” in the alphabet. Lattimore holds more faithfully to ancient orthography. Wilson favors old Latino spelling, exchanging “us” for “os” and “c” for “k”:
Lattimore; Book 22, 320: beheading the priest
Then looking darkly at him, spoke resourceful Odysseus:
“if you claim to be the diviner among these people,
many times you must have prayed in my palace, asking
that the completion of my sweet homecoming be far off
from me, that my dear wife would go off with you, and bear you
children. So you cannot escape from sorry destruction.
So he spoke, and in his heavy hand caught up a sword
that was lying there on the ground where Agelaos had dropped it
when he was killed. With this, he cut through the neck at the middle,
and the head of Leodes dropped in the dust while he was still speaking.
Wilson; Book 22, 320: beheading the priest
The calculating hero scolded at him.
“If, as you claim, you sacrificed for them,
you must have often prayed here in my hall
that I would not regain the joys of Home,
and that my wife would marry you instead,
and bear your children. You will not escape.
Suffer and die!“
Agelaus had dropped
his sword when he was killed. With his strong arm
Odysseus swung, slashed down and sliced right through
the priest’s neck, and his head, still framing words,
rolled in the dust.
Lattimore; Book 22 line 390: Eurykleia the jefa de esclavas
Then at last resourceful Odysseus said to Telemachos:
‘Telemachos, come now, summon in the nurse, Eurykleia,
so that I can say what is on my mind to say to her.’
So he spoke, and Telemachos obeyed his dear father.
He opened the door and called out to the nurse, Eurykleia
‘Rise and come here, aged woman, you who watch over
all that the serving women do here in our palace.
Come here. My father calls you. He has something to tell you.'
Wilson; Book 22 line 390: Eurycleia the boss slave
Odysseus, still scheming, told his son,
“I need to say something to Eurycleia
Hurry, Telemachus, and bring her here."
Telemachus was glad to please his father.
He pushed the door ajar and called, “Come, Nanny, quick!
You supervise the female palace slaves.
My father has to talk to you; come on!"
Reading the two versions of the same story provides hours of double enjoyment, although as books, Richmond Lattimore’s translation requires greater visual work with its densely-packed lines and eye-challenging print size.
I’ve captured above Emily Wilson’s ample use of white space in her work. Lattimore's publisher elects a smaller font size than Wilson's. The larger font and ample white space make Wilson's book a lot easier to read and to keep your place as you read down the page.
Wilson’s Homer moves fast, like a good yarn fashioned by a clever storyteller owning the narrative, spoken in her own voice. Lattimore’s way is that of a capable recitation, a performer retelling a story keeping to the way they heard it the first time, succumbing to awkward bits and pieces that don’t quite fit into English.
Wilson blazes a new trail through the density of Homeric grammar, tossing the lexicon behind her to propel readers straight ahead, making story, not fealty to an old oft-told tale, the raison d’être of Homer’s Odyssey.
Timeo daneos ta dora pheruntes, pero sabes que? I welcome the gift of Homer from those Greeks.
