He do the poet in different voices

There was an interesting piece by Harriet Devine a few days ago about translation, which prompted me to think about my own monolingualism.  I read a lot of foreign literature, and I often find myself thinking how well or how badly something has been translated.  How would I know!?  There are exceptions, when - as with Borges - the translator works with the author, who is himself fluent in English; I'm pretty sure I'm getting the real Borges here.  But there is one author, where translations are something of a hobby of mine.

Yes, I have a dozen volumes of Homer, and they don't even include Chapman, in whom John Keats found - and through whom he gave - such wondrous pleasure.  As a child, I grew up loving the Odyssey in my parents' Penguin classics translation by E V Rieu, a book I still have (my library operates what I recently heard called "a zero de-acquisition policy"!).  But as I grew up, I realised that the Odyssey is a fine, wonderful poem (have you read Erich Auerbach's Mimesis?  Great first chapter comparing Odyssey and Genesis - the Old Testament book, not the rock group), but that the Iliad is greater far.  So I thought I'd compare four translations of a few lines of Book XVI.

You remember the scene: Patroclus is wearing the armour of the great Achilles, who is sulking in his tent after losing his girl to the arbitrary king.  He is fighting valiantly; but his pride, buoyed up by his success, makes him ignore Achilles' warning not to fight the Trojan hero, Hector.  E V Rieu provides a calm and presumably faithful prose version:

"Three times he charged with a terrific cry...and every time he killed nine men.  But when he leapt in like a demon for the fourth time - alas Patroclus! - the end came in sight.  In the heart of the battle, Phoebus encountered him, Phoebus the most terrible.  Patroclus had not seen him coming through the rout: the god had wrapped himself in a thick mist for this unfriendly meeting.  But Phoebus Apollo stood behind him now, and striking his broad shoulders and back with the flat of his hand, he made the eyes start from Patroclus' head and knocked off his vizored helmet."

He's dead of course, the inevitable result of any "unfriendly meeting" with Apollo.  The classic Victorian translation, by Butcher, Leaf and Lang, is clearly translating the same Greek, but is more knowing, more Wardour Street, more self conciously 'poetic' in spite of its prose form:

"Three times then rushed he on ... shouting terribly, and thrice he slew nine men.  But when the fourth time he sped on like a god, thereon to thee, Patroklus, did the end of life appear, for Phoebus met thee in the strong battle, in dreadful wise.  And Patroklus was not ware of him coming through the press, for hidden in thick mist did he meet him, and stood behind him, and smote his back and broad shoulders with a down-stroke of his hand, and his eyes were dazed.  And from his head Phoebus Apollo smote the helmet ..."

Well, I know which I prefer - this is precious and inelegant to my ears, and lacks the drama of the Rieu; and the language is alien - "dazed" is really weak, and "in dreadful wise", forsooth!  But you can see the same Greek behind the words, and you get the same story.  Try this for comparison:

"Then rash Patroclus with new fury glows,

And breathing slaughter, pours amid the foes.

Thrice on the press like Mars himself he flew,

And thrice three heroes at each onset slew.

There ends thy glory! there the Fates untwine

The last, black remnant of so bright a line:

Apollo dreadful stops thy middle way;

Death calls, and heaven allows no longer day!

For lo! the god in dusky clouds enshrined,

Approaching dealt a staggering blow behind.

The weighty shock his neck and shoulders feel;

His eyes flash sparkles, his stunn'd senses reel

In giddy darkness; far to distance flung,

His bounding helmet on the champaign rung."

Personally, I think that's wonderful - and so it should be, it's Alexander Pope - and it has drama and excitement enough for anybody.  But quite a bit of it is not in the original - as Richard Bentley told the author "It is a pretty poem, Mr Pope, but you must not call it Homer"!  But some go further from the original still.  Christopher Logue, in his wonderful War Music, which he calls not a translation, but "an account", has this:

"Patroclus fought like dreaming
His head thrown back, his mouth-wide as a shrieking mask —
Sucked at the air to nourish his infuriated mind
And seemed to draw the Trojans onto him,
To lock them around his waist, red water, washed across his chest,
To lay their tired necks against his sword like birds.
— Is it a god? Divine? Needing no tenderness? —
Yet instantly they touch, he butts them,
Cuts them back:
— Kill them!
My sweet Patroclus,
— Kill them!
As many as you can,
For
Coming behind you through the dust you felt
— What was it? — felt Creation part, and then
Apollo!
Who had been patient with you
Struck.

  His hand came from the east,

And in his wrist lay all eternity;

And every atom of His mythic weight

Was poised between His fist and bent left leg.

  Your eyes lurched out. Achilles’ helmet rang

Far and away …"

My goodness, that's strong and exciting!  And he uses the drama of the typeface to help him, putting just four words on one double page, as you can see below, where the Logue is contrasted with my Pope's Odyssey, with its tiny type.

 

Does all this prove anything?  No, I don't think so, except that Homer is many different, inspiring things to different writers.  I read many versions of Homer, but the ones I go back to again and again are the plainest - the Rieu - and the most imaginative - the Logue.  But talking of all the different voices, does anyone know the source of my title (without using Google, dark Puss!)?

Comments

[Brooke of aging memory]

"He do the police in different voices" - adapted by T.S. Eliot from Dickens (and, sorry, I couldn't remember where I'd heard the reading of Eliot's "The Waste Land," and did wind up using Google to trace it).

[Lindsay]

Equiano's comment makes me ask what is a translation: if Brink changes things, has he written two books, or improved the first one? Translations of translations, even back to the original language, would be worthy of a Borges story.

[Peter the Flautist]

Harriet, Googlewhack is query that returns a single hit. Put "Googlewhack" into Google for more information! Dark Puss

[Harriet]

And what's a googlewhack? Could it be something that defeats google? I think it must be as I just cheated and tried it and all it brings up is this blog!

[Harriet]

Great stuff and worth putting that on my own blog to elicit this fascinating response. I love the Logue. I used to admire his poetry when I was a young-un but have not read this Homer version and now really would like to. The Pope is of course wonderfully accomplished but for me it seems a bit to lack life and energy. I totally agree about the first two. The quotation is ringing bells but though they are on the tip of my tongue (ouch) I can't quite place it.

[Equiano]

How fascinating! I often wonder the same about books I read in translation - the more you learn of other languages the more countless variations occur to you. The South African author Andre Brink interestingly enough translates his own work, and in the process tweaks the writing, sometimes changing the story substantially - isn't that interesting?!

[Peter the flautist]

Note for Lindsay - your title (which I put into Google AFTER my original posting) is a sort of Googlewhack (although not limited to two words as in the original game)!

[Peter the flautist]

Note for Lindsay - your title (which I put into Google AFTER my original posting) is a sort of Googlewhack (although not limited to two words as in the original game)!

[Peter the flautist]

Dark Puss also has a collection of Icelandic saga's translated by number of folk, and with an introduction my Magnusson. I have Egil's saga translated by Palsson & Edwards and Njal's saga translated by Magnusson and Palsson. Maybe we have the same collection?

[Karen]

'Tis a brave cat, indeed, that sets paw in Lindsay's lair, whether " 'umble physicist'" or 'lowly housewife', he may have us bettered.
However, I'll see his collective Homer and raise him a Norse saga or two (and not as told by Noggin the Nog, but in reputable translation).
Egil's Saga and Njal's Saga, the latter translated by Magnus Magnusson, come recommended by this erstwhile student of Norse law and English literature. Whether you read them for their prose, their history or their legal content, they are worth a look.
To quote from the introduction to "Njal's Saga": "Its prose has a taut epigrammatic terseness ....it is cool, impersonal, objective, easy-paced; only in sudden explosions of harsh dialogue does the effortless lope of the narration change its unhurried stride. And yet, under this studied urbanity, tensions gather like muscles rippling under the skin ....."
Who could resist?

[Peter the flautist]

Dark Puss is but an 'umble physicist your Lordship and unschooled in the reading of books (as Cornflower and Dr Cornflower will attest most assuredly). He is well beaten by your superior knowledge, and slinks away, ears flattened whiskers drooping, into the night. However I'll make a reckless guess at Malory as I vanish into the dark.