
Colin Burrow is a senior research fellow at All Souls College, Oxford and the editor of the Penguin Metaphysical Poetry.
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Vol. 24 No. 12 · 27 June 2002
pages 21-24 | 5031 words

Chapmaniac
Colin Burrow
- Chapman’s Homer: The ‘Iliad’ edited by Allardyce Nicoll
Princeton, 613 pp, £13.95, December 1998, ISBN 0 691 00236 3
- Chapman’s Homer: The ‘Odyssey’ edited by Allardyce Nicoll
Princeton, 613 pp, £13.95, January 2001, ISBN 0 691 04891 6
If Homer had walked the English soil in 1597 he would have felt that he had lived in vain. At that date no English poet had a substantial knowledge of either the Iliad or the Odyssey. Although the statutes of grammar schools made proud boasts that Greek was studied in the higher forms, it’s likely that by the end of the 16th century only a handful of schoolchildren could read more than a few lines of Homer in the original. Those who fancied themselves as scholars could cite the odd tag from the Iliad and the Odyssey (Odysseus’s assertion ‘let there be one king’ was a favourite), but even literate people would have had only a general idea that the Odyssey was about a magical journey home and that the Iliad was about war. The few who actually read Homer at this time tended to read Latin translations, such as those by Eobanus Hessus and Lorenzo Valla. These translations made Homer look familiar. They often quoted or adapted lines from Virgil when they translated sections of Homer which Virgil imitated, so that Homer appeared inextricably fused with a Latin tradition that was part of the life blood of English readers. Even writers who wanted to be thought of as classicists usually needed a Latin crib to help them through Greek poetry in this period. Ben Jonson, who famously drew attention to Shakespeare’s ‘small Latine, and lesse Greeke’, probably got most of what he knew of Homer from an anthology of Greek verse which had a Latin translation facing each page.
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Letters
Vol. 24 No. 13 · 11 July 2002
From James Leigh
It seems odd that Colin Burrow should find Odysseus' weeping shockingly limp-upper-lipped (LRB, 27 June) when, presumably as a consequence of the stresses and exigencies of the heroic life, communal bingeing on grief, preferably ministered to by women, seems after slaughter and pillage to have been the Homeric warrior's most characteristic activity. (In the instance Burrow cites, it is what prompts Odysseus' host to suspect that he may be something more than a mere inglorious passing traveller.) In the Odyssey's first notable instance of weeping, when Helen spots the young Telemachus' resemblance to Odysseus, her husband, Menelaus, blubs for his lost friend, Telemachus for his lost father and the young Peisistratus for his lost older brother, killed at Troy by Memnon, son of the shining dawn. Meanwhile Helen, who started it all, mixes an all-day anti-depressant into their drinks so that after their gorging on grief, dinner won't be a total wash-out. In perhaps the most memorable instance, when Odysseus tells Circe he and his men are off home to their wives and she warns him that they must first make a detour via the Underworld, he weeps and rolls around all over her bed while she waits patiently to give him sailing directions. The following day, when he gives his crew the news, they all weep so hard that no one sees Circe completing their packing for them, stowing the sacrificial animals aboard their black ship. In the instance Burrow mentions, by the way, both he and Chapman seem to miss the most obvious element of pathos in the woman's weeping on her fallen husband's body, which is that in the intensity of her grief she does not even notice the soldiers beating her off him with spear staves so that they can carry her off into slavery.
James Leigh
Ripon, Yorkshire