minervasolo | (no subject)

Virgil is such a chore, even when just typing his stuff out. So very long winded, and I like to be very literal about latin, which means there's a lot of "having been done"s and so on. He and Ovid probably tie for most awkward to translate (there's some wonderfully transparent bits in both, but on the other hand they both like to throw themselves into the Epicness of Epic poetry a little too hard). Mostly, I'm loving Catullus and Horace and the lyric poetry, with a nice side order of Propertius because I think he writes beautifully. And poor Tibullus gets left out in the cold because he's just a bit too average amongst this lot (and picks up on Horice's themes).

Anyway, since I just typed out my entire set of latin transations for tomorrow's exam (that's 4400 words to learn), I'm going to inflict some on you.

A bit of snarky Catullus:

Prepared to attempt all of this together,
Whatever the will of the gods brings,
Announce to my girl these few things,
Not good words:

May she live and flourish with her lovers,
Having embraces them she holds three hundred simultaneously,
Loving no one truly, but rupturing the groins of all of
Them repeatedly;

Propertius, talking about his fickle lady (that he did considerably better with than any of the other poets; of course, there's no guarente that all of their women were real):

Only prayers and good deeds prevail in love.
In me slow Amor does not think of any arts,
Nor does he remember to know well known paths, as before.
But you, to whom is the spell of the fallen moon
And the work to atone the sacred things in magic fires,
Please go, turn the mind of our mistress,
And make it that she may become paler than my face!
Then I will have believed in you, that you can command
The stars and gods of the underworld with Cytinean songs.

Horace, on one of his favourite subjects:

This was in my prayer: a piece of land not of great size,
Where there is a garden and nearby the house an ever-flowing fountain of water
And there is a little wood above. More & better
The gods gave. It is good. I ask nothing greater,
Son of Maia, except that you make these blessings last for me,
If neither I make my ration larger by evil things
Nor make it reduce by fault of blame,
If nothing of these stupid prayers: ‘O if that nearby
Corner were added, which now deforms the field!’
‘O if luck would reveal to me that pot of gold which, like that person
Who, a treasure trove having been come upon, hired those workers
To plough the fields he once worked for hire, friend of the god
Hercules!’ If what I have pleases me dearly, this prayer I beg you:
Make fat the herd I master, and everything other than
My head, and as you are accustomed to, my greatest guard near to me.

Tibullus, on the same (actually, I think I like him better than Horace, in this context):

I would have poverty carry me through a sluggish life,
As long as the fire constantly lights my hearth.
Myself a rustic I will sew soft vines at the right time
And great fruit trees by expert hand;
Hopes not failing me, but always offer fruitful
Crops and rich unfermented wine in a full vat.
For I worship, whether a post has itself deserted in a field,
Or if the ancient stone at the crossroad with a blooming wreath,
And whatever fruit tree the new year brings forth for me,
Having plucked it, it is placed before the god of the farmer.
Golden Ceres, may it be for you a crown of corn
From our field, which will hang before the door of your temple,
& let red Priapus be put to guard the fruitful garden,
In order to scare the birds with his savage sickle.
Also you, guardians of a once happy piece of land,
Now poor, bring your gifts, Lares.
Then the killed calf cleansed innumerous bullocks,
Now a small lamb is the sacrifice of a poor land.
The lamb will die for you, around which young farmers will
Call ‘Hurrah, give crops and good wines’.
Now if only I could be satisfied to live with little,
To not always be inclined towards the distant path,
But avoiding the rising of the sumner dogstar under the shadow
Of a tree by a stream of water.

Virgil, on the Golden Age (most of the other poets have a slightly more reaistic view of it):

Hence, when strength and age has now made you a man,
And the traveller over the seas gives himself up, nor will the seagoing pine
Exchange goods: all of the earth will bring forth all things.
No earth will suffer hoes, nor the vine the pruning hook;
Now also the strong plowman will untie the yokes from the bulls;
Wool will not learn how to counterfeit various colours,
But the ram itself in the meadows will change its fleece now with
Sweetly reddening purple, now with saffron yellow,
Vermillion of its own according will clothe the grazing sheep.

Virgil being apocalyptic (I do still love Virgil when he gets his doom on):

Even he pitied Rome with Caesar’s death,
When he covered his shining face in rust darkness
& the impious generation feared eternal night.
Though at that time also the earth and the sea
& foul days & ill-omened birds
Gave signs. How often we saw Etna boil into the fields
Of the Cyclops from broken furnaces & pour
Balls of fire & streams of liquid rock!
Germany heard sounds of fighting throughout the whole
Sky, the Alps shook with strange movements.
Also a great voice was openly heard in the silent
Groves and pale ghosts were seen in an extraordinary
Manner under the darkness of night, & cattle spoke,
Horror! The rivers stopped & the earth split
And sad ivories in the temples wept and bronze sweated.
King Eridanus of the rivers washed away woods
With his insanely contorting whirlpool & carried off all of
The stables and herds through the fields. Nor at that time
Was there nothing miserable, or threatening entrails to prepare,
Or foul blood to flow, and in the deep night
The howls of wolves resonated through the city.
At no other time did so much lightning proceed from a bright sky
Nor ominous comets burn so many times.

Virgil (again), on the subject of Dido's death (my favourite part of this tragedy is the assumption she makes, that the Torjans will see her pyre, and Aeneas will be sorry. They don't, and he isn't. WOnderful pathos):

But Dido, agitated and made wild by her frightful undertaking,
Rolling her bloodshot gaze, & having her quivering cheeks
Suffused with spits and pale with future death,
She burst into the inner quarters of the palace and in a frenzy
Climbed the high pyres and unsheathed the Dardan’s
Sword, a gift not having been sought for this usage.
Then, after she caught sight of Trojan clothes & the familiar
Bed, delaying a little in tears and in thought,
& she lay down on the couch & said her last words:
‘Sweet relics, while Fate & gods allow it,
Accept this soul of mine & release me from these cares.
I lived and completed the course which Fortune had given me
And now a mighty imagine of me will go under the earth.
I built a famous city, I have seen my walls,
Having avenged my husband I exacted punishment on my hostile brother,
Happy, alas too happy, if only the Dardan keels
Had never touched out shore.’
She spoke, and having buried her face in the couch, ‘we will die unavenged,
But let us die,’ she said. ‘So, so it pleases me to go below to the shadows.
May the cruel Dardan drink the fire with his eyes from
The deep, and may he carry with him the omens of our deaths.’
She had spoken, and in the midst of all these things her
Companions saw her falling on her weapon& and the sword foaming
With blood & her hands having been splattered.

You shall be spared the description of Rumour, and of Aeneas's shield. You can see why Virgil is getting on my nerves: these are only short extracts from some of the passage of Virgil I have to translate.

One of my favourite bits of Ovid:

He grabs the rising path through still silences,
Hard, dark, dense with gloomy mist.
Not were they far from the boundary of the great earth;
Here, lest she would not be there & eager of looking
He turned loving eyes, and immediately she fell back
& stretching out his arms and struggling to be embraced and to embrace
The unlucky one seized nothing apart from the disappearing breezes.
& now dying again she complained not at all about
Her husband (for what could she lament save that she had been loved?)
& for the last time said ‘Goodbye’, which now that man could
Scarcely receive with his ears. She spoke, & she returned again to the same place.

And Ovid being arrogant (I'm not saying he wasn't right...)

&now I complete my work, which neither Jove’s anger nor fire
Nor sword nor greedy time could destroy.
When it wants, that day, which has not power except the law
Of this body, will end the span of my uncertain life.
However, I will be brought over the stars as an immortal,
With the best part of me & our name will be imperishable,
& with this the power of Rome will open of the conquered nations,
I will be read through the mouth of the people, & with fame throughout the ages,
If at all the prophecies of powers have anything of truth, I will live.

Now to the grammar and vocab, I guess. And then the essay material. And then to read the translations, over and over and over...

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