The First Penguin: E.V. Rieu's The Odyssey

1. Homer, The Odyssey, translated by E.V. Rieu

Fittingly, this is one of the first Penguin Classics I purchased, way back in 1992 at a used bookstore in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  I still have the price tag on the front cover of a very worn paperback book: $1.00.  Even as a high school student (as I was then) I could foot that bill.  Imagine when books were such rare and precious commodities, buying one of the great masterpieces of the ancient world for spare change!  Of course, that was the very idea behind paperbacks in general, and Penguin Classics in particular: to offer laymen/women the fruits of a specialized education.  Not surprisingly, this was the first book published in the Penguin Classics imprint way back in January of 1946.  It is a testament to the story as well as to the translation that it still reads like a lightning-fast, edge-of-the-seat modern work.  And in this case, it actually reads like a novel, for Rieu made a prose translation of the epic which coheres as a modern novel with remarkably little squinting. 

In general, I am against prose translations; or if not against, exactly, at least uninterested in reading them.  Poetry should be poetry, even in translation, to capture the sense of music, rhythm, and metaphor.  Also, the work should preserve some sense of heightened purpose, particularly in ancient literature which was meant to be recited by a single performer, in a communal, concert setting.  A prose translation would be like a modern band handing out sheet music for the audience to read over while they simply recite the songs’ lyrics.  In short, the sense of a performance would be lost, even though English cannot hope to capture what made the Greek world sing.  All that said, Rieu’s translation is masterful and quite successful.  While it removes the work from a sense of communal performance, it makes an artful slip into another community, that of the novel: so instead of hearing a great bard recite the famous invocation to the Muses, we now hear the voice of a Dickensian narrator, inviting us for an intensively private/public experience.  As Rieu explains his Introduction from 1945, “the Odyssey, with its well-knit plot, its psychological interest, and its interplay of character, is the true ancestor of that long line of novels that have followed it.  And though it is the first, I am not sure that it is not still the best.  Let the reader decide for himself.”

Having read three different versions of the work (but sadly, not the original), this version is a wonderful complement to the poetry and drama of The Odyssey.  In many ways, it reads like a modern fantasy novel, albeit without the hackneyed plot and characters all too common to that genre these days.  However, it is only a stone’s throw from this to The Lord of the Rings, or White’s The Once and Future King.  Another advantage is sheer readability; I read poetry slowly, sometimes re-reading a passage several times the way I do (strangely enough) a comic book, going from word to image and back again.  A novel, however, even if composed of poetry-rich sentences, is a more fleeting experience.  So, too, with Rieu’s translation, which sends you along your way at a break-neck speed, full of riches and wonder, but without reminding you that you’re reading an epic poem.  It just reads like a rattling page-turner, though here, too, you should occasionally stop and peep around a bit. 

This translation is particularly good at characterization and dialogue: the characters really stand out instead of fading into the poetic background, which was clearly one of his aims.  For example, in the wonderful scene where Hermes is sent by the gods to convince Calypso to send Odysseus off, we get this wonderful passage:

A cruel folk you are, unmatched for jealousy, you gods who cannot bear to let a goddess sleep with a man, even if it is done without concealment and she has chosen him as her lawful consort.  You were the same when Rose-fingered Dawn fell in love with Orion.  Easy livers yourselves, you were outraged at her conduct, and in the end chaste Artemis rose from her golden throne, attacked him in Otrygia with her gentle darts and left him dead...And now it is my turn to incur that same divine displeasure for living with a mortal man—a man whom I rescued from death as he was drifting alone astride the keel of his ship, when Zeus shattered it with his lightning bolt out on the wine-dark sea...I welcomed him with open arms; I tended him; I even hoped to give him immortality and ageless youth.  But now, goodbye to him, since no god can evade or thwart the will of Zeus (91). 

This passage is powerful in any translation, but Rieu captures her mockery, contempt, and despair: he was my man, I took him lawfully, I saved him from you, and now you take him away from me!  Such is the way of men!  Even so many decades later, the translation sounds modern, though with a slight concession to the dignity of a divine being.  Elsewhere, the characterization brings out the exotic nature of Odysseus himself, a man we want to root for, but who can be calculating and bitterly cruel, as when he subjects his family to endless tests to prove their affection—nowhere more frustratingly than with his wife, Penelope.  Even worse is when he hangs all the maidservants who slept with the suitors, despite their cries and pleas for forgiveness.  In ancient Greece, how readily could a maidservant really say ‘no’?  In many ways he resembles the gods themselves in his pitiless, unsentimental attitude toward life.  He is another hero from another land, one that requires some translation to encounter on his own terms.  Rieu does this remarkably, making the language sound familiar and inviting while the world itself remains as fantastic as anything encountered in Middle Earth. 

Rieu’s translation remains a great first encounter with The Odyssey, though I would never suggest you end with this volume (particularly as Penguin Classics offers the poetic translation as well).  However, this is ideal for a high school or college classroom full of students reluctant to tackle Homer in any setting.  The novelistic narrative will push them forward, and a careful teacher could also prune a few chapters where the narrative pace sags.  In all, this was an auspicious beginning for the imprint, and the ideal volume to begin my own journey through the wine-dark sea of human thought.