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bibliophilelinda's review against another edition
5.0
Gorgeous poetry, as only the Roman could write.
apinsk's review against another edition
5.0
I read multiple Catullus poems -- not from this specific book.
Catullus is my fave.
Catullus is my fave.
ulrikemaria's review against another edition
5.0
id die for catullus
edit: 2nd time reading the whole way through, for an essay on sexual violence and male dominance !! i love catullus and now tht i actually know some latin it's been a very enriching and interesting experience!!!!! he just does things with latin that u Can Not Do with english!!!!!
edit: 2nd time reading the whole way through, for an essay on sexual violence and male dominance !! i love catullus and now tht i actually know some latin it's been a very enriching and interesting experience!!!!! he just does things with latin that u Can Not Do with english!!!!!
versmonesprit's review against another edition
funny
fast-paced
1.0
Translation is especially unsatisfactory with poetry. Dunn explains how she did not try to adhere to the original metre of the poems so as to be able to provide a good translation, but with both the word plays and the rhythm gone, the poems give nothing at all.
The easiest solution to this unenjoyable experience is to provide the originals along with the translated text. Unfortunately, that wasn’t done in this edition. Reading Catullus is fun, but the translation leaves a lot to be desired.
I suppose the main issue people have with Catullus is that they have a false, glorified image of Rome, and such lewd poems break their fantasy. With their “roasting” contents, and their open sexuality, these poems are truly timeless: they could’ve easily been written today! However, I found Catullus’s pen to be at its best with short poems; the longer ones do not have that “flavour” for lack of a better word.
Daisy Dunn’s translations might be good, but I still find them problematic in certain ways. For example, at one point she uses an English idiom for something that was not a Latin idiom. That is literally changing the nature of the original text, and such liberties always disturb me. A translator has no right to alter the text. This is done also by including phrases in French at some parts. In her badly crafted introduction, Dunn explains she’s done this because Catullus uses Celtic-originated words at times, as a lien to the Gaul (to which his native city of Verona belonged at the time). The issue is that the words were still Latin; not a different language. Therefore, interjecting a completely different language is once again taking too many liberties. This issue could be rectified by including the Latin originals with several footnotes.
The lack of footnotes was another issue I had with this book. As I mentioned before, the introduction by Dunn wasn’t well-written: it’s both scattered too much for someone to refer back to it, and very much sparse in context. Some of the poems are hard to understand without the sociocultural context. It’s a shame, really.
The way the introduction was a whole mess solidified for me that I’ll never read anything written by Daisy Dunn, and this too is a shame.
Overall, I would not actually recommend this edition. I have no idea if better translations and better works with context exist, but it’s worth to give others a chance over this.
The easiest solution to this unenjoyable experience is to provide the originals along with the translated text. Unfortunately, that wasn’t done in this edition. Reading Catullus is fun, but the translation leaves a lot to be desired.
I suppose the main issue people have with Catullus is that they have a false, glorified image of Rome, and such lewd poems break their fantasy. With their “roasting” contents, and their open sexuality, these poems are truly timeless: they could’ve easily been written today! However, I found Catullus’s pen to be at its best with short poems; the longer ones do not have that “flavour” for lack of a better word.
Daisy Dunn’s translations might be good, but I still find them problematic in certain ways. For example, at one point she uses an English idiom for something that was not a Latin idiom. That is literally changing the nature of the original text, and such liberties always disturb me. A translator has no right to alter the text. This is done also by including phrases in French at some parts. In her badly crafted introduction, Dunn explains she’s done this because Catullus uses Celtic-originated words at times, as a lien to the Gaul (to which his native city of Verona belonged at the time). The issue is that the words were still Latin; not a different language. Therefore, interjecting a completely different language is once again taking too many liberties. This issue could be rectified by including the Latin originals with several footnotes.
The lack of footnotes was another issue I had with this book. As I mentioned before, the introduction by Dunn wasn’t well-written: it’s both scattered too much for someone to refer back to it, and very much sparse in context. Some of the poems are hard to understand without the sociocultural context. It’s a shame, really.
The way the introduction was a whole mess solidified for me that I’ll never read anything written by Daisy Dunn, and this too is a shame.
Overall, I would not actually recommend this edition. I have no idea if better translations and better works with context exist, but it’s worth to give others a chance over this.
spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
3.0
hoc facias, sive id non pote sive pote.Horace Gregory translated Catullus's poetry in 1931, so I knew going in that I shouldn't expect much from this particular translation. Gregory does say some really good stuff about Catullus, translation, and Catullus in translation in his introduction to the text, however:LXXVI
I have decided that any attempt to reproduce Catullus by means of an Anglo-literary classical tradition would merely confuse our own literary traditions with those of pre-Agustan Rome. Translating Catullus into formal English verse would be in fact a further distortion of whatever literal rendition from Latin into English may be possible. Another element of confusion that I have attempted to avoid is one that rises out of Catullus's influence upon Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century English poetry. For years we have learned to accept certain religious and literary symbols of classical literature at second or third hand. These symbols, intertwined with an Anglo-Christian ethic, have become poetic clichés. To the poet of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth centuries the interweaving of Latin and Anglo-Christian symbolism was a natural procedure fully understood by his readers and a necessary element of his own vocabulary. A version of Catullus leaning heavily upon English poetic diction and rhymed English verse-forms would be at best a mere experiment in the use of an archaic language and the music of Catullus's Latin metres would be lost in the connotations of our own poetic tradition. On the other hand, it is virtually impossible to render Latin metres into English verse with any degree of accuracy. Such an attempt inverts the order of English speech into absurd artificialities. My solution has been a compromise. I have rejected the traditional forms of English poetry in favor of unrhymed verse, approximated wherever possible the metres of the original Latin text. This, of course, is modified by the speech of our own time and I have attempted to redefine the symbols of Roman life that have become shop-worn in Anglo-classical vocabularies or have dropped into complete obscurity. [...] Every translation of Catullus is in a sense an interpretation of the poet's life. The poems constitute a remarkable self-portrait and it has been my effort to make the portrait clear and convincing. I have attempted to reproduce the personal charm, the epigrammatic vigour and the rapid transition from lyrical beauty to outspoken grossness that every reader of Catullus has found in the original text and which are often lost in the process of translation.That's the good shit.
There are a couple of metrics by which I generally judge a translation of Catullus, while taking into account the time period and background of the translation (i.e., a translation from the 1950s is likely not going to be as overtly queer as one from the 2010s, and that's fine):
1) how is the opening line of XVI translated, if at all?
2) are the diminutives applied properly?
3) does the translation use the word "God" with an initial majuscule?
4) how comfortable is the translator with Catullus's "controversial" poems (e.g., XVI, XLVIII, LXXX)?
5) how is the final line of CI translated, if at all?
6) how are the three Sapphic stanze in LI handled?
7) are any sections omitted, left untranslated, or translated into a language other than the target language?
There are, of course, other details, but those tend to stand out, alongside the usual translating decisions such as metre, rhyme, structure, etc., or lack thereof. Now, one immediate benefit of Gregory's translation is the fact that it is somewhat of a bilingual edition: the original Latin text of most of the poems is included immediately prior to its English translation. For example, the book begins with I, the opening couplet of which, in Latin, reads thusly:
qui dono lepidum novum libellumGregory's translation:
arido modo pumice expolitum?
Who shall receive my new-born book,This is a pretty literal translation. Catullus's use of the diminutive "libellus" (from "liber," book) is not noted (although Gregory later gets this right in XXVI with "villula," little villa), and the second line should read, "dry (in) manner (and) roughly polished" instead of "elegant and shy, / neatly dressed and polished"; I don't know why Gregory flubbed this particular bit. The adjective "aridus," which literally means "dry" (think arid), could also refer metaphorically to "meagre" or "humble," another relatively popular translation in this context. Gregory seems to stumble a bit with "lepidus" (understandably so), transforming it into "elegant and shy," which I would argue could indeed stand as a viable translation of the word—personally "charming," "witty," or "effeminate" are the most reasonable equivalents, in my opinion. A more literal translation could then run as follows:
my poems, elegant and shy,
neatly dressed and polished?
to whom / I give / charming / new / little bookThe word "pumice" means exactly what it looks like; Catullus is comparing his "little book" to a rough, porous stone (i.e., unfinished and full of holes). This sort of ironic self-deprecation appears frequently in Catullus, and Gregory's apparent lack of realisation of it does not bode well.
dry / (in) manner / roughly / polished?
But moving on. Gregory's translation of XIII—a poem many translators fail to translate well due to the humourous nature—was delightful. In general the affection between men was not downplayed or censored (such as in XCIX for example); there were even slight moments of profanity (although usually in regards to women). But what of XVI?
Furius, Aurelius, I'll work your own perversionsLook... I've read worse. Gregory misunderstands some of the point of the poem (Catullus is not talking about homosexuality but effeminacy—two overlapping yet distinct topics), and wildly mistranslates the final line (the original Latin says nothing about seduction; defilement is closer, since Catullus is threatening rape). Again, the diminutive ("versiculis," little poems) is omitted.
upon you and your persons, since you say my poems
prove that I'm effeminate, deep in homosexual vice.
A genuine poet must be chaste, industrious,
though his verse may give us
rich, voluptuous passion to please the
taste of those who read him and not only
delicate boys, but bearded men whose limbs are
stiff and out of practice. And you because my verses
contain many (thousands of) kisses, look at me
as though I were a girl. Come at me, and I'll be ready
to defile you and seduce you.
I did not care for Gregory's translation of CI:
Dear brother, I have come these many miles, through strange lands to this Eastern ContinentSorry, but that's no "ave atque vale," and never will be. Gregory does however point out in his endnotes that the "ritual referred to in the poem in which a plate of eggs, lentils, or salt is given as an offering to the dead. Here, as elsewhere, I have interpolated an explanation of a ritual for the sake of making the image clear to the modern reader." If the choice is between no footnotes whatsoever and "interpolations [of] explanations," then I'd gladly take the latter.
to see your grave, a poor sad monument of what you were, O brother.
And I have come too late; you cannot hear me; alone now I must speak
to these few ashes that were once your body and expect no answer.
I shall perform and ancient ritual over your remains weeping,
(this plate of lentils for dead men to feast upon, wet with my tears)
O brother, here's my greeting: here's my hand forever welcoming you
and I forever saying: good-bye, good-bye.
In CXII ("multus homo es, Naso, neque tecum multus homo qui / descendit: Naso, multus es et pathicus") Gregory sort of understands the manner of Catullus's insult towards Naso:
Naso, you're a man's man, and yet there are not manyI mean... sure.
men who would care to play at being what you are to many men—
to go at full length downward, Naso,
everything to many men, and homosexual.
Overall? A surprisingly decent translation. I wouldn't recommend it as my first choice, but it gives a good sense of Catullus's style, which is difficult to do. Many of the translations were reminiscent of Frank O. Copley's translation (1957), which just so happens to be my personal favourite. The translation of LXXXV was acceptable:
I hate and love.
And if you ask me why,
I have no answer, but I discern,
can feel, my senses rooted in eternal torture.
odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
1.0
Unfortunately not a bilingual edition, Peter Whigham's 1980 translation focuses less on literal adherence to the text and more on capturing (his opinion of) the spirit and energy of the original. This approach to translation can be executed well or terribly, rarely anything in between. I wasn't optimistic when I first started reading this translation, primarily thanks to a particularly head-scratching line in the introduction where Whigham claims, "On many occasions, in moments of intense emotion, Catullus expresses his feelings in the guise of a woman," which is... certainly an opinion (he's referring to the fact that Catullus writes about fucking men).
A translator's versatility with Catullus can usually (I've found) be discerned by their chosen translation of poem XVI, in particular lines 1-4. Here's Whigham's rendition (of the entire poem, because he moves lines and phrases around at his own discretion, which makes it difficult to cite only one or two lines):
Then there's poem LXXX, which is—fair warning—quite nasty:
Whigham's translation is... not great.
A translator's versatility with Catullus can usually (I've found) be discerned by their chosen translation of poem XVI, in particular lines 1-4. Here's Whigham's rendition (of the entire poem, because he moves lines and phrases around at his own discretion, which makes it difficult to cite only one or two lines):
Pedicabo et irrumaboHe doesn't even try. The decision not only not to translate "pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo" but also to truncate it into "pedicabo et irrumabo vos" is bewildering. He did call them "twin sodomites" though, which is coincidentally the name of my next grunge band.
Furius & Aurelius
twin sodomites,
you have dared deduce me from my poems
which are lascivious
which lack pudicity...
The devoted poet remains in his own fashion chaste
his poems not necessarily so:
they may well be
lascivious
lacking in pudicity
stimulants (indeed) to prurience
and not solely in boys
but those whose hirsute genitalia are not easily moved.
You read of those thousand kisses.
You deduced an effeminacy there.
You were wrong. Sodomites. Furius & Aurelius.
Pedicabo et irrumabo vos.
Then there's poem LXXX, which is—fair warning—quite nasty:
How is it, Gellius,First of all I have no idea why Whigham translated "Victoris" as "Virro," because that completely ruins the pun, which could have been easily preserved in the English by translating the name as "Victor." This is a very mean and cruel poem, as evidenced by things such as Catullus's use of the diminutive labellum instead of labrum in the first line etc.:
when you leave home in the morning
& again at 2 in the afternoon
with the rest of the day before you
after your soft siesta
that your lips
previously pink
are unaccountably whiter than winter snow?
One is not sure,
unless rumour speak true:
that you swallow the taut tumescence of a man's stomach.
One thing is certain
that Virro's strained thighs
& your lips flecked with semen
cry out in unison to onlookers.
Quid dicam, Gelli, quare rosea ista labellaI don't proclaim to be necessarily a better translator than Whigham, but a more literal translation would be something like,
hiberna fiant candidiora nive,
mane domo cum exis et cum te octava quiete
e molli longo suscitat hora die?
nescio quid certe est: an vere fama susurrat
grandia te medii tenta vorare viri?
sic certe est: clamant Victoris rupta miselli
ilia, et emulso labra notata sero.
What can I say, Gellius, by what means those rosy little lipsThe (dubious) joke is that 1) the man Gellius is fellating is named "Victor," and 2) the Romans considered oral sex, specifically the giving of, to be demeaning, especially if you were a man performing oral on another man.
become whiter than winter snow,
in the morning when you leave the house and with the eighth hour from a quiet nap
are roused when the day is long?
I don't know what's certain: is the whispered rumour true
you fellate a man's large erection?
this much is certain: Victor's poor depleted groin
shouts it out, and your exhausted lips marked with seed.
Whigham's translation is... not great.