A review by spacestationtrustfund
The Poems Of Catullus by Catullus

3.0

hoc facias, sive id non pote sive pote.

LXXVI

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:

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 libellum
arido modo pumice expolitum?

Gregory's translation:

Who shall receive my new-born book,
my poems, elegant and shy,
neatly dressed and polished?

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:

to whom / I give / charming / new / little book
dry / (in) manner / roughly / polished?

The 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.

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 perversions
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.

Look... 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.

I did not care for Gregory's translation of CI:

Dear brother, I have come these many miles, through strange lands to this Eastern Continent
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.

Sorry, 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.

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 many
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.

I mean... sure.

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.