It’s amazing how reading a different translation of a piece of literature can almost instantly provide fresh thoughts as well as instill a greater appreciation for the original material. Often times such reflections are quite small — little things noticed here or there which subtly (but importantly) shift the way one had been thinking about a particular scene, motive, allusion, etc. At other times, it’s not an alteration of thought but instead greater illumination: what one had already thought about some aspect of the work is reaffirmed, and with greater confidence to support those beliefs. On much rarer occasions, reading a new translation might fundamentally change the way one looks at an author and work.
Why do these things take place? There are probably half a dozen good answers to this question. But almost certainly it’s the case that there are many factors working together. However this rather mysterious process works — an interesting thing to consider, though not here — reading (good) different translations not only sharpens and enlightens, but prevents one from becoming overly reliant on the vision of one particular translator.
Having read Robert Fitzgerald’s translation several times, reading David Ferry’s (2017) was a welcoming change. While I still prefer Fitzgerald’s (first published in 1981, and a highly respected translation), Ferry’s has its charms — including a vibrant and lively feel throughout the poem. Often times, especially during scenes of dialogue, one has the experience of feeling very near to the characters — standing next to them, as it were — sensing and feeling in an intimate way what they are undergoing. Ferry also has a way of consistently making certain lines pop and stand out, imbuing them with a certain memorable and catchy quality. While such lines don’t necessarily contribute to making a translation a good translation — or, for that matter, a bad one — I do think they hold much value.
Indeed, a line or passage which captures the reader — whether due to its diction, rhythm, phrasing, succinctness, simplicity, or myriad other aspects — often has the effect of making the reader re-read, and in doing so often prompts a more methodical, slowed-down process of reflection. In essence, great lines can help heighten one’s sensibilities. Assuming the lines are translated with good a degree of accuracy, a powerful, expressive, catchy and “stand out” line can achieve a great deal and make the reader that much more engaged.
It’s primarily from this perspective that I think some of Ferry’s lines are worth highlighting (some that I particularly like and also a couple that, while they may be stylish and possess a merit or two, I think are ultimately lacking). The selections, and my thoughts about them, are of course unique to me; other readers may not have been affected or influenced by these particular lines — or, for that matter, thought much about them at all. As mentioned above, it’s the peculiar (but highly beneficial) effect of reading different translations that one suddenly becomes more attuned to certain moments. And with a work like the Aeneid, new thoughts and insights are never in short supply.
The first selection from Ferry’s translation is from Book 7. Allecto has done what Juno had instructed her to do — that is, wreak havoc and interfere with the Trojans’ plans — and now Juno, taking over things, pushes open the gates of war. It’s a very powerful image and an important juncture in the book. At the beginning of Book 7, Aeneas had sent an embassy to Latinus seeking an alliance — a mission which was successful — but since then it has collapsed and now war is inescapably looming. Everything has changed. Virgil writes, “Ardet inexcita Ausonia atque immobilis ante” (623). Ferry translates this line as, “Ausonia had been peaceful; now it was not.” Looking back at Fitzgerald’s translation, his rendering is closer to the Latin; but Ferry’s line is so succinct and powerful in its matter-of-factness that it sums up perfectly the collective chaos that Allecto and Juno have unleashed.
Likewise, it captures the before-and-after dichotomy and the starkness of what has transpired. Ferry’s line summons to mind the kind of situation where a grim set of circumstances feels all the more grim after one reflects on how just days or hours ago everything was alright; and yet now the world (or so it seems) has suddenly become a much grimmer, colder, and unwelcoming place. Ferry’s line is so simple, but so clear and effective. Brand new readers of the Aeneid, on encountering this line, will likely grasp the magnitude of the situation — including what Aeneas’ arrival in the new land means for everyone involved — that much more sharply because of Ferry’s very effective line.
Another line of Ferry’s, also in Book 7, that gave me pause and helped me to look at things slightly anew, is one spoken by Juno to Allecto during their initial conversation. Juno, feeling nearly at the end of her capacities to try and subvert the Trojans’ mission, seeks the aid of Allecto. During the course of speaking to her, Juno describes Allecto’s abilities. Ferry translates two of these lines as, “Your ways to hurt have a thousand different names./Your heart is full of possibilities.” (440-441). Reading Ferry’s lines made me realize just how much Juno is describing her own self here. While perhaps not a particularly deep insight, it was a satisfying realization. Ferry’s diction in these lines very nicely brings out the parallels between Juno and her description of Allecto. “Full of possibilities” easily characterizes Juno’s multitude of stratagems employed since the beginning of Aeneas’ journey.
The next lines, which are some of my favorites of Ferry’s, occur in Book 12, in a scene where Jupiter speaks to Juno. Jupiter has just witnessed Juturna, Turnus’s sister, bring to her struggling brother the sword made by Vulcan. Jupiter suspects that Juno has had a hand in this. Wanting to put Juno’s intervening behaviors to an end once and for all, he speaks firmly to her:
“Why are you trying, my wife, to put it off?
You know, and you know that you know, that Aeneas
Is fated to be a god and will be raised
By the Fates up to the high heavens to be so?
(1075-1078)
This is wonderfully done by Ferry. The passage, which goes on, possesses the commanding tone of Jupiter but also the feel of a husband-wife talk (Juno responds afterwards). It contains a modern, colloquial quality throughout, and indeed Jupiter closes his speech with “enough is enough” (1095). The phrase “You know, and you know that you know,” is absolutely perfect here, so fitting and succinct, and conveys to the reader much of what this conversation is all about. (It also reminds me of Ferry’s translation of the Georgics, in Book 4, when Aristaeus is speaking to Proteus: “You, Proteus, know, you know because you know / All things that are…”)
The next passage — one I was not fond of — is from Book 10, a scene where the king of the Etruscans, Tarchon, is fervently speaking to his men.
“My boys, bend to your oars,
Pull back and drive, drive hard, bend to the oars,
Pull back and drive, cut your way into
This enemy land. Who cares if we shipwreck if
We make it there to say. Let the keels plow through.”
(410-414)
I confess that here I don’t understand the allure of translating the first three lines in this way; it doesn’t sound particularly good — in fact, it’s almost irksome, and additionally it just feels plain odd. The one merit it does have — and perhaps this is what Ferry was aiming for — is that it’s rhythmic quality mimics the sound and motion of rowers. Along similar lines, it has a drive and energy to it, the same quality that Tarchon is trying to instill in his men. But, again, at least to me, it just sounds awkward, almost comical.
Below is how Fitzgerald translates it. Perhaps there’s less “spunk” in his rendering, but in this case that hardly matters. It’s also closer to the Latin.
“Picked oarsman, now give way with your good oars,
And lift the bow with every stroke, then split
This enemy land wide open with your beaks.
Let each keel plow the shingle….”
(407-410)
Another passage which I had somewhat negative feelings about comes from Book 9. It’s a great mystical kind of scene of Cybele rescuing Trojan ship from the perils of fire. Long ago, Cybele had been granted by Jupiter the power to protect those Trojan ships that survive the journey from Troy. And here she does just that. The ships — to the great wonder of all who are watching — get themselves away from danger.
“[They] dip their prows, which are like the beaks of dolphins,
And dolphin-like they dive into the deep
And soon, like dolphins, miraculous, come back,
And as goddesses swim away to the open sea.”
(147-150)
Ferry likes repetitions of the same word (as evinced in the Tarchon passage above, and many other places), which sometimes sounds good and which sometimes has a purpose, but at other times does not. In this case, I found the passage to be somewhat dull. The consonance is wonderful (so are many of the rhythms) but “dolphins” thrice-repeated feels more distracting than enhancing, and while the passage overall has some spark and charm, I have rather mixed feelings about it. That said, others may very well enjoy this passage, and it’s to the benefit of all readers that there are many choices of translation which it comes to reading Virgil’s epic.
Indeed, engaging with Virgil does not mean reading just one translation; nor does it mean approaching his great epic from only one angle, or one ideological framework, or one poetic cast of mind by a certain translator. Ferry’s rendering gives to readers much energy, liveliness, and vividness, along with a sharp and modern feel to many scenes of dialogue. It also has its minor weaknesses and faults — as any translation, of any work, inevitably does. Ferry’s translation can be enjoyed by anyone looking to experience Virgil’s Aeneid for the first, or dozenth, time.
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Virgil, and David Ferry. The Aeneid. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017.
Virgil, and David Ferry. The Georgics of Virgil (Bilingual Edition). NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005.
Virgil, and Robert Fitzgerald. The Aeneid. New York: Vintage Books, 1990.
Spectatio 