Classics and the Western Canon discussion

Salve, fellow readers! For the interim, we will be reading some poems by the Roman poet Horace aka Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65-8 B.C.)

For this week, let’s consider his short poem Ode 1.11 which contains the famous phrase “carpe diem.” Below are two different translations of the poem along with a link to another version. These translators chose to translate “carpe diem” as “take the present,” “embrace the day,” and “pluck the present day.” The phrase is also sometimes translated as “seize the day.”

Some questions to consider as you read and/or listen:
—What is the main argument of the poem? Do you agree?
—What does the central description/metaphor of a winter’s sea beating on the rocks add to the poem?

Ode 1.11

Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,
Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers
In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.
This could be our last winter, it could be many
More, pounding the Tuscan sea on these rocks:
Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines
And forget about hope. Time goes running, even
As we talk. Take the present, the future is no one’s affair.

Translated by Burton Raffel: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem...

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Ode 1.11

May you not seek to know, for to know is not right,

what end the gods might give to you or to me,

Leuconoe, and may you not probe the Babylonian

astrologers either. How much better to endure

whatever will be, regardless of whether or not Jupiter

has allotted for us many winters or one last winter, a season
which weakens the Tyrrhenian sea with its opposing rocks:

May you be wise, may you strain your wine, and because

of a brief life, may you cut back a long hope. While

we speak, envious time flees: embrace the day,

believing in the future as little as possible.

Translated by Melissa Beck: https://thebookbindersdaughter.com/20...

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To hear the poem read out loud, first in Latin, then in English, listen to the beginning of this: https://youtu.be/1LQD1GaPf5s?si=nmqO6... (read and translated by Allen Rosengren).

I'm surprised by the degree of differences in tone and content in the two translations.

Raffel: "don't hunt for answers in tea leaves or palms;"
Beck: "and may you not probe the Babylonian astrologers either."

Raffel: "pounding the Tuscan sea on these rocks;"
Beck: "weakens the Tyrrhenian sea with its opposing rocks."

The Raffel translation seems to me to be commanding with its "don't ask, don't hunt," and "Forget about hope." The tone is pessimistic, full of doom and gloom.
The Beck translation is softer, gentler, more suggestive: "How much better to endure . . . " "May you be wise . . . " Instead of "pounding" we get "weakens."

They feel like two very different poems.

I'm fonder of the first version as a poem in English as to me, the second version feels cluttered with a lot of unevocative extra phrases.

As far as the meaning, it feels to me like a poem written in a time of social or political upheaval. I think in times like that, it can be useful to focus on the present so as to not be lost in popular tides of anger and despair that swamp the life around us that we can control and that we can actually live. The act of cutting the vines is a small thing the author can do directly; it's a way of tending them in the moment so they can flourish and bear fruit. On a small scale, it also feels domestic - I imagine him in his own fields tending them, experiencing the beauty of the place.

Of course, there's always a balance. It's necessary to lay plans to accomplish anything complicated, and that requires a vision of the future. But it's important not to be lost in worries and hopes to the point that the present isn't lived at all. I think of some older relatives of mine who watch 24-hour cable news probably 14 of their 16 waking hours. That to me feels sad. They're so worried about possible futures and global happenings that they can't be present to the real good surrounding them; the tribal worries themselves can become an addiction or obsession.

In the poem, the pounding of the sea has a violence in it, but it's also just an expression of the sea's raw power. When I have experienced that pounding myself from a rocky shore, it was a thing of awe . . . and of beauty too. But it is not gentle, and in the case of this poem, it feels like a continual disturbance of the peace. Whether it weakens or it pounds, it's a repetitive challenge of some sort. And the world can be like this. We can't control what will happen - the outside world's chaos will arrive whether we like it or not.

Somehow, I find myself returning to that cutting and tending of the vines. It's something the author can do in the present, regardless of any big happenings; the vines can always be tended so they will bear fruit.

Tamara wrote: "I'm surprised by the degree of differences in tone and content in the two translations.

Raffel: "don't hunt for answers in tea leaves or palms;"
Beck: "and may you not probe the Babylonian astro..."

I believe the two translations reflect different philosophies of how to translate a roughly 2,000 year old poem. The Raffel translation updates or re-interprets some references for its readers while the Beck translation is closer to the original.

In the first example, the original poem refers to “Babylonian calculations”, a reference to astrology as reflected in the Beck translation. The Raffel translation changes that reference to reading tea leaves and palm reading, types of fortune telling more familiar to modern readers. (Another translation I read used a reference to Ouija boards.)

Another example of this re-interpretation of the original is where the Raffel translation advises his friend Leucon to “cut your vines”, where the Beck translation refers to “strain your wine.” “Strain your wine” is the literal meaning and refers to a Roman process to prepare wine for drinking. But how to interpret the underlying meaning? I believe that’s what Raffel is getting at with the reference to pruning vines. Another modern translation by David Ferry states: “Take good care of your household.”

Poetry is notoriously difficult to translate, and I think the differences here are from two translators taking different approaches to the challenge.

My reaction: two lovely statements of the trendy, "modern" concept of mindfulness. Thank you each for your thoughtful explorations of the similarities and differences of the two renditions. I am too lazy tonight to even try to document my own, even where the words of each entry might have sent my own thoughts wandering, exploring in other contrasting or expanding directions.

Greg wrote: "As far as the meaning, it feels to me like a poem written in a time of social or political upheaval."

I’m not sure exactly when this poem was written, but Horace definitely lived in an age of political upheaval in Rome. In his lifetime, Julius Caesar was assassinated, and there was civil war for years between various factions until Augustus won out. Perhaps the political unrest increases the human desire to know what’s going to happen?

The act of cutting the vines is a small thing the author can do directly; it's a way of tending them in the moment so they can flourish and bear fruit. On a small scale, it also feels domestic - I imagine him in his own fields tending them, experiencing the beauty of the place.

Nicely put! Most of the poem’s guidance is so general, that there is an appealingly concrete quality to this advice to tend to his own garden. And whether he’s there to enjoy the benefits or not, the task needs to be done.

Susan wrote: "Poetry is notoriously difficult to translate, and I think the differences here are from two translators taking different approaches to the challenge..."

I agree. But I also think it is difficult to write poetry in one's native tongue because, unlike prose, every word counts in poetry. The poet has to be very selective about which word to choose.

Of the two translations above, I prefer the Beck translation because it adheres more faithfully to the original. References that a modern audience may not be familiar with can easily be overcome with footnotes. One doesn't have to overhaul the words of the original to explain references.

A translator should be faithful not only to the words of the original but also to its tone. The tone of the two translations is so very different. I don't know Latin, but the Beck translation seems to provide a more accurate translation of the original by adhering to the actual words of the poem and not changing them to make them more accessible to a modern audience. I can only assume, therefore, that the Beck translation also captures the original tone of the poem more faithfully than the Raffel translation.

We owe it to the poet to get as close as we can to understanding his/her words, and we do that by being as faithful as possible to word translation, as well as by showing sensitivity to the original tone, rhyme, rhythm, and meter.

This is getting off topic, but I think translation is a little more nuanced than that because part of what makes something poetry is the beauty of expression . . . and quality of expression in different languages rarely matches. In one language an image or idea might be beautifully expressed by a concise number of perfectly chosen words that have their own double-meanings and nuances . . . but in another language it can take a much longer, clunkier and unexpressive number of words to express the exact same exact idea and concept. So a very "accurate" translation often loses everything of the inexplicable power behind the words that makes it poetry. For me, I often prefer having multiple translations so I can understand the original exact images and ideas as well as the ineffable experience, and usually one translation does not give me both things.

When I read poetry in other languages that I understand somewhat well, such as Spanish, I love dual language books with different languages on facing pages. Then I can read a poem that's beautiful in itself as an English poem . . . and then go to the facing page in Spanish to see what might have been changed to preserve the conciseness of expression or to preserve the double-meaning or to preserve the lyricism of the original in a certain phrase.

Given my total ignorance of Latin, I can't comment at all on the accuracy here. Though as Susan says that "grapes strained" is the true idea in the poem, that has very different connotations than the cutting or pruning of vines. Pruning is an act of care that preserves for the future and yields future fruits. Straining implies just getting the most out of what is available in the moment, processing all that is available in that moment to get the most out of it. That's a very different idea. Wines can be saved after straining but that would be like preserving a moment in memory, where pruning is about getting the most from future crops by present care.

Though pruning is a more beautiful image (to me) it does feel like it doesn't preserve enough of the precise character of the original poem's idea. That's a problem for me, much more so than the "tea leaves or palms." "Tea leaves or palms" preserves the original general idea, and if it also preserves the poem's experience more so than the more "accurate" translation, that alteration doesn't bother me much.

Thanks for your interesting thoughts on translations, Tamara and Greg. Maybe the ideal translation would be like a clear glass window that lets the reader see straight through it into the original poem; but in my hunt for the best translation, I didn’t quite find one like that.

I read a number of translations of this ode and decided to share these two because I thought they each offered different insights into the poem. The Beck translation is obviously more literal. I also like the line “envious time flees: embrace the day” both as poetry and for its solution of how to translate “carpe diem.” (By the way, the translator did provide some explanatory notes available at the link above). The Raffel translation on the other hand offers the experience of the poem to a modern reader by translating not just the words, but some of the images. Its concise wording seems more consistent with the compact language of the original.

I hope offering both versions does not distract from the poem itself. My hope was that reading these two versions together would offer multiple perspectives on the poem.

Susan wrote: "I hope offering both versions does not distract from the poem itself. My hope was that reading these two versions together would offer multiple perspectives on the poem..."

It doesn't distract, at all. In fact, it opens the poem up by offering different perspectives and different interpretations, which makes for a richer reading.

I prefer the Raffel version. It cuts to the point with less added mass. Cutting the vines, IOW forgetting hope, that one may be focussed on the very present.

Why bother with selecting a preference? Certainly one can do such, with all the "good" reasons discussed here. But if one feels one is in the presence of "good" interpretations, regardless of how subjective that judgement, why not savor both and the insights to be gained by the thoughtful comparisons you each have been laying out. (Do we ever know the "exact meaning" of a writer? Does the writer? Or are we on a journey of exploration? Or...)

For a very different exploration of "carpe diem" -- what is in the present, try this article?
https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/23/us...

May seem like a non sequitur, but play with how much the present is composed of the past, the moment at hand, and the future for each of us, and how Horace manipulates all those elements.

What comes after Horace Ode 1.11?

Sam wrote: "What comes after Horace Ode 1.11?"

Hi, Sam, I just posted this week’s reading, Horace’s Satire 2.6

I’m seeing some comments here that I missed earlier so I apologize for the late responses

Lily wrote: "My reaction: two lovely statements of the trendy, "modern" concept of mindfulness. Thank you each for your thoughtful explorations of the similarities and differences of the two renditions. I am to..."

I think the “modern” take is what drew me to select this poem for our discussion. What a tribute to the poet that his work still sparks our thoughts despite time and unfamiliar images.

Susanna wrote: “That's a good distinction. Did Horace mean 1)get the most out of what you've got, or, 2) preserve for the future in order to get better results?"

Good question! I did a little internet research in wine straining and learned that scholars believe the Romans drank a fair amount of wine, about one bottle a person per day. So, straining the wine would be a daily task. Here’s an example of a fancy wine strainer: https://art.thewalters.org/detail/784... And another: https://www.ancient-art.co.uk/roman-e... although they weren’t always made of metal or this elaborate. Based on that, I take the meaning to be closer to “1) get the most out of what you’ve got” or even maybe “do what you need to do every day.” But different translators seem to have different interpretations. That’s poetry, I guess ;)

Sam wrote: "I prefer the Raffel version. It cuts to the point with less added mass. Cutting the vines, IOW forgetting hope, that one may be focussed on the very present."

I think where I get stuck is that pruning vines is needed so the vines will bear future harvests. Maybe Horace/the translator is making a distinction between worrying about what the future will bring and doing daily tasks that may or may not assume a future outcome. After all, the vines need to be pruned whether or not one will be there to enjoy the grapes

Lily wrote: " (Do we ever know the "exact meaning" of a writer? Does the writer? Or are we on a journey of exploration? Or...)

Good points! And sometimes we may as readers react more strongly or positively to one translation than another. Is it another “journey of exploration” to ask ourselves why?

Thanks for The NY Times article. What a tragic story of a young man killed in a mass school shooting and his parents’ grief and ongoing thoughts of what justice would best fit the case. So many of the memories they have of their son are the little everyday moments Horace commends

I’ve struggled with understanding Horace’s image of the sea and the rocks, which Beck translates as many winters or one last winter, a season which weakens the Tyrrhenian sea with its opposing rocks . I think part of my struggle is that I tend to think of the sea acting on the rocks, wearing them away, instead of Horace’s image of the rocks acting on the sea, weakening it. But perhaps the sea here is analogous to a living being and the rocks are the obstacles that a hard season like winter brings. “How much better to endure whatever will be”.

Susan wrote: "So many of the memories they have of their son are the little everyday moments Horace commends...

I don't think that until I happened upon the NY Times article (after having explored the comments here contrasting past, present and future leaning activities) how much any moment of our lives is/can be/may be an amalgam of multiple points in time -- not always so obviously and painfully so, but still a perspective as valid as treating the "carpe diem" as pushing away the past and suspending the in-rushing future.

And, yes, what a doubling symbol the rocks and water can be -- holding back even while wearing away. And how the symbolism could be inverted by the visual chosen to represent it -- perhaps a sea wall pounded by waves versus rocks in a stream tumbled and polished smooth or ....

Susan wrote: "I’ve struggled with understanding Horace’s image of the sea and the rocks, which Beck translates as many winters or one last winter, a season which weakens the Tyrrhenian sea with its opposing rock..."

That language where it is the sea rather than the rocks being weakened strikes me as very strange as well. Does the original Latin actually read that way? I can see as Lily says that the sea might be held back, and rocks can constrain or shape the ocean . . . but on a practical level, it doesn't seem like rocks weaken the sea in any way, where the opposite is clearly true.

I wonder if this is just a translation problem? Maybe in the original language the phrasing was vague or imprecise so it was prone to this mistranslation? Or maybe the translator did this to preserve some kind of rhythm even though the meaning was slightly distorted? Or maybe Horace really did intend this, and he did use this strange and unintuitive image? It's one instance where I would be very curious to go back to the original and find out if I had any facility with the original language.

Greg wrote: "Does the original Latin actually read that way?.."

Good question. Yes, I’ve checked a number of translations online, and it appears that is the literal translation. Here’s one example: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Transl...

I suppose one could argue that the beating of ocean waves on the rocks does diminish or dissipate some of the energy of the water so that just as the ocean acts on the rocks, the rocks also have an effect on the ocean. The season is also significant, I think.

Lily wrote: "... I don't think that until I happened upon the NY Times article (after having explored the comments here contrasting past, present and future leaning activities) how much any moment of our lives is/can be/may be an amalgam of multiple points in time -- not always so obviously and painfully so, but still a perspective as valid as treating the "carpe diem" as pushing away the past and suspending the in-rushing future. "

So perhaps, however well-intended, Horace’s advice may be limited in its application by the inevitable overlaps of time past/present/future in our human understanding.

Susan wrote: "Good question. Yes, I’ve checked a number of translations online, and it appears that is the literal translation. Here’s one example: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Transl...

I suppose one could argue that the beating of ocean waves on the rocks does diminish or dissipate some of the energy of the water so that just as the ocean acts on the rocks, the rocks also have an effect on the ocean. The season is also significant, I think.."

That's fascinating Susan!

I guess the reason it seems so foreign to me is that I think of the ocean or sea as one entity so vast that whatever minute energy is expended or transferred to the rocks it is just a pittance . . . whereas, the rocks themselves are visibly worn away over time and the shoreline changes, the rocks being visibly changed by the ocean; the ocean year by year is not changed in that way.

But I guess it is a matter of perspective in terms of how the ocean is viewed. If you look at it very locally as a wave or a small portion of water, those are depleted and energy is lost, though the next wave will be coming behind it with just as much. Usually, I would think of those as waves though, rather than the ocean itself.

It's a curious image; I don't think I've ever seen that in another poem or work with the ocean as a whole being described as being weakened by something else. It is usually thought of as something unaccountably vast.

I wonder if there is some difference in ancient thinking here that I just do not have enough background to understand. Anyway, thanks so much for looking up the original and clarifying what it said!