The Aeneid of Virgil

en Limba Engleză Paperback – 29 feb 2012

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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9783847240686
ISBN-10: 3847240684
Pagini: 248
Dimensiuni: 133 x 203 x 14 mm
Greutate: 0.29 kg
Editura: TREDITION CLASSICS

Notă biografică

Throughout his life Virgil was a poet and as far as we know had no interest in pursuing any other career. He was born Publius Vergilius Maro in 70 BC near Mantua, in what now is northern Italy. His parents, farm owners, were people of property and substance, if not wealth, and were able to obtain for their son a first-rate education. On completing his education, he returned home and possibly began work on the Eclogues, which appeared between the years of 42 and 37 BC. In 41 BC, the Emperor Octavian (later known as Augustus) confiscated Virgil's family's property, and Virgil was obliged to travel to Rome to negotiate for its return. Fortunately for Virgil, one of the officials secured for him an introduction to the emperor; not only was his land returned, but he also met Octavian's confidant Maecenas, who became Virgil's patron for the rest of his life. An industrious, meticulous writer, Virgil was not prolific. In addition to the ten Eclogues, which apparently took at least five years to publish, Virgil wrote the four Georgics, which took seven years, and the Aeneid, his great masterwork. Virgil worked on the Aeneid for eleven years, until his death in 19 BC. Feeling, apparently, that the epic was still unfinished, he directed in his will that the manuscript be destroyed. To the great fortune of succeeding generations, the emperor, Virgil's most prominent friend and admirer, intervened to countermand this provision. He turned the manuscript over to two of Virgil's friends, Varius and Tucca, to edit only obvious errors and repetitions, without adding to the text. The result of their work is the beautiful and brilliant Aeneid we have today.

Allen Mendelbaum's five verse volumes are: Chelmaxions; The Savantasse of Montparnasse; Journeyman; Leaves of Absence; and A Lied of Letterpress. His volumes of verse translation include The Aeneid of Virgil, a University of California Press volume (now available from Bantam) for which he won a National Book Award; the Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso volumes of the California Dante (now available from Bantam); The Odyssey of Homer (now available from Bantam); The Metamorphoses of Ovid, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in poetry; Ovid in Sicily; Selected Poems of Giuseppe Ungaretti; Selected Writings of Salvatore Quasimodo; and David Maria Turoldo. Mandelbaum is co-editor with Robert Richardson Jr. of Three Centuries of American Poetry (Bantam Books) and, with Yehuda Amichai, of the eight volumes of the JPS Jewish Poetry Series. After receiving his Ph.D. from Columbia, he was in the Society of Fellows at Harvard. While chairman of the Ph.D. program in English at the Graduate Center of CUNY, he was a visiting professor at Washington University in St. Louis, and at the universities of Houston, Denver, Colorado, and Purdue. His honorary degrees are from Notre Dame University, Purdue University, the University of Assino, and the University of Torino. He received the Gold Medal of Honor from the city of Florence in 2000, celebrating the 735th anniversary of Dante's birth, the only translator to be so honored; and in 2003 he received the President of Italy's award for translation. He is now Professor of the History of Literary Criticism at the University of Turin and the W.R. Kenan Professor of Humanities at Wake Forest University.

Extras

Book I

I sing of arms and of a man: his fate had made him fugitive; he was the first

to journey from the coasts of Troy as far

as Italy and the Lavinian shores.

Across the lands and waters he was battered     5

beneath the violence of High Ones, for

the savage Juno's unforgetting anger;

and many sufferings were his in war-

until he brought a city into being

and carried in his gods to Latium;      10

from this have come the Latin race, the lords

of Alba, and the ramparts of high Rome.

Tell me the reason, Muse: what was the wound

to her divinity, so hurting her

that she, the queen of gods, compelled a man    15

remarkable for goodness to endure

so many crises, meet so many trials?

Can such resentment hold the minds of gods?

There was an ancient city they called Carthage-

a colony of refugees from Tyre- 20

a city facing Italy, but far

away from Tiber's mouth: extremely rich

and, when it came to waging war, most fierce.

This land was Juno's favorite-it is said-

more dear than her own Samos; here she kept     25

her chariot and armor; even then

the goddess had this hope and tender plan:

for Carthage to become the capital

of nations, if the Fates would just consent.

But she had heard that, from the blood of Troy, 30

a race had come that some day would destroy

the citadels of Tyre; from it, a people

would spring, wide-ruling kings, men proud in battle

and destined to annihilate her Libya.

The Fates had so decreed. And Saturn's daughter-        35

in fear of this, remembering the old war

that she had long since carried on at Troy

for her beloved Argos (and, indeed,

the causes of her bitterness, her sharp

and savage hurt, had not yet left her spirit;   40

for deep within her mind lie stored the judgment

of Paris and the wrong done to her scorned

beauty, the breed she hated, and the honors

that had been given ravished Ganymede)-

was angered even more; for this, she kept       45

far off from Latium the Trojan remnant

left by the Greeks and pitiless Achilles.

For long years they were cast across all waters,

fate-driven, wandering from sea to sea.

It was so hard to found the race of Rome.       50

With Sicily scarce out of sight, the Trojans

had gladly spread their canvas on the sea,

turning the salt foam with their brazen prows,

when Juno, holding fast within her heart

the everlasting insult, asked herself: 55

"Am I, defeated, simply to stop trying,

unable to turn back the Trojan king

from Italy? No doubt, the Fates won't have it.

But Pallas-was she powerful enough

to set the Argive fleet on fire, to drown       60

the crewmen in the deep, for an outrage done

by only one infuriated man,

Ajax, Oileus' son? And she herself

could fling Jove's racing lightning from the clouds

and smash their galleys, sweep the sea with tempests.   65

Then Ajax' breath was flame from his pierced chest;

she caught him up within a whirlwind; she

impaled him on a pointed rock. But I,

the queen of gods, who stride along as both

the sister and the wife of Jove, have warred    70

so many years against a single nation.

For after this, will anyone adore

the majesty of Juno or, before

her altars, pay her honor, pray to her?"

Then-burning, pondering-the goddess reaches     75

Aeolia, the motherland of storms,

a womb that always teems with raving south winds.

In his enormous cave King Aeolus

restrains the wrestling winds, loud hurricanes;

he tames and sways them with his chains and prison.     80

They rage in indignation at their cages;

the mountain answers with a mighty roar.

Lord Aeolus sits in his high citadel;

he holds his scepter, and he soothes their souls

and calms their madness. Were it not for this, 85

then surely they would carry off the sea

and lands and steepest heaven, sweeping them

across the emptiness. But fearing that,

the all-able Father hid the winds within

dark caverns, heaping over them high mountains; 90

and he assigned to them a king who should,

by Jove's sure edict, understand just when

to jail and when, commanded, to set free.

Then Juno, suppliant, appealed to him:

"You, Aeolus-to whom the king of men    95

and father of the gods has given this:

to pacify the waves or, with the wind,

to incite them-over the Tyrrhenian

now sails my enemy, a race that carries

the beaten household gods of Ilium      100

to Italy. Hammer your winds to fury

and ruin their swamped ships, or scatter them

and fling their crews piecemeal across the seas.

I have twice-seven nymphs with splendid bodies;

the loveliest of them is Deiopea,       105

and I shall join her to you in sure marriage

and name her as your own, that she may spend

all of her years with you, to make you father

of fair sons. For such service, such return."

And Aeolus replied: "O Queen, your task 110

is to discover what you wish; and mine,

to act at your command. For you have won

this modest kingdom for me, and my scepter,

and Jove's goodwill. You gave me leave to lean

beside the banquets of the gods, and you        115

have made me lord of tempests and of clouds."

His words were done. He turned his lance head, struck

the hollow mountain on its side. The winds,

as in a column, hurry through the breach;

they blow across the earth in a tornado.        120

Together, Eurus, Notus, and-with tempest

on tempest-Africus attack the sea;

they churn the very bottom of the deep

and roll vast breakers toward the beaches; cries

of men, the creaking of the cables rise.        125

Then, suddenly, the cloud banks snatch away

the sky and daylight from the Trojans' eyes.

Black night hangs on the waters, heavens thunder,

and frequent lightning glitters in the air;

everything intends quick death to men. 130

At once Aeneas' limbs fall slack with chill.

He groans and stretches both hands to the stars.

He calls aloud: "O, three and four times blessed

were those who died before their fathers' eyes

beneath the walls of Troy. Strongest of all     135

the Danaans, o Diomedes, why

did your right hand not spill my lifeblood, why

did I not fall upon the Ilian fields,

there where ferocious Hector lies, pierced by

Achilles' javelin, where the enormous   140

Sarpedon now is still, and Simois

has seized and sweeps beneath its waves so many

helmets and shields and bodies of the brave!"

* * *

Aeneas hurled these words. The hurricane

is howling from the north; it hammers full      145

against his sails. The seas are heaved to heaven.

The oars are cracked; the prow sheers off; the waves

attack broadside; against his hull the swell

now shatters in a heap, mountainous, steep.

Some sailors hang upon a wave crest; others     150

stare out at gaping waters, land that lies

below the waters, surge that seethes with sand.

And then the south wind snatches up three ships

and spins their keels against the hidden rocks-

those rocks that, rising in midsea, are called 155

by the Italians "Altars"-like a monstrous

spine stretched along the surface of the sea.

Meanwhile the east wind wheels another three

off from the deep and, terrible to see,

against the shoals and shifting silt, against   160

the shallows, girding them with mounds of sand.

Before Aeneas' eyes a massive breaker

smashes upon its stern the ship that carries

the Lycian crewmen led by true Orontes.

The helmsman is beaten down; he is whirled headlong.    165

Three times at that same spot the waters twist

and wheel the ship around until a swift

whirlpool has swallowed it beneath the swell.

And here and there upon the wide abyss,

among the waves, are swimmers, weapons, planks, 170

and Trojan treasure. Now the tempest takes

the sturdy galleys of Ilioneus

and brave Achates, now the ships of Abas

and many-yeared Aletes; all receive

their enemy, the sea, through loosened joints   175

along their sides and through their gaping seams.

But Neptune felt the fracas and the frenzy;

and shaken by the unleashed winds, the wrenching

of the still currents from the deep seabed,

he raised his tranquil head above the surface. 180

And he can see the galleys of Aeneas

scattered across the waters, with the Trojans

dismembered by the waves and fallen heavens.

Her brother did not miss the craft and wrath

of Juno. Catching that, he calls up both        185

the east wind and the west. His words are these:

"Has pride of birth made you so insolent?

So, Winds, you dare to mingle sky and land,

heave high such masses, without my command?

Whom I-? But no, let me first calm the restless 190

swell; you shall yet atone-another time-

with different penalties for these your crimes.

But now be off, and tell your king these things:

that not to him, but me, has destiny

allotted the dominion of the sea        195

and my fierce trident. The enormous rocks

are his-your home, East Wind. Let Aeolus

be lord of all that lies within that hall

and rule in that pent prison of the winds."

So Neptune speaks and, quicker than his tongue, 200

brings quiet to the swollen waters, sets

the gathered clouds to flight, calls back the sun.

Together, then, Cymothoë and Triton,

thrusting, dislodge the ships from jagged crags.

But now the god himself takes up his trident    205

to lift the galleys, and he clears a channel

across the vast sandbank. He stills the sea

and glides along the waters on light wheels.

And just as, often, when a crowd of people

is rocked by a rebellion, and the rabble        210

rage in their minds, and firebrands and stones

fly fast-for fury finds its weapons-if,

by chance, they see a man remarkable

for righteousness and service, they are silent

and stand attentively; and he controls 215

their passion by his words and cools their spirits:

so all the clamor of the sea subsided

after the Father, gazing on the waters

and riding under cloudless skies, had guided

his horses, let his willing chariot run.        220

And now Aeneas' weary crewmen hurry

to find the nearest land along their way.

They turn toward Libya's coast. There is a cove

within a long, retiring bay; and there

an island's jutting arms have formed a harbor   225

where every breaker off the high sea shatters

and parts into the shoreline's winding shelters.

Along this side and that there towers, vast,

a line of cliffs, each ending in like crags;

beneath the ledges tranquil water lies 230

silent and wide; the backdrop-glistening

forests and, beetling from above, a black

grove, thick with bristling shadows. Underneath

the facing brow: a cave with hanging rocks,

sweet waters, seats of living stone, the home   235

of nymphs. And here no cable holds tired ships,

no anchor grips them fast with curving bit.

Aeneas shelters here with seven ships-

all he can muster, all the storm has left.

The Trojans, longing so to touch the land,      240

now disembark to gain the wished-for sands.

They stretch their salt-soaked limbs along the beach.

Achates was the first to strike a spark

from flint and catch the fire up with leaves.

He spread dry fuel about, and then he waved     245

the tinder into flame. Tired of their trials,

the Trojan crewmen carry out the tools

of Ceres and the sea-drenched corn of Ceres.

And they prepare to parch the salvaged grain

by fire and, next, to crush it under stone.     250

Meanwhile Aeneas climbs a crag to seek

a prospect far and wide across the deep,

if he can only make out anything

of Antheus and his Phrygian galleys, or

of Capys, or the armor of Caicus        255

on his high stern. There is no ship in sight;

all he can see are three stags wandering

along the shore, with whole herds following

behind, a long line grazing through the valley.

He halted, snatched his bow and racing arrows, 260

the weapons carried by the true Achates.

And first he lays the leaders low, their heads

held high with tree-like antlers; then he drives

the herds headlong into the leafy groves;

they panic, like a rabble, at his arrows.       265

He does not stay his hand until he stretches,

victoriously, seven giant bodies

along the ground, in number like his galleys.

This done, he seeks the harbor and divides

the meat among his comrades. And he shares      270

the wine that had been stowed by kind Acestes

in casks along the shores of Sicily:

the wine that, like a hero, the Sicilian

had given to the Trojans when they left.

Aeneas soothes their melancholy hearts: 275

"O comrades-surely we're not ignorant

of earlier disasters, we who have suffered

things heavier than this-our god will give

an end to this as well. You have neared the rage

of Scylla and her caves' resounding rocks;      280

and you have known the Cyclops' crags; call back

your courage, send away your grieving fear.

Perhaps one day you will remember even

these our adversities with pleasure. Through

so many crises and calamities   285

we make for Latium, where fates have promised

a peaceful settlement. It is decreed

that there the realm of Troy will rise again.

Hold out, and save yourselves for kinder days."

These are his words; though sick with heavy cares,      290

he counterfeits hope in his face; his pain

is held within, hidden. His men make ready

the game that is to be their feast; they flay

the deer hide off the ribs; the flesh lies naked.

Some slice off quivering strips and pierce them with    295

sharp spits, while on the beach the others set

caldrons of brass and tend the flame. With food

their strength comes back again. Along the grass

they stretch and fill their bellies full of fat

venison meat and well-aged wine. That done-     300

their hunger banished by their feasting and

the tables cleared-their talk is long, uncertain

between their hope and fear, as they ask after

their lost companions, wondering if their comrades

are still alive or if they have undergone       305

the final change and can no longer hear

when called upon. Especially the pious

Aeneas moans within himself the loss

now of the vigorous Orontes, now

of Amycus, the cruel end of Lycus,      310

the doom of brave Cloanthus, of brave Gyas.

Their food and talk were done when Jupiter,

while gazing from the peaks of upper air

across the waters winged with canvas and

low-lying lands and shores and widespread people,       315

stood high upon the pinnacle of heaven

until he set his sight on Libya's kingdom.

And as he ponders this, the saddened Venus,

her bright eyes dimmed and tearful, speaks to him:

"O you who, with eternal rule, command 320

and govern the events of gods and men,

and terrify them with your thunderbolt,

what great offense has my Aeneas given,

what is his crime, what have the Trojans done

that, having undergone so many deaths, 325

the circle of all lands is shut against them-

and just because of Italy? Surely

-- PrePress Department Westchester Book 4 Old Newtown Road Danbury CT 06810 Voice: 1-203-791-0080 Fax:   1-203-791-9286 e-mail: prepress@wbrt.com

Recenzii

"Allen Mandelbaum has produced a living Aeneid, a version that is unmistakably poetry." -- Erich Segal, The New York Times Book Review

"A brilliant translation; the only one since Dryden which reads like English verse and conveys some of the majesty and pathos of the original." -- Bernard M. W. Knox

"Mandelbaum has... given us a contemporary experience of the masterpiece, at last." -- David Ignatow

Papetărie, jocuri, reviste