A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of Robert Fitzgerald (14 page)

This set of examples raises the question of how readers should interpret Homer’s conventional epithets. A clever interpreter can explain how each of these figures is in some way “godlike”—Odysseus is like Athena in cunning; Polyphêmos is the son of a god and monstrously strong; the suitors are like the gods in their feasting and single-minded pursuit of pleasure (see XIV. 19, below). But Meneláos’ otherwise anonymous shipmates? Here “godlike” is clearly being used as a colorless compliment, like “good,” which is used just as indiscriminately in modern English. (The adjective “good” does not derive from “God,” but a good example of the irrelevance of an original divine referent would be
“goodbye”—uttered today with no thought that it’s a contraction of “God be with you.”) Fitzgerald’s decision to leave the epithet untranslated in most places is a sensible interpretation: as a purely conventional element, it would have passed unremarked in one ear of Homer’s listener and out the other.

If such epithets are meaningless clichés in some places, are they then to be taken as meaningless every time they occur? One would like to think that if an epithet fits, the figure should wear it. So Odysseus is sufficiently like a god—he is the hero, after all—that at its first occurrence in the epic, Fitzgerald makes something of it (“brave king,” I.33; for a significant application
of dios
to Odysseus, see XVI.219, below). And there are instances when an epithet seems so egregiously inappropriate that modern readers wonder if Homer isn’t using it ironically, or at least with one of his ten tongues (see
Iliad I
I.489) firmly in cheek. Such a case may be Homer’s calling the suitors “Akhaian heroes” [I.272; Fitzgerald ducks with “the islanders” (see 321, below, with further reference to VIII.357ff., where, however, the sarcasm is due primarily to the divine speakers’ pointedly excessive reverence)].

Other cases bespeaking varying degrees of sarcasm or bemusement may be “divine Klytaimnéstra” [III.266], “the godlike suitors” of XIV. 19, discussed above, or the “divine swineherd” [XVI.56]. Fitzgerald passes over the last in silence (XVI.66), but finds a happy solution in the case of the first mention of Klytaimnéstra: he has Nestor refer to her as “the Lady Klytaimnéstra” (III.285). Epithets, like examples, were traditional, but they were also opportunities for audiences trained in comparing one exemplary hero to another to engage in further comparative meditation. In what ways are the suitors godlike, in what ways not? In what ways is the swineherd divine—or noble—and in what ways not? These are questions, I submit, that Homer might well have expected his audience to entertain. As for Klytaimnéstra—well, as Fitzgerald’s translation prompts us to say (perhaps anachronistically): she may have started out a lady, but she’s a lady no more!

93ff
. The love—and importance—of ancestry motivates this brief excursus. Genealogy and familial relationships are part of the “memory” that epic preserves and promotes. Characters are frequently identified by patronymics (see 64, above). Lineage serves an important structural element in portions of the narrative; note “each declared her lineage and name” (XI.266). The most extended and complex genealogical excursus in
The Odyssey
is that introducing the seer Theoklýmenos (XV.282–318); indeed, it precedes the first mention of the seer’s name (in XV.320).

95
In Homer the sea [
halos
, literally “salt”] is frequently characterized by the epithet
atrugetos
, the meaning of which still causes lively debate among scholars and which Fitzgerald, scrupulously and diplomatically, forbears to translate. Although the traditional explanation “barren” (already in the ancient commentaries) may not stand up to philological scrutiny (Hainsworth, HWH 1.348), one can appreciate its attractions: the infertility of the sea (fish notwithstanding) highlights the plight of Odysseus, forced to wander across it and more than once to come near drowning in it.

107
See 42ff., above.

108
wise Odysseus
translates the epithet “multi-minded” [
polyphrona
, 83]. It is the second member we meet of the family of epithets with the prefix
poly-
, which Homer characteristically uses to describe Odysseus (see 2, above). It is interesting that one of his most formidable opponents, Polyphêmos, has a name of the same form. (The “phêmos” portion of the Kyklops’ name is related to our word “fame;” see 189ff., below, on the name of the bard Phêmios.)

116
with flowing hair:
In Homer, male gods and heroes are traditionally presented with long hair, and it remained a popular style among the aristocrats or more affluent classes of ancient Greece into the fifth century. Long hair has in many cultures been a symbol of male strength and power, from Biblical Samson to early Germanic warriors and kings (“the long-haired kings”) to so many popular hunks today.

117–118
This is the first direct mention of the suitors. Note the emphasis on the economic blight they represent as they take advantage of the hospitality of Odysseus’ house and of its master’s absence (see 13 and 39–41, above, and 136, below).

122
renown:
This is the
kleos
[95] which Homer’s heroes of both epics strive ever to earn, and which only poetry can confer. In this regard it differs from “honor” or “prestige” attained in the eyes of one’s contemporaries, Greek
time
(see 148, below).

127
On the significance of “bronze” in the archeology of the poem, see XV.407, below. The traveling Athena and the armed Athena are two aspects of the goddess, each of potential aid to Odysseus, one as he wanders, the other when the final battle is fought in the Ithakan hall (Book XXII).

131–32
Athena customarily takes on the guise of someone familiar, here Mentes. The most obvious parallel will come in the next book, when Athena appears as Mentor; both names play on the same root (“to think”), and both are appropriate names for advisers. Mentes is not an Ithakan but a stranger, which makes his surprise and indignation at the outrages of the suitors more significant and carry all the more weight with Telémakhos. Widespread report of the indignity makes it more shameful.

136
oxen they had killed:
This is a particularly brazen and galling detail. The suitors have truly made themselves at home and are consuming Odysseus’ and Telémakhos’ property.

138
Note that wine was not drunk neat, i.e., without the admixture of water. That Polyphêmos does so later is a sign of his barbarous, even subhuman behavior (see IX.222–23, below).

141
The amount of meat consumed in Homeric epics, in contrast to the Classical Greek diet at least, reflects at once a memory of more ancient days and some element of fantasy.

142ff
. The prompt offer of hospitality, particularly before demanding an identification of the guest (155–56), is a mark of the good breeding of “the prince Telémakhos” [
theoeidês
, “godlike,” 113].
(See I.362, III.377, and VI. 130–31, below, for more on the sacred duty of hospitality.)

This is the first appearance of Telémakhos’ name in
The Odyssey
. He is mentioned in
The Iliad
as Odysseus’ son (II.260, IV.354), and the first audience of
The Odyssey
would thus likely have anticipated his having some sort of role in a song about Odysseus’ homecoming. The names of the children of heroes often reflect a quality of the hero; Telémakhos, roughly “fighter at a distance,” refers either to Odysseus’ skill as an archer, which will come into great prominence in the climactic battle with the suitors in
Book XXII
, in which Telémakhos, too, will prove worthy of his own name, or to the fact that at Troy Odysseus is fighting far from home. (I believe that the first is more likely, although the distance between Troy and Ithaka, and especially father and son, is significant in
The Odyssey.
)

145ff
. Telémakhos is always thinking about the potential return of his father; the arrival of any guest, and this one in particular, foreshadows Odysseus’ real return. Mentes is a Taphian, a seafarer, not unlike the Kretan Odysseus will pretend to be when he does appear in Ithaka, also in disguise.

148
Honor
[
Timê
, 117] is key to status in Homeric society. Contrast “reknown” [
kleos
] at 122, above.

153
Then he said warmly:
Homer has Telémakhos utter aloud “winged words” [
epea pteroenta
, 122], a bit of traditional Homeric translationese which has itself become proverbial.
Epea
(“words;” singular
epos
) is the same as the word for the verses of epic poetry and is the root of our word for the whole genre: “epic.” The wings or feathers behind
pteroenta
likely refer to the feathers on arrows, which enable them to fly directly to their target.

154–55
Telémakhos is at once characterized as a direct and sincere young man, a speaker of few and unambiguous words, not the wily rhetorician his father is.

157–60
The spear rack seems a trivial detail, but already the ancient
scholiasts or commentators on the poem noted with praise the way Homer prepares the scene for the final slaying of the suitors in
Book XXII
. It is this kind of linkage, arching over twenty-some books, which argues strongly for a unifying intelligence plotting the whole epic (even though that intelligence might have belonged to a cumulative tradition, not just one poet). On this question, see Introduction, pp. xxxii-xliii.

161–78
The elegance, wealth, and prosperity of Odysseus’ court is clear, despite the din of the intrusive suitors.

189ff
. The place of singing and of bards such as Phêmios here, or Demódokos in Books VII and VIII, shows the function of Homer or any of the bards who sang
The Iliad, The Odyssey
, portions of them, or the cyclic poems. (On the epic cycle, see 19–21, above.) Phêmios’ name could be construed as “the man who spreads report,” “the man who is rich in tale” (West, HWH I.97 [on I.154]). It is, at a distance and via Latin, cognate with our word “fame.” Only later (377ff.) do we learn that the subject of the song is the “Homecoming [
noston
, 326] of the Akhaians.” Note the ironic fact that Phêmios is “compelled” to sing by the suitors (190).

189
cithern harp:
This would have been a four-stringed lyre, with “a body of wood and a sound-box made of, or shaped like, a tortoise’s shell, with ox-hide stretched over the face and two curved horns rising from it, joined by a crossbar carrying the pegs, to which strings of gut were attached” (West, HWH 1.96–97).

198
Again Homer emphasizes the suitors’ leeching, their wasting of Odysseus’ (and Telémakhos’) resources. And now we know how it rankles Telémakhos.

199–207
Telémakhos believes, or says he believes, that Odysseus is dead. Clearly, he still hopes this is not true, but he pretends to have ceased hoping. It is typical of Greek and much Mediterranean culture of the time to dramatize one’s situation and, moreover, to present the worst-case scenario. There are a number of
advantages to this, not least being that no one can surprise you with worse news. This is not just a mind game; to be surprised by bad news would involve loss of face.

Telémakhos’ report of his father’s death is also a sign of the disconnectedness from his father from which he suffers. Compare his avoidance of naming Odysseus (see 199, below), his acerbic remarks at 257–60 (see below), and perhaps also his blunt rebuttal (397–407) of Penélopê’s request that Phêmios sing a different song. At the risk of importing modern psychological insights, one might well describe Telémakhos as having erected a range of “defenses” to protect him from really “dealing with” his father’s absence and probable death.

199
a man:
Likely for the reason just noted, Telémakhos does not mention Odysseus by name, as in the periphrases in lines 216 and 278.

206–7
and there’s no help for us in someone’s hoping / he still may come:
A more literal rendering of Homer’s Greek reveals a subtle difference: “and there’s no comfort for us if any earth-dwelling humans should say he will come” [166–68]. The way Homer has Telémakhos formulate it leaves open the comfort such words from another class of being—in other words, a god or goddess such as the one sitting before him—might bring.

212
The wry “I don’t suppose you walked here on the sea,” although repeated (XIV.227; XVI.70, 266), might here be seen as an invitation for a deity to make her other-than-normal mode of transportation known.

220–29
Odysseus will himself tell lying tales such as this when he returns (XIII.327–65; XIV.229–417; XIX. 195–362; XXIV.270–346).

227
On the significance of iron in the archeology of the Homeric poems, see XV.407, below. It appears in a simile at IX.427. “Brown” is now preferred to “bright” by scholars; see above, on I.36. On the particular problem of transcultural understanding of color terminology, see IV. 146, below.

231–36
Laërtês is Odysseus’ father and Telémakhos’ grandfather. It is only after Odysseus reveals himself to Laërtês that the epic concludes. His separation from town, as Athena describes it, is odd and painful, and is yet another sign of the family’s disarray. It is one more wrong that must be set right.