Translation, the Profession, and the Poets

Amidst all the questions being raised these days about the health of classical studies in this country, one fact is undisputed: there is an enormous amount of translation going on. Much of it is good, and some of it sells extraordinarily well. Still, none of this is guaranteed to make classicists happy, and for more than one reason. Some may be inclined to contrast the proliferation of translations with falling enrollments in language courses and to regard the emphasis on translation as misplaced or even as a sign of how far knowledge of Greek and Latin has declined. Others no doubt continue to feel that translation is a second-rate activity and somehow unworthy of the attention of serious scholars.

The traditions of our discipline seem to have encouraged this disdain: translation is treated in our pedagogical practice as the most elementary stage of understanding a text. There is thus a somewhat shameful association of translation with trot. Translations are what we were constantly required to make and forbidden to use when we studied Latin and Greek, and they are what most of us still require our students to make and forbid them to use. But if the writing of translations is not very highly regarded within the profession, we reserve particular scorn for translations done by those who are not members of our guild. Conditioned as we are to value fidelity to the letter above all else, we may actually find ourselves professing admiration for the sort of musty and flaccid writing that seems to guarantee "accuracy" at the expense of style.

Fortunately, despite such perhaps unconscious biases, translation of the classics is flourishing. For this we can thank, in the first instance, an active and able group of dedicated writers within and without the field who have made translating from Greek and Latin central to their creative lives. And we should acknowledge that--to borrow a phrase from the great rogue translator Ezra Pound--"the thought of what America would be like if the classics had a wide circulation" is only thinkable about the classics in translation. Less than half a century ago, Bernard Knox still felt it necessary to begin the preface to his Oedipus at Thebes (1957) with the disarming notice that his book was intended not only for the classical scholar but also for "the 'Greekless reader,' a category which, once treated with scorn by the professors of more educated ages, now includes the overwhelming majority of the inhabitants of the planet." Truth to tell, of course, the overwhelming majority of humankind never knew Greek, or for that matter Latin, but the number--or at least the proportion--of those who do has certainly shrunk. Professorial scorn is no longer an option. Translation is our lifeline, and great literatures need great translations.

In what follows, I simply raise a few questions about the translation of literary texts and its role in our profession and, in the process, mention (purely by way of example) a number of the recent American translations from Greek and Latin that I have found particularly useful, satisfying, and/or provocative.

First, what is the right way to approach the translation of an ancient, canonical text? My answer is simply that there is no one right way. We must understand that different translations serve different purposes and need to be judged by different criteria. The first, or only readily available, translation into English of a little-known work is likely to have a different purpose from the retranslation of a text that has appeared in English many times, perhaps over many centuries; and the translators are likely to feel different obligations to the works and to their prospective readers. A "literal" version done properly remains one of the most useful contributions a classicist can make. Such recent additions to the Loeb Library as William Race's Pindar (1997) and the ongoing Aristophanes of Jeffrey Henderson (1998-) and Euripides of David Kovacs (1994...