Why is Emily Wilson's Odyssey so darn readable?
A bonus newsletter for the nerdier language fans among us
“New” translations of the Odyssey and the Iliad are almost always like “new and improved” versions of products like Raisin Bran.
More raisins! Toasted oats and honey! Heart healthy!
Sure, sure. But it’s pretty much still cereal with raisins.
Don’t get me wrong. Raisin Bran is iconic and delicious and you don’t have to mess with it for it to be good.
The same goes for the Iliad and the Odyssey as myths and literature.
But when Professor Emily Wilson came out with her new (and presumably improved) Odyssey, just a taste was enough to tell me this really was a better product.
What is her secret? More raisins?
The question can be answered in a number of worthy ways. But here I prefer to focus on something that is often invisible to the casual reader, but which, to my mind, makes all the difference in the pleasure of reading the Odyssey.
That something is a poetic meter known as iambic pentameter.
The meter, not Demeter
Meter refers to the rhythm of a poetic line. Different meters have different set rhythms, various rules and guidelines for how many syllables a line should have, and what syllables should be emphasized.
In the twentieth century, it was overwhelmingly decided to break free from meter’s strictures and just write in whatever rhythm you wanted to (or no discernible rhythm at all). Most modern translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey are more or less free in this way.
But Professor Wilson decided to go back to iambic pentameter, a more structured poetic line—a very traditional one, in fact, that was favored by authors like William Shakespeare.
To me, that decision by Professor Wilson, in addition to her beautiful sensitivity to the meaning of the text itself, is what gives her Odyssey its added more-raisin goodness.
Iamb what iamb and that’s all iamb
In iambic poetry, the emphasis (“stress”) on the line tends to come on every second syllable, so that the rhythm ends up being da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, and so on.
“Pentameter” means that a line of poetry in English will have five “feet,” or two-syllable units. This unit is also called an “iamb.”
So, to take an example from the newsletter I just published, you can see Professor Wilson’s basic practice of using iambic pentameter in her translation:
you WANT | to MAR | ry ME | I AM | the PRIZE.
This is Penelope talking to her suitors just before she sets the contest of the bow.
What is good about this line, besides the fact that it is very straightforward and the idea of Penelope being the prize goes along perfectly with the idea of the contest for her hand?
First, it’s the predictability of the rhythm. It’s a heartbeat.
That’s what “free” verse lacks: a heartbeat. An unconscious, almost biological sense in us that makes us feel better when there is a predictable rhythm to a song or poem.
English is, in fact, a naturally iambic language. We tend to speak in ways that go ba-BUm ba-BUM ba-BUM.
So it’s just natural. It’s as natural as when we were children being held by a grownup against their chest and we could sense in our whole being their regular, iambic heartbeat.
But it doesn’t stop there.
If every line of iambic pentameter went ba-BUM five times and never changed, we would get bored of it.
Scientists have discovered that humans like predictability AND variety.
And iambic pentameter has guidelines built into it that allow for the rules to be bent just a little.
Take that line again. It’s not really a perfect 5-time ba-BUM line. If you were to read it aloud, you’d want to emphasize the syllables a little differently to enhance the meaning.
Really, we should say the line like this:
You want to marry me—I am the prize.
Rightly so. Penelope is the focus here. The emphasis should go on the “I” even though it is (by the guidelines supposed to be) the first, non-stressed element of its iamb.
This is done in Shakespeare’s plays (and English iambic poetry) frequently. Think of that most famous line from Hamlet:
To be or not to be—that is the question.
In poetic analytical terms, this is called “inversion.”
Which brings up another benefit of using iambic pentameter. In the “to be” line from Hamlet, there are actually 11 syllables in the line: the -tion of “question” is the eleventh. But that’s perfectly fine according to the rules, and it gives more variation and freedom to the poet.
Finally, sometimes Wilson will add a sixth foot to the line when it’s warranted, perhaps to round off a speech—another typical element of freedom given in the guidelines. Read the final, emotional lines of the speech we’re concerned with:
If anyone can grasp it in his hands
and string it easily, and shoot through all
twelve axes, I will marry him, and leave
this beautiful rich house, so full of life,
my lovely bridal home. I think I will
re MEM | ber IT | for EV | er, EV | en IN | my DREAMS.
So iambic pentameter does two crucial jobs for reader engagement: it provides predictability on the one hand, and it tolerates creativity and variation on the other.
One might say that, speaking in neuroscientific terms, this meter is ideally suited to appeal to human brains.
But wait, there’s more
Just a little more.
There’s one more bonus to using iambic pentameter that I think makes Professor Wilson’s translation that much better.
It’s discipline.
In free verse, you are given license to write a line however you want to. This, to me, can (not must, but can) lead to a certain creative laziness or perhaps aimlessness. You might write a line, decide it’s good, and go with it. La-dee-da. I’m free, free, completely free!
But if you write according to pretty strict guidelines, you have to find exactly the right phrasing that makes the most sense AND fulfills the rules. This creates more work for the poet, but I think it also leads to a better outcome.
An example: the original Penelope line, in ancient Greek, can be translated literally like this:
but longing to marry me and make me your wife.
Clearly not an iambic line.
And there is no mention of a prize.
But within the strictures of the ten syllables Wilson gave herself, the word “prize,” so apt in the context, may have appeared at some point in the drafting process as she racked her brain to come up with an appropriate line.
Otherwise, you might just shrug your shoulders and write a free verse that gussies up the line, such as this:
With your concupiscence to wed me and take a blushing bride.
Ah, the alien nature of Greek poetry! So mysterious.
Translations are, to my mind, endless fun, and figuring out why they are good almost as fun. I grew up on Richmond Lattimore’s translations, which are fun for ancient Greek language fans because they are close to the syntax and rhythm of the original. But they are harder to stick with for the casual reader.
My mentor in teaching mythology, in a moment that was at once purely serious and purely facetious, suggested to her undergraduates from her lectern that the best way to appreciate Lattimore’s translation was to bring a copy of the book to a bar, order a pitcher of beer, and start reading.
I don’t think you have to do that with Wilson’s Odyssey.
So much the better. We don’t want to encourage underage drinking.