A Book Review About Two Complicated Men

“Tell me about a complicated man.”

That’s the way Emily Wilson, classics professor at the University of Pennsylvania, begins her translation of Homer’s “Odyssey,” first published about a year ago.

This translation was recently released in Audible format, read by the actress Claire Danes – and I finished listening to it last week.

It proved a bittersweet experience, bringing back memories of my favorite teacher at the University of Notre Dame.

Wilson’s translation? Oh, it's beautiful: sparse and direct.

The performance? Well, Claire Danes wouldn’t have been my first choice: her voice is disconcertingly fragile. Still, I enjoyed listening to it. It’s also appropriate to hear a female voice read (as the publisher boasts) “the first English translation of the ‘Odyssey’ by a woman.”

For all its uneven charms, however, this was not the most compelling performance of the “Odyssey” I’ve heard.

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That honor belongs to bespectacled Robert Vacca, a classical Greek professor who died in June 2004 after a tragic battle with cancer, when he was just a bit older than I am today.

Imagine, if you will, a cold winter’s night in Indiana in the late 1970s. I’m safe and warm, in the otherwise deserted faculty offices in the basement of the Hesburgh Library on the Notre Dame campus. Sitting beside me is my classmate, Malcolm, a boy genius from England.

On the other side of the desk facing us, Professor Vacca reaches behind a row of books to reveal a hidden bottle of ouzo.

“This is what the Greeks drink,” he explains. “Modern Greeks. The ancients drank wine.”

He pours a small glass for me, mixed with water (the way the ancients used to mix their wine). The ouzo turns from clear to cloudy as the anise reacts with the cold. He instructs me to sip it slowly and offers young Malcolm only a glass of cold water.

The professor raises his own glass, clears his throat, then opens a text in ancient Greek and begins to chant verses from Homer in a way that would approximate the rhythm and tonality of how the poem might have been performed centuries ago.

His performance was joyous and enthralling. His booming chant echoed in the basement hallways, and the hypnotizing cadence of each line brought life and heat to the words of the dead language.

Malcolm likely understood every word of what he heard, but the only thing I understood was that this was special… this was very different than the accounting courses my friends were taking.

And this is what I cherish most about Notre Dame: the passion of my favorite teachers, all dead now, except for my ever-patient and supportive poetry professor, Sonia Gernes.

Vacca’s boss – the chairman of the classical languages department and the one who convinced me to minor in the field – was Holy Cross Father Leonard Banas. Princeton-educated, Fr. Banas was a gentle man who, like Vacca, had a mischievous sense of humor. He taught, of all things, the poetry of Catullus, which so deeply passionate and profane.

Then there was wise Richard Sullivan, a novelist and short-story writer. I took perhaps the last class he taught at Notre Dame... a playwriting workshop. He also had a playful sense of humor – unlike Sr. Madonna Kolbenschlag, who taught journalism and publishing. She always saw right through me.

All these names and images come flooding back now.

I recall Professor Vacca’s analysis of ancient and modern social justice issues, and the ancient stories he told with modern flair... about the Athenian politician Alcibiades or about Hector and his baby boy. He also told colorful stories about David Grene, his Dublin-born Greek professor at the University of Chicago. Grene was great pals with the writer Saul Bellow, and he collaborated with classical scholar and poet Richmond Lattimore on all the best English translations of all the Greek tragedies.

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I wonder what all of them would think of this new translation by Emily Wilson. (Remember her? 🙂)

Feeling nostalgic, I located my worn paperback of Lattimore’s translation of the “Odyssey.” I probably haven’t opened it since I was an undergraduate... 40 years ago, twice as long as Odysseus was away from home.

Book One begins, “Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways…”

It was only the first line, but I already sensed that Wilson’s translation is even better.

I read some more, then researched the translator online. She has an active Twitter account, and pinned to the top of her profile is this tweet:

One of the most famous and heart-breaking moments in the Odyssey is about Argos the dog, who has waited 20 years for his old master and is lying neglected, in the dung. He hears O's voice again, pricks up his ears, and then dies.

— Emily Wilson (@EmilyRCWilson) April 2, 2018

Professor Vacca happened to love that story. So I know, without doubt, he would have loved Professor Wilson’s translation too.

“Well done!” he’d toast, raising a glass of ouzo.