Laudator Temporis Acti

A bull was bitten by a mouse. Smarting from the sting, the bull began to chase the mouse but the mouse was too quick for him and managed to hide in the depths of his mouse hole. The bull came to a halt and dug his horns into the walls until finally he sank down in exhaustion and went to sleep right there in front of the hole. The mouse peeped out from inside his hole, crept up on the bull, bit him again, and ran back inside his hole. The bull leaped to his feet but he had no idea what to do. 'It's not always the big one who has the power,' said the mouse, 'in some cases being humble and small is a strength!'

Μῦς ταῦρον ἔδακεν. ὁ δ' ἐδίωκεν ἀλγήσας
τὸν μῦν· φθάσαντος δ' εἰς μυχὸν φυγεῖν τρώγλης,
ὤρυσς' ἐνεστὼς τοῖς κέρασι τοὺς τοίχους,
ἕως κοπωθεὶς ὀκλάσας ἐκοιμήθη
παρὰ τὴν ὀπὴν ὁ ταῦρος. ἔνθεν ἐκκύψας        5
ὁ μῦς ἐφέρπει καὶ πάλιν δακὼν φεύγει.
ὁ δ' εξαναστὰς οὐκ ἔχων ὃ ποιήσει
διηπορεῖτο. τῷ δ' ὁ μῦς ἐπιτρύξας·
"οὐχ ὁ μέγας ἀεὶ δυνατός· ἔσθ' ὅπου μᾶλλον
τὸ μικρὸν εἶναι καὶ ταπεινὸν ἰσχύει."        10

They tell how once upon a time a little mouse on its wanderings ventured with its tiny teeth to attack a mighty ox. When its nibbling mouth finished biting, it thereupon hid safely in its winding hole. Though the ox made sullen threats with his huge neck, yet for all his anger he could not see that there lived an enemy for him to attack. Then the mouse dispersed the foe's threats with its cleverness, bantering the enraged ox with these words: "Because your parents transmitted strong limbs to you, it does not follow that they added efficiency to your strength. Learn, however, the self-reliance that our tiny mouths possess, and learn how our pigmy band does whatever it wants."

Ingentem fertur mus quondam parvus oberrans
    ausus ab exiguo laedere dente bovem.
verum ubi mordaci confecit vulnera rostro,
    tutus in anfractus conditur inde suos.
ille licet vasta torvum cervice minetur,        5
    non tamen iratus quem petat esse videt.
tunc indignantem iusto sermone fatigans
    distulit hostiles calliditate minas:
"non quia magna tibi tribuerunt membra parentes
    viribus effectum constituere tuis.        10
disce tamen brevibus quae sit fiducia rostris,
    et faciat quicquid parvula turba cupit."

You should thus assume that I too have become the person I am because I am by nature similar to my ancestors, and also that because I received the same education as them, I have the same qualities of soul. I know that my father used to despise human affairs as of small importance, which holds especially for me too now in my old age.

νόμιζε δὴ οὖν κἀμὲ καὶ φύσει μὲν ὅμοιον τοῖς προγόνοις ὄντα γενέσθαι τοιοῦτον, καὶ μέντοι καὶ παιδευθέντα τὴν αὐτὴν αὐτοῖς παιδείαν, ὁμοίαν ἐκείνοις σχεῖν διάθεσιν τῆς ψυχῆς. οἶδα δέ μου τὸν πατέρα καταφρονοῦντα τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων πραγμάτων ὡς μικρῶν, ὅπερ κἀμοὶ μάλιστα νῦν γέγονεν ἐν γήρᾳ.

No ancient German literature, Nibelungs and other such poets of the Middle Ages should be taught in gymnasia. These things are highly remarkable, to be sure, and also worth reading, but they do not contribute to the cultivation of taste and they rob time that belongs to ancient, really classical literature. If you noble Teutons and German patriots impose ancient German doggerel in place of Greek and Roman classics, then you will be educating nothing but unwashed loafers. Now to even compare these Nibelungs with the Iliad is an outright blasphemy, from which, above all, youthful ears should be spared.

Auf den Gymnasien sollte keine altdeutsche Litteratur, Nibelungen und sonstige Poeten des Mittelalters gelehrt werden: diese Dinge sind zwar höchst merkwürdig, auch lesenswert, tragen aber nicht zur Bildung des Geschmacks bei und rauben die Zeit, welche der alten, wirklich klassischen Litteratur angehört. Wenn ihr, edle Germanen und deutsche Patrioten, an die Stelle der griechischen und römischen Klassiker altdeutsche Reimereien setzt; so werdet ihr nichts anderes, als Bärenhäuter erziehn. Nun aber gar diese Nibelungen mit der Ilias zu vergleichen ist eine rechte Blasphemie, mit welcher die Ohren der Jugend, vor allem, verschont bleiben sollten.

[You also said] that you learned that when his books were lost in the fire, Philides the grammarian wasted away from depression and grief and died, and that various others were going around in black clothing for a long time, thin and pale, resembling mourners.

πεπύσθαι δὲ ὡς καὶ Φιλίδης μὲν ὁ γραμματικὸς ἀπολλυμένων αὐτῷ τῶν βιβλίων κατὰ πυρκαϊὰν ὑπὸ δυσθυμίας καὶ λύπης διεφθάρη συντακείς, ἄλλος δὲ καὶ ἄλλος ἐν μέλασιν ἱματίοις προῄεσαν ἄχρι πολλοῦ, λεπτοὶ καὶ ὠχροί, τοῖς πενθοῦσι παραπλήσιοι.

Aldous Huxley, consoling Victoria Ocampo on the partial destruction by fire of her library: “…[T]he thought of a burned library is one to sadden the heart of an old book-worm like myself.” A prolepsis. The conflagration that destroyed his own thirty-one years later was total, but he displayed a noble composure and detachment that Galen would have recognised and admired.

All this might stem from the fact that poetry by nature is untranslatable. For in it thoughts and words are so intimately and firmly intertwined, like the uterine and foetal parts of the placenta, that we cannot substitute foreign words without affecting the thoughts. After all, everything with metre and rhyme is inherently a compromise between thought and language; however, by its nature this can only be accomplished on its own native soil of thought, not on a foreign soil in which we would like to transplant it, let alone in one so barren as the minds of translators usually are. What greater contrast could there be, really, than the free outpouring of the poet’s inspiration, which on its own and instinctively comes into being dressed in metre and rhyme, and the painstaking, calculating, cold, syllable-counting and rhyme-seeking agony of the translator?

Dies Alles mag daran liegen, daß Poesie, ihrer Natur nach, unübersetzbar ist. Denn in ihr sind Gedanken und Worte so innig und fest mit einander verwachsen, wie pars uterina et pars foetalis placentae; so daß man nicht, ohne jene zu affiziren, diesen fremde substituiren kann. Ist doch alles Metrische und Gereimte eigentlich von Hause aus ein Kompromiß zwischen dem Gedanken und der Sprache: dieses aber darf, seiner Natur nach, nur auf dem eigenen, mütterlichen Boden des Gedankens vollzogen werden, nicht auf einem fremden, dahin man ihn verpflanzen möchte, und gar auf einem so unfruchtbaren, wie die Uebersetzerköpfe in der Regel sind. Was überhaupt kann entgegengesetzter sein, als die freie Ergießung der Begeisterung eines Dichters, die schon von selbst und instinktiv in Metrum und Reim gekleidet an den Tag tritt, und die peinliche, rechnende, kalte, Silben zählende und Reime suchende Qual des Uebersetzers.

I was unwounded by Desires, but Myiscus shot me in the heart with his eyes, and cried, 'I have caught the braggart. That supercilious sneer that imperious philosophy gave, look, I am trampling on it.' Just breathing, I replied, 'Dear lad, why all this surprise? Zeus himself was hauled down from Olympus by Love.'

τόν με Πόθοις ἄτρωτον ὑπὸ στέρνοισι Μυΐσκος
    ὄμμασι τοξεύσας, τοῦτ ̓ ἐβόησεν ἔπος·
“τὸν θρασὺν εἶλον ἐγώ· τὸ δ ̓ ἐπ ̓ ὀφρύσι κεῖνο φρύαγμα
    σκηπτροφόρου σοφίας ἠνίδε ποσσὶ πατῶ.” τῷ δ ̓, ὅσον
ἀμπνεύσας, τόδ ̓ ἔφην· “Φίλε κοῦρε, τί θαμβεῖς;
    καὐτὸν ἀπ ̓ Οὐλύμπου Ζῆνα καθεῖλεν Ἔρως.”

Cynthia was the first whose eyes captured me, poor wretch, uninfected before by any desires. Then I had to lower my gaze with its steady hauteur and Love trampled on my head...

Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepit ocellis,
    contactum nullis ante cupidinibus.
tum mihi constantis deiecit lumina fastus
    et caput impositis pressit Amor pedibus...

What has disappeared? Ambrose Bierce, Weldon Kees, Jimmy Hoffa. Aristotle s second book of Politics, three-decker novels, rhupunts. Typewriters, payphones, civility.

Labels: typographical and other errors

And, indeed, when I reflect on this subject I find four reasons why old age appears to be unhappy: first, that it withdraws us from active pursuits; second, that it makes the body weaker; third, that it deprives us of almost all physical pleasures; and, fourth, that it is not far removed from death.

etenim, cum complector animo, quattuor reperio causas cur senectus misera videatur: unam, quod avocet a rebus gerendis; alteram, quod corpus faciat infirmius; tertiam, quod privet omnibus fere voluptatibus; quartam, quod haud procul absit a morte.

To my mind, it is a miracle that in a world afflicted by Attention Deficit Disorder anyone would labor over, publish, distribute, or purchase six hundred pages dissecting descriptors in two lengthy, three thousand year old poems that barely ten thousand human beings can read in their eclectic, original idiolect, one never spoken by a single soul.

A longing for a lair, for a cave, for a fortress, for any hidden domain, which cannot be disturbed, is still deep in my nature. It is doubtless for this reason that I have always wanted to live in narrow quarters, a little house in the country or in a single room in the city, and I have a positive detestation of large houses. This feeling of being safe and snug in a hidden retreat, while the world passes by outside and cannot reach you, is very dear to me. I have always loved that passage in Scott’s poem about the hunted stag:

"There, close-couched, while the thickets shed
Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain
Chiding the rocks …"