Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Perhaps the single greatest contribution feminist scholarship has made to human knowledge is accuracy. Before the mid-20th century, the vast majority of scholars and writers were men who viewed the past through a distinctly masculine lens, then articulated that lens as the absence of gender—a masculine universal. This profoundly distorted their understanding of the world. By taking gender and sexuality as both subject and tool of analysis, feminist scholarship has made possible a far more rigorous and accurate accounting of the past, of literature, of reality.

So it should come as no surprise that the foremost contribution Stephanie McCarter touts in the introduction and translator’s note to her explicitly feminist new translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses is its accuracy. Of course, being unversed in Latin, I sort of have to take her word for it. McCarter notes that her translation is 12,971 lines, compared to Ovid’s 11,995. Other English verse translations have tended to run far longer, topping off at Allen Mandelbaum’s 17,928. According to McCarter, in trying to capture the nuance and poetry of Ovid’s words in English, past translators added adjectives that sexualized and feminized Ovid’s women, goddesses, and nymphs—many of whom in fact explicitly eschew femininity and sex. A word McCarter translates simply as “lips� becomes, for one translator, “teasingly tempting lips,� for another a “darling little mouth� (xxxv)—and suddenly we’re starting to see where all those extra lines are coming from.

At the same time, male translators and scholars have euphemized rape. Metamorphoses, McCarter observes, contains around 50 incidents of rape or attempted rape. Translators have used words like “ravish� or “plunder,� when in fact “the specific language Ovid employs to designate rape is consistent with Roman legal terms denoting forced sexual penetration� (xxiv). For McCarter, closer attention to Ovid’s themes of sexual violence, women’s agency and disempowerment, and gender and the body, produces a more accurate translation, even as producing a more accurate translation brings forward those themes.

McCarter is a scholar first, a poet second. I happen to have that 17,928 line Mandelbaum translation on my shelf, and at first glance, Mandelbaum—a poet—looks like, well, the better poet. Mandelbaum’s line is more graceful, his choice of words more considered, his use of meter more artful. But I’ll tell you, when you’ve been racing through McCarter’s concise, forward-moving translation, trying to read one of Ovid’s stories in Mandelbaum just feels tiresome. Line by line, McCarter may not be much of a poet, but the overall effect her verse produces is extraordinarily powerful. If Mandelbaum’s iambic pentameter is aiming for Shakespeare—artful, nimble, sophisticated—McCarter’s verse is more Kit Marlowe—less virtuoso, perhaps, but incredibly powerful in the overall effect it produces.

So much for my (grossly underinformed) review of McCarter’s translation. What about Ovid’s poem? (Of course, I haven’t really read Ovid’s poem. It may make sense, with prose, to speak of an English translation and its foreign original as the same piece of writing. To translate a poem is to write a new poem. However accurate the meaning, poetry is meaning and form, and form doesn’t translate.) I read Metamorphoses because of my sense that it is a foundational text in just about any articulation of a queer literary canon. I was not in the least disappointed. This is a very queer poem—even (perhaps especially) when it is dealing with themes of sexual violence. It is also stunningly beautiful.

Iphis’s transformation from a boy into a girl so that she—he—could marry her—his—beloved Ianthe. How many years before literature gave us another such queer wedding?

Cyparissus’s love for the stag.

Pythagoras’s glorious exegesis of a universe defined by ceaseless change and transformation, embedded within a fierce defense of, of all things, vegetarianism!

And is it possible to imagine a more enigmatic and human expression of the pain of grief than Orpheus’s famous journey to the underworld?

They weren’t far from the surface of the earth
when, scared that she might falter and intent
on seeing her, the lover turned his eyes.
She slipped back instantly. The wretch reached out,
attempting both to catch and to be caught,
but only grabbed thin air. The wife, now dying
again, made no complaint about her husband,
for what could she complain about except
that she was loved?

The poem is filled with thousands of references to Greek and Roman history, mythology, and literature that I barely understood or didn’t catch at all. McCarter’s end notes are concise and useful, but even without the notes, I think it was ultimately a source of wonder, rather than frustration, that this poem comes to me from a world simultaneously so alien and unfamiliar, and so intimately known that it is almost remembered—all those told and retold myths I have read, heard, seen since I was a small child.