IV. THE PROSODY, THE DICTION, THE STYLE AND STRUCTURE
The Prosody. The traditional meter in which most of modern Greek folk songs and long narrative poems are written, comparable in English to blank verse (the ten-syllable unrhymed iambic line of five beats), is the fifteen-syllable iambic line of seven beats. To the educated Greek Kazantzakis’ abandonment of the traditional meter, and his use of an extremely rare measure for the Odyssey, that of the seventeen-syllable unrhymed verse of eight beats, came as an unexpected and shocking disturbance. A comparable effect would be obtained (though not so violent) if an English poet today were to write an equally long poem not in the traditional blank verse of ten syllables but in the less-known measure of twelve syllables. In both cases there would be the addition of an added iambic foot to the traditional measure of both countries, an addition of two syllables; in English recently we have had somewhat of a precedent in Robert Bridges’ The Testament of Beauty. To the English or American, however, attuned to more experimentation in meter during the past fifty years than in all of his previous history, the six-foot line would not seem too daring a novelty for a long poem. Indeed, our now popular “sprung rhythm” measure has already added more syllables to lines which still retain a traditional number of accents (as in the plays of Eliot and MacLeish), and discontent has often been voiced with blank verse as too stately and too exhausted a measure to carry the more speedy, more nervous rhythms of modern speech. I have often thought that a hexameter today (among traditional measures) might be equivalent to yesterday’s pentameter, and might more fittingly enclose the rhythms and breath-groupings of modern speech, if one wishes to retain, that is, the iambic measure and not the measurement of sprung rhythm. For a while I experimented with the seven-beat and fourteen-syllable line Chapman used in his translation of Homer’s Iliad, but I soon discovered that the monosyllabic character of the English language permitted so much condensation that the six-beat line, for which I had a predilection, allowed me to cut away five syllables from every line of the original, and that instead of being forced to pad a line, I was sometimes forced to delete.
Kazantzakis’ explanation to his critics of why he used the seventeen-syllable line is characteristic: “I wrote in the seventeen-syllable line because this followed more truly the rhythm of my blood when I lived the Odyssey. A verse is not a garment with which one dresses one’s emotion in order to create song; both verse and emotion are created in a momentary flash, inseparably, just as a man himself is created, body and soul, as one being.” It is of interest, also, to point out that though Homer’s own line is composed of six beats only, it is written in dactylic feet of three syllables each (though the sixth foot is always disyllabic) and therefore contains about seventeeen syllables, so that Kazantzakis’ measure of seventeen syllables and eight beats is a more exact approximation, at least in number of syllables, than the traditional modern Greek measure of seven beats and fifteen syllables. It is perhaps no accident that in his own versions, Kazantzakis translated Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey in the same measure as that in which he wrote his own epic poem. For better flexibility, I have interspersed my iambics with occasional anapests (also to simulate at times the frequent extra though elided syllables characteristic of Greek), and I have almost always ended each section within a book with a seven-beat line to effect a more definite close, much as in the last line of a Spenserian stanza. Occasionally, for the sake of rhythm or verisimilitude, I have interspersed a seven-beat line in the running narrative. Those who wish to inquire further will find a more technical analysis of meter in the Appendix.
The Diction. When after almost one thousand years of subjection under Romans, Franks, Venetians, and Turks, the Greek nation obtained its independence about 1829, it immediately set about purifying its language of foreign influences. Several scholars constructed an artificial language called “purist,” based primarily on the diction and syntax of ancient Greek. A more demotic, a people’s language, had been forming, however, ever since Hellenistic times, surviving the many centuries of occupation, retaining a certain purity of its own in the remote mountain fastnesses and islands throughout Greece, changing in grammar and syntax, assimilating many foreign words and then rejecting most of them, and retaining still the strength, flavor, and even many words of Homeric times, much as some Shakespearean words may still be found in the Tennessee hills. There is no other language, certainly not in the Occident, which has so retained an unbroken, living though changing tradition for some three thousand years. Though the gap is wide, there are, nevertheless, fewer differences today between ancient and modern Greek than between Chaucer’s Middle English and the present state of the American language.
Since the birth of the modern Greek nation, a passionate battle has raged between scholars and academicians on the one hand, who have tried to impose the purist tongue from above, and most authors—poets, novelists, dramatists—who, equally proud of their long tradition, have found themselves unable to express their emotions in an artificial and bloodless tongue whose textual roots go so deep as to evolve into no living blossom. Fifty years ago Athenians rioted in the streets when a troupe tried to stage the Oresteia in modern translation, and several students were killed in an attempt to keep The New Testament from being translated into the demotic tongue. But as in every other nation where such a problem existed, authors have always been impelled to use the daily vulgar tongue which their tears and laughter had drenched during their unfolding growth as they spoke it at home and in the streets of their cities from childhood on. The demotic tongue is rich in concrete nouns, adjectives, verbs, and idioms to express the direct, passionate, metaphorical and lyrical emotions of daily life, as the folk songs and legends of all nations will testify, but it is lacking in the abstract words necessary for more metaphysical introversion and analysis. The demotic tongue, as always, has of course won the battle, though in the years to come (for the Greek language is at once very old and very young) it must slowly borrow, assimilate, and invent many abstract and scientific terms for which there has never been a lack of roots or precedents in the Greek language from Homer to the present day. Indeed, for centuries, Greek roots have been borrowed avidly by the languages of all the world to express new concepts in science and philosophy.
It is curious and ironic, therefore, that in Greece Kazantzakis should have been criticized not only by the proponents of the purist tongue, but even more violently by many of those who have fought on the side of demotic usage. The charge levied against him is that he has in every way exaggerated the demotic peculiarities and idiomatic richness of the people’s tongue, in syntax, grammar, in pronunciation, and especially in choice of words. They point out that his poem, with an appended lexicon of almost 2,000 words, contains many words and idioms unknown to the well-educated Greek, seemingly unaware that the majority of these terms (as I have myself attested) are in daily and familiar use by fisherman and peasant, though often not simultaneously in the same part of Greece. Kazantzakis wandered over the length and breadth of Greece, throughout her numerous islands, and with great love and care collected notebook after notebook of words from every occupation and region until he had prepared a large dictionary of the demotic tongue, which no publisher, however, has yet printed. It is indicative that even to this day no adequate dictionary of the demotic tongue exists.
To any historian of the development and changes of language, Kazantzakis’ predicament is a familiar one. The same outcry was raised when Dante dared to write in the common Florentine parlance of his native city, when Chaucer wrote in the Middle English idiom of London, when Gonzalo de Berceo translated the lives of the saints from the Latin into the newly formed Castilian tongue. “In the critical evolutionary stage through which our demotic language is passing,” Kazantzakis wrote, “it is natural, essential—and extremely useful—for a creator to treasure avidly and to save as much linguistic wealth as he can, as in similar periods of Dante, Rabelais, and Luther. Our tongue, because of the laziness and linguistic ignoranc
e of the ‘intellectuals,’ and because of the linguistic corruption of the people subjected to faulty schooling and newspaper jargon, is in danger of being deformed and impoverished. The creator is more anguished by this danger than anyone else, and because for him every word is a part of the spirit, because he knows that the greatest responsibility falls to him, he opens the doors of his works wide in order that the nouns and adjectives may find a refuge there. This is how it has always been; the creator, in these endangering periods, even though he knows that his vocabulary may become overladen, wants to receive under his roof (he cannot, he must not resist) all the homeless linguistic refugees who are in danger of dying. Only in this way can the constantly increasing linguistic wealth be saved, that is to say, spiritually.” Kazantzakis would have found enthusiastic and cantankerous support in Ezra Pound and H. L. Mencken.
An interesting and contrasting parallel may be drawn between Milton’s and Kazantzakis’ use of their respective native tongues. Milton forced the natural resilience of English into the elaborate constructions and borrowed diction of his beloved Latin and Greek, yet with the stamp of his genius, his complete immersion in his vision, his identification and sincere belief in his method, created a poetic parlance which, though unique, is indisputably one of the glories of the “English” language. Conversely, Kazantzakis reached deep into the demotic roots and practice of modern Greek, saved from dissipation the syntax, diction and idioms of the common people throughout Greece, without distinction of regions, and in words and rhythms as simple, uncomplex and lilting as folk song, achieved for the Athenian intellectual a style almost as foreign to him as that of Milton’s for the tolerably educated Englishman.
Of course this tension and this problem in language disappear—perhaps fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately—in an English or American version, for we do not have the extreme dichotomy in language which exists in modern Greek. What remains, and what I have tried to capture, is the racy, idiomatic, highly colloquial flow of the original. The borderline between colloquial and slang is often hard to draw, and I would have felt untrue to my original had I attempted to reproduce it in such idioms as those used by Ezra Pound in his recent translation of Sophocles’ Women of Trachis, which seems to me a tour de force, a parody in extreme American colloquialism and slang which has no parallel in the original diction of the central characters of the play. Instead, I have used the simplest and strongest words I could find to capture the zest and swing of the language, the playful juggling even of serious and tragic moods, the liveliness and the strength. Although the Greek original is more supple and flowing with liquid polysyllables and easily formed compound words, the English version is perhaps stronger, due to the more condensed line I have used and the greater prevalence of monosyllables in a tongue based on Anglo-Saxon roots. This aspect of the translation pleased Kazantzakis more than any other, and he would pound the table with delight as he declaimed in a loud voice: “And thick black blood dripped down from both his murderous palms!” As often as I could, I preferred to discard a word in English derived from the Greek word which I was translating, and to substitute for it a synonymous word derived from Anglo-Saxon roots. I have tried, as much as possible and with very few liberties indeed, to make this poem sound and read as if it were written originally in English (or perhaps American would be truer to the mark) though I have also deliberately retained certain epithets, expressions, and many compound words in order to link it with its Homeric prototype.
The Style and Structure. The most disconcerting adjustment the reader of any nationality must make in reading Kazantzakis’ Odyssey is toward an utterly unexpected style and structure. Whether he is conscious of it or not, the educated as well as the common reader expects a style which, in truth, is far removed even from Homer’s rather colorful, adjectival, and epithet-laden diction. He has come to think of Homer as a “classical” writer and to confuse him with the stylistic characteristics of a much later period, to expect the leanness and simplicity of a Doric column, a style more Hellenic than Homeric—orderly, composed, controlled, and without digressions. Instead, he will fall headlong into an adjectival cataract of rich epithets, a gothic profusion of metaphors and similes, of allegorical and symbolistic characters and episodes, of fables and legends that seem to digress and never to return. He will be confronted, in short, not only with a work which is not “classical,” but which, in fact, is anti-classical, anti-Hellenic, and most definitely romantic and baroque. “What would one of the builders of the Parthenon say,” Kazantzakis wrote to his young academic critic, “if he saw a gothic cathedral? He would exclaim that it is overladen with gods, men, beasts, and chimeras, filled with alarming mystical battles between darkness and light, incongruous, disquieting, barbarous.” If the modern reader would seek touchstones by which to interpret the Odyssey, he will find much to aid him in Homer’s own poem, but he would do well, also, to turn to other sources for style and structure: to folk songs and legends, to the picaresque novel, to Cervantes and Rabelais, to Aristophanes, to the Euripides of The Bacchanals, to Paul Bunyan, to all tall tales, fairy stories, and incredible adventures. A song, a dream, a story in the Odyssey, Kazantzakis wrote, will not then seem like rhetoric or manufacture, for if the reader will gaze from within he will find the esoteric necessity for each detail, he will live through “the spiritual transitions from one situation to another as though through a natural passage. Whoever lives these metamorphoses inwardly feels them to be as natural, as simple, and as indispensable as the ripening of a fruit—of a grape, let us say: from the dry twig to the sprout, from the sprout to the flowering cluster, from there to the sour pip, then to the sweet grape, to the wine, and finally to the song.” If he does so, the reader will find beneath this gothic façade a skeletal clarity of line, a structure of noble proportion and thought, a development of ultimate simplicity which betray an Apollonian counterbalance.
Perhaps the aspect of diction in Kazantzakis which might be most disconcerting to American or English readers, trained in the leaner diction of a Hemingway or an Eliot, is his evident love and use of adjectives. The translator here is at a disadvantage because, as in all inflected languages, an adjective in the Greek can as easily follow as precede a noun, often in a flanking balance, whereas a translator in English is forced to rank both adjectives before the noun. Also, the polysyllabic character of Greek permits the easy formulation of many compound words (in which the Odyssey is especially rich) where two or sometimes three adjectival roots are fused into one word. An exact translation into English, however, though sometimes effective, would more than likely be cumbersome, for a long poem cannot sustain such compressed neologisms as Hopkins’ famed and beautiful “dapple-dawn-drawn falcon.” I have often been forced, therefore, to break down such a compound word into its component parts, and then, more often than not, to choose the more striking or precise adjective and to delete the second or third. Nevertheless, an adjectival abundance remains, to which perhaps the experiments of a Gerard Manley Hopkins and the richness of a Dylan Thomas may again make us attuned. Many other compound words must be decompounded in English, as in the following three words describing the beauteous Helen: μνγδλογελάστρα, “she whose laugh is like an almond tree,” ροδοστáλαχτη “she on whom roses fall,” ποθγλíστρες πλáτες “shoulders on which desire glides.” Every translator is filled with envy to find words in a language which denote a certain phenomenon for which there is no equivalent word in his. Such are two words which Kazantzakis found among the peasantry but which are unknown to most Greek intellectuals: the expressive word γιορóπιασμα a contemptuous expression used to denote a child conceived by its parents during the lax gaieties of a fiesta, and λóκρουαι, describing that moment when the full moon, rising in the east, is struck by the rays of the setting sun.
For Kazantzakis, however, the adjective had further and more dialectical significance. “I love adjectives,” he wrote, “but not simply as decoration. I feel the necessity o
f expressing my emotion from all sides, spherically; and because my emotion is never simple, never positive or negative only, but both together and something even more, it is impossible for me to restrict myself to one adjective. One such adjective, whatever it might be, would cripple my emotion, and I am obliged, in order to remain faithful to my emotion and not betray it, to invite another adjective, often opposed to the previous one, always with a different meaning, in order that I may see the noun from its other equally lawful and existent side. Only thus, by besieging a meaning from all sides, may I conquer it, that is, may I express it. The wealth and variety of my love for the adjective, and often for its crudity, is an imperative necessity for my complex inner vision, and not at all decorative. Nothing for me exists more substantial than the adjective. The attempt to find the exact adjective and to enclose within it an essence that might not go lost, is almost always painful; and the longing to express all co-existent, antithetical attributes of a noun, and not condemn to death any one essence, is indeed tragic; nor has this any relationship to the often careless, playful, and pleasant coloring of a decorative disposition.”
The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel Page 4
