Passages from The Odyssey

What the greatest of the Greek heroes would trade for a day of paid labour.

“I spake; Achilles quickly answered me:—‘Noble Ulysses, speak not thus of death,As if thou couldst console me. I would beA laborer on earth, and serve for hireSome man of mean estate, who makes scant cheer,Rather than reign o’er all who have gone downTo death. Speak rather of my noble son,Whether or not he yet has joined the warsTo fight among the foremost of the host.

The oldest picture we have of work that undoes itself.

“There I beheld the shade of SisyphusAmid his sufferings. With both hands he rolledA huge stone up a hill. To force it up,He leaned against the mass with hands and feet;But, ere it crossed the summit of the hillA power was felt that sent it rolling back,And downward plunged the unmanageable rockBefore him to the plain. Again he toiledTo heave it upward, while the sweat in streamsRan down his limbs, and dust begrimed his brow.

The case for staying up late and telling your worst stories.

These nights are very long; there’s time enoughFor sleep, and time to entertain ourselvesWith talk. It is not fitting to lie downEre the due hour arrive, and too much sleepIs hurtful. Whosoever here shall feelThe strong desire, let him withdraw and sleep,And rise with early morn and break his fast,And tend my master’s swine. Let us remainWithin, and drink and feast, and pass the timeGayly, relating what we have endured,Each one of us; for in the after timeOne who has suffered much and wandered farMay take a pleasure even in his griefs.

What a homeless man calls the best thing in the world.

And may the gods vouchsafeTo thee whatever blessing thou canst wish,Husband and home and wedded harmony.There is no better, no more blessed state,Than when the wife and husband in accordOrder their household lovingly. Then thoseRepine who hate them, those who wish them wellRejoice, and they themselves the most of all.”

Paradise, seen by a man who is desperate to leave it.

In a green forest, high among whose boughsBirds of broad wing, wood-owls, and falcons builtTheir nests, and crows, with voices sounding far,All haunting for their food the ocean-side.A vine, with downy leaves and clustering grapes,Crept over all the cavern rock. Four springsPoured forth their glittering waters in a row,And here and there went wandering side by side.Around were meadows of soft green, o’ergrownWith violets and parsley. ’Twas a spotWhere even an immortal might awhileLinger, and gaze with wonder and delight.

The oldest test for telling a true dream from a false one.

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Of dreams, O stranger, some are meaninglessAnd idle, and can never be fulfilled.Two portals are there for their shadowy shapes,Of ivory one, and one of horn. The dreamsThat come through the carved ivory deceiveWith promises that never are made good;But those which pass the doors of polished horn,And are beheld of men, are ever true.

The sea turns on him, and home has never been further away.

“What will become of me? unhappy man!I fear that all the goddess said was true,Foretelling what disasters should o’ertakeMy voyage ere I reach my native land.Now are her words fulfilled. How JupiterWraps the great heaven in clouds and stirs the deepTo tumult! Wilder grow the hurricanesOf all the winds, and now my fate is sure.Thrice happy, four times happy, they who fellOn Troy’s wide field, warring for Atreus’ sons:

The kindest welcome in the poem turns out to be the trap.

“Still onward driven before those baleful windsAcross the fishy deep for nine whole days,On the tenth day we reached the land where dwellThe Lotus-eaters, men whose food is flowers.We landed on the mainland, and our crewsNear the fleet galleys took their evening meal.And when we all had eaten and had drunkI sent explorers forth—two chosen men,A herald was the third—to learn what raceOf mortals nourished by the fruits of earthPossessed the land. They went and found themselvesAmong the Lotus-eaters soon, who usedNo violence against their lives, but gaveInto their hands the lotus plant to taste.

A garden where nothing is ever out of season.

As far as the Phaeacian race excelIn guiding their swift galleys o’er the deep,So far the women in their woven workSurpass all others. Pallas gives them skillIn handiwork and beautiful design.Without the palace-court, and near the gate,A spacious garden of four acres lay.A hedge enclosed it round, and lofty treesFlourished in generous growth within—the pearAnd the pomegranate, and the apple-treeWith its fair fruitage, and the luscious figAnd olive always green. The fruit they bearFalls not, nor ever fails in winter timeNor summer, but is yielded all the year.