The Iliad: The Fitzgerald Translation

The Iliad: The Fitzgerald Translation

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Overview

Anger be now your song, immortal one,
Akhilleus' anger, doomed and ruinous,
that caused the Akhaians loss on bitter loss
and crowded brave souls into the undergloom,
leaving so many dead men-carrion
for dogs and birds; and the will of Zeus was done.
-Lines 1-6

Since it was first published more than twenty-five years ago, Robert Fitzgerald's prizewinning translation of Homer's battle epic has become a classic in its own right: a standard against which all other versions of The Iliad are compared. Fitzgerald's work is accessible, ironic, faithful, written in a swift vernacular blank verse that "makes Homer live as never before" (Library Journal).

This edition includes a new foreword by Andrew Ford.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429958240
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date: 04/03/2004
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 632
Sales rank: 582,502
Lexile: 1160L (what's this?)
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Robert Fitzgerald's versions of The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Aeneid, and the Oedipus plays of Sophocles (with Dudley Fitts) are prized by scholars and general readers alike. An admired poet and teacher of writing, he died in 1988.


Robert Fitzgerald's versions of the Iliad, the Aeneid, and the Oedipus cycle of Sophocles (with Dudley Fitts) are also classics. At his death, in 1985, he was Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard.


Homer is a legendary ancient Greek epic poet, traditionally said to be the creator of the epic poems the Iliad and the Odyssey. Homer's works form the groundwork of the Western Canon and are universally praised for their genius. Their formative influence in shaping many key aspects of Greek culture was recognized by the Greeks themselves, who considered him as their instructor.

Read an Excerpt

The Iliad


By Homer, Robert Fitzgerald

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 2004 Farrar, Straus and Giroux
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5824-0



CHAPTER 1

BOOK ONE


Quarrel, Oath, and Promise


Anger be now your song, immortal one,
Akhilleus' anger, doomed and ruinous,
that caused the Akhaians loss on bitter loss
and crowded brave souls into the undergloom,
leaving so many dead men — carrion
for dogs and birds; and the will of Zeus was done.
Begin it when the two men first contending
broke with one another —
the Lord Marshal
Agamémnon, Atreus' son, and Prince Akhilleus.

Among the gods, who brought this quarrel on?
The son of Zeus by Lêto. Agamémnon
angered him, so he made a burning wind
of plague rise in the army: rank and file
sickened and died for the ill their chief had done
in despising a man of prayer.
This priest, Khrysês, had come down to the ships
with gifts, no end of ransom for his daughter;
on a golden staff he carried the god's white bands
and sued for grace from the men of all Akhaia,
the two Atreidai most of all:
"O captains
Meneláos and Agamémnon, and you other
Akhaians under arms!
The gods who hold Olympos, may they grant you
plunder of Priam's town and a fair wind home,
but let me have my daughter back for ransom
as you revere Apollo, son of Zeus!"

Then all the soldiers murmured their assent:

"Behave well to the priest. And take the ransom!"

But Agamémnon would not. It went against his desire,
and brutally he ordered the man away:

"Let me not find you here by the long ships
loitering this time or returning later,
old man; if I do,
the staff and ribbons of the god will fail you.
Give up the girl? I swear she will grow old
at home in Argos, far from her own country,
working my loom and visiting my bed.
Leave me in peace and go, while you can, in safety."

So harsh he was, the old man feared and obeyed him,
in silence trailing away
by the shore of the tumbling clamorous whispering sea,
and he prayed and prayed again, as he withdrew,
to the god whom silken-braided Lêto bore:

"O hear me, master of the silver bow,
protector of Ténedos and the holy towns,
Apollo, Sminthian, if to your liking
ever in any grove I roofed a shrine
or burnt thighbones in fat upon your altar —
bullock or goat flesh — let my wish come true:
your arrows on the Danáäns for my tears!"

Now when he heard this prayer, Phoibos Apollo
walked with storm in his heart from Olympos' crest,
quiver and bow at his back, and the bundled arrows
clanged on the sky behind as he rocked in his anger,
descending like night itself. Apart from the ships
he halted and let fly, and the bowstring slammed
as the silver bow sprang, rolling in thunder away.
Pack animals were his target first, and dogs,
but soldiers, too, soon felt transfixing pain
from his hard shots, and pyres burned night and day.
Nine days the arrows of the god came down
broadside upon the army. On the tenth,
Akhilleus called all ranks to assembly. Hêra,
whose arms are white as ivory, moved him to it,
as she took pity on Danáäns dying.
All being mustered, all in place and quiet,
Akhilleus, fast in battle as a lion,
rose and said:
"Agamémnon, now, I take it,
the siege is broken, we are going to sail,
and even so may not leave death behind:
if war spares anyone, disease will take him ...
We might, though, ask some priest or some diviner,
even some fellow good at dreams — for dreams
come down from Zeus as well —
why all this anger of the god Apollo?

Has he some quarrel with us for a failure
in vows or hekatombs? Would mutton burned
or smoking goat flesh make him lift the plague?"

Putting the question, down he sat. And Kalkhas,
Kalkhas Thestórides, came forward, wisest
by far of all who scanned the flight of birds.
He knew what was, what had been, what would be,
Kalkhas, who brought Akhaia's ships to Ilion
by the diviner's gift Apollo gave him.
Now for their benefit he said:
"Akhilleus,
dear to Zeus, it is on me you call
to tell you why the Archer God is angry.
Well, I can tell you. Are you listening? Swear
by heaven that you will back me and defend me,
because I fear my answer will enrage
a man with power in Argos, one whose word
Akhaian troops obey.
A great man in his rage is formidable
for underlings: though he may keep it down,
he cherishes the burning in his belly
until a reckoning day. Think well
if you will save me."

Said Akhilleus:
"Courage.
Tell what you know, what you have light to know.
I swear by Apollo, the lord god to whom
you pray when you uncover truth,
never while I draw breath, while I have eyes to see,
shall any man upon this beachhead dare
lay hands on you — not one of all the army,
not Agamémnon, if it is he you mean,
though he is first in rank of all Akhaians."

The diviner then took heart and said:
"No failure
in hekatombs or vows is held against us.
It is the man of prayer whom Agamémnon
treated with contempt: he kept his daughter,
spurned his gifts: for that man's sake the Archer
visited grief upon us and will again.
Relieve the Danáäns of this plague he will not
until the girl who turns the eyes of men
shall be restored to her own father — freely,
with no demand for ransom — and until
we offer up a hekatomb at Khrysê.
Then only can we calm him and persuade him."

He finished and sat down. The son of Atreus,
ruler of the great plain, Agamémnon,
rose, furious. Round his heart resentment
welled, and his eyes shone out like licking fire.
Then, with a long and boding look at Kalkhas,
he growled at him:
"You visionary of hell,
never have I had fair play in your forecasts.
Calamity is all you care about, or see,
no happy portents; and you bring to pass
nothing agreeable. Here you stand again
before the army, giving it out as oracle
the Archer made them suffer because of me,
because I would not take the gifts
and let the girl Khrysêis go; I'd have her
mine, at home. Yes, if you like, I rate her
higher than Klytaimnestra, my own wife!
She loses nothing by comparison
in beauty or womanhood, in mind or skill.

For all of that, I am willing now to yield her
if it is best; I want the army saved
and not destroyed. You must prepare, however,
a prize of honor for me, and at once,
that I may not be left without my portion —
I, of all Argives. It is not fitting so.
While every man of you looks on, my girl
goes elsewhere."

Prince Akhilleus answered him:

"Lord Marshal, most insatiate of men,
how can the army make you a new gift?
Where is our store of booty? Can you see it?
Everything plundered from the towns has been
distributed; should troops turn all that in?
Just let the girl go, in the god's name, now;
we'll make it up to you, twice over, three
times over, on that day Zeus gives us leave
to plunder Troy behind her rings of stone."

Agamémnon answered:
"Not that way
will I be gulled, brave as you are, Akhilleus.
Take me in, would you? Try to get around me?
What do you really ask? That you may keep
your own winnings, I am to give up mine
and sit here wanting her? Oh, no:
the army will award a prize to me
and make sure that it measures up, or if
they do not, I will take a girl myself,
your own, or Aías', or Odysseus' prize!
Take her, yes, to keep. The man I visit
may choke with rage; well, let him.
But this, I say, we can decide on later.

Look to it now, we launch on the great sea
a well-found ship, and get her manned with oarsmen,
load her with sacrificial beasts and put aboard
Khrysêis in her loveliness. My deputy,
Aías, Idómeneus, or Prince Odysseus,
or you, Akhilleus, fearsome as you are,
will make the hekatomb and quiet the Archer."

Akhilleus frowned and looked at him, then said:

"You thick-skinned, shameless, greedy fool!
Can any Akhaian care for you, or obey you,
after this on marches or in battle?
As for myself, when I came here to fight,
I had no quarrel with Troy or Trojan spearmen:
they never stole my cattle or my horses,
never in the black farmland of Phthía
ravaged my crops. How many miles there are
of shadowy mountains, foaming seas, between!
No, no, we joined for you, you insolent boor,
to please you, fighting for your brother's sake
and yours, to get revenge upon the Trojans.
You overlook this, dogface, or don't care,
and now in the end you threaten to take my girl,
a prize I sweated for, and soldiers gave me!

Never have I had plunder like your own
from any Trojan stronghold battered down
by the Akhaians. I have seen more action
hand to hand in those assaults than you have,
but when the time for sharing comes, the greater
share is always yours. Worn out with battle
I carry off some trifle to my ships.
Well, this time I make sail for home.
Better to take now to my ships. Why linger,
cheated of winnings, to make wealth for you?"

To this the high commander made reply:

"Desért, if that's the way the wind blows. Will I
beg you to stay on my account? I will not.
Others will honor me, and Zeus who views
the wide world most of all.


No officer
is hateful to my sight as you are, none
given like you to faction, as to battle —
rugged you are, I grant, by some god's favor.
Sail, then, in your ships, and lord it over
your own battalion of Myrmidons. I do not
give a curse for you, or for your anger.
But here is warning for you:

Khrysêis
being required of me by Phoibos Apollo,
she will be sent back in a ship of mine,
manned by my people. That done, I myself
will call for Brisêis at your hut, and take her,
flower of young girls that she is, your prize,
to show you here and now who is the stronger
and make the next man sick at heart — if any
think of claiming equal place with me."

A pain like grief weighed on the son of Pêleus,
and in his shaggy chest this way and that
the passion of his heart ran: should he draw
longsword from hip, stand off the rest, and kill
in single combat the great son of Atreus,
or hold his rage in check and give it time?
And as this tumult swayed him, as he slid
the big blade slowly from the sheath, Athêna
came to him from the sky. The white-armed goddess,
Hêra, sent her, being fond of both,
concerned for both men. And Athêna, stepping
up behind him, visible to no one
except Akhilleus, gripped his red-gold hair.

Startled, he made a half turn, and he knew her
upon the instant for Athêna: terribly
her grey eyes blazed at him. And speaking softly
but rapidly aside to her he said:

"What now, O daughter of the god of heaven
who bears the stormcloud, why are you here? To see
the wolfishness of Agamémnon?
Well, I give you my word: this time, and soon,
he pays for his behavior with his blood."

The grey-eyed goddess Athêna said to him:

"It was to check this killing rage I came
from heaven, if you will listen. Hêra sent me,
being fond of both of you, concerned for both.
Enough: break off this combat, stay your hand
upon the sword hilt. Let him have a lashing
with words, instead: tell him how things will be.
Here is my promise, and it will be kept:
winnings three times as rich, in due season,
you shall have in requital for his arrogance.
But hold your hand. Obey."

The great runner,
Akhilleus, answered:

"Nothing for it, goddess, but when you two immortals speak, a man complies, though his heart burst. Just as well. Honor the gods' will, they may honor ours."

On this he stayed his massive hand upon the silver pommel, and the blade of his great weapon slid back in the scabbard. The, man had done her bidding. Off to Olympos, gaining the air, she went to join the rest, the powers of heaven in the home of Zeus.

But now the son of Pêleus turned on Agamémnon
and lashed out at him, letting his anger ride
in execration:

"Sack of wine,
you with your cur's eyes and your antelope heart!
You've never had the kidney to buckle on
armor among the troops, or make a sortie
with picked men — oh, no; that way death might lie.
Safer, by god, in the middle of the army —
is it not? — to commandeer the prize
of any man who stands up to you! Leech!
Commander of trash! If not, I swear,
you never could abuse one soldier more!

But here is what I say: my oath upon it
by this great staff: look: leaf or shoot
it cannot sprout again, once lopped away
from the log it left behind in the timbered hills;
it cannot flower, peeled of bark and leaves;
instead, Akhaian officers in council
take it in hand by turns, when they observe
by the will of Zeus due order in debate:
let this be what I swear by then: I swear
a day will come when every Akhaian soldier
will groan to have Akhilleus back. That day
you shall no more prevail on me than this
dry wood shall flourish — driven though you are,
and though a thousand men perish before
the killer, Hektor. You will eat your heart out,
raging with remorse for this dishonor
done by you to the bravest of Akhaians."

He hurled the staff, studded with golden nails,
before him on the ground. Then down he sat,
and fury filled Agamémnon, looking across at him.
But for the sake of both men Nestor arose,
the Pylians' orator, eloquent and clear;
argument sweeter than honey rolled from his tongue.
By now he had outlived two generations
of mortal men, his own and the one after,
in Pylos land, and still ruled in the third.
In kind reproof he said:

"A black day, this.
Bitter distress comes this way to Akhaia.
How happy Priam and Priam's sons would be,
and all the Trojans — wild with joy — if they
got wind of all these fighting words between you,
foremost in council as you are, foremost
in battle. Give me your attention. Both
are younger men than I, and in my time
men who were even greater have I known
and none of them disdained me. Men like those
I have not seen again, nor shall: Peiríthoös,
the Lord Marshal Dryas, Kaineus, Exádios,
Polyphêmos, Theseus — Aigeus' son,
a man like the immortal gods. I speak
of champions among men of earth, who fought
with champions, with wild things of the mountains,
great centaurs whom they broke and overpowered.
Among these men I say I had my place
when I sailed out of Pylos, my far country,
because they called for me. I fought
for my own hand among them. Not one man
alive now upon earth could stand against them.
And I repeat: they listened to my reasoning,
took my advice. Well, then, you take it too.
It is far better so.

Lord Agamémnon,
do not deprive him of the girl, renounce her.
The army had allotted her to him.
Akhilleus, for your part, do not defy
your King and Captain. No one vies in honor

with him who holds authority from Zeus.
You have more prowess, for a goddess bore you;
his power over men surpasses yours.

But, Agamémnon, let your anger cool.
I beg you to relent, knowing Akhilleus
a sea wall for Akhaians in the black waves of war."

Lord Agamémnon answered:

"All you say
is fairly said, sir, but this man's ambition,
remember, is to lead, to lord it over
everyone, hold power over everyone,
give orders to the rest of us! Well, one
will never take his orders! If the gods
who live forever made a spearman of him,
have they put insults on his lips as well?"

Akhilleus interrupted:

"What a poltroon,
how lily-livered I should be called, if I
knuckled under to all you do or say!
Give your commands to someone else, not me!
And one more thing I have to tell you: think it
over: this time, for the girl, I will not
wrangle in arms with you or anyone,
though I am robbed of what was given me;
but as for any other thing I have
alongside my black ship, you shall not take it
against my will. Try it. Hear this, everyone:
that instant your hot blood blackens my spear!"

They quarreled in this way, face to face, and then
broke off the assembly by the ships. Akhilleus
made his way to his squadron and his quarters,
Patróklos by his side, with his companions.

Agamémnon proceeded to launch a ship,
assigned her twenty oarsmen, loaded beasts
for sacrifice to the god, then set aboard
Khrysêis in her loveliness. The versatile
Odysseus took the deck, and, all oars manned,
they pulled out on the drenching ways of sea.
The troops meanwhile were ordered to police camp
and did so, throwing refuse in the water;
then to Apollo by the barren surf
they carried out full-tally hekatombs,
and the savor curled in crooked smoke toward heaven.

That was the day's work in the army.

Agamémnon
had kept his threat in mind, and now he acted,
calling Eurýbatês and Talthýbios,
his aides and criers:

"Go along," he said,
"both of you, to the quarters of Akhilleus
and take his charming Brisêis by the hand
to bring to me. And if he balks at giving her
I shall be there myself with men-at-arms
in force to take her — all the more gall for him."
So, ominously, he sent them on their way,
and they who had no stomach for it went
along the waste sea shingle toward the ships
and shelters of the Myrmidons. Not far
from his black ship and hut they found the prince
in the open, seated. And seeing these two come
was cheerless to Akhilleus. Shamefast, pale
with fear of him, they stood without a word;
but he knew what they felt and called out:

"Peace to you,
criers and couriers of Zeus and men!
Come forward. Not one thing have I against you:
Agamémnon is the man who sent you
for Brisêis. Here then, my lord Patróklos,
bring out the girl and give her to these men.
And let them both bear witness before the gods
who live in bliss, as before men who die,
including this harsh king, if ever hereafter
a need for me arises to keep the rest
from black defeat and ruin.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Iliad by Homer, Robert Fitzgerald. Copyright © 2004 Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Note,
Introduction by Andrew Ford,
BOOK ONE Quarrel, Oath, and Promise,
BOOK TWO Assembly and Muster of Armies,
BOOK THREE Dueling for a Haunted Lady,
BOOK FOUR A Bowshot Bringing War,
BOOK FIVE A Hero Strives with Gods,
BOOK SIX Interludes in Field and City,
BOOK SEVEN A Combat and a Rampart,
BOOK EIGHT The Battle Swayed by Zeus,
BOOK NINE A Visit of Emissaries,
BOOK TEN Night in the Camp: A Foray,
BOOK ELEVEN Prowess and Wounds of Akhaians,
BOOK TWELVE The Rampart Breached,
BOOK THIRTEEN Assault on the Ships,
BOOK FOURTEEN Beguilement on Mount Ida,
BOOK FIFTEEN The Lord of Storm,
BOOK SIXTEEN A Ship Fired, a Tide Turned,
BOOK SEVENTEEN Contending for a Soldier Fallen,
BOOK EIGHTEEN The Immortal Shield,
BOOK NINETEEN The Avenger Fasts and Arms,
BOOK TWENTY The Ranging of Powers,
BOOK TWENTY-ONE The Clash of Man and River,
BOOK TWENTY-TWO Desolation Before Troy,
BOOK TWENTY-THREE A Friend Consigned to Death,
BOOK TWENTY-FOUR A Grace Given in Sorrow,

Reading Group Guide

This teacher's guide is keyed to the Robert Fitzgerald translation of The Iliad. Striking a balance between traditional poetic artistry and immediacy of language, Fitzgerald gives students the full measure of the original epic's astonishing power.

Little is certain when it comes to the origins of The Iliad or its partner epic and sequel, The Odyssey. Both epics circulated from the dawn of Greek literature under the name of Homer, but who this fabled poet was, and when and where he lived, remain riddles. Already some ancient critics doubted a single poet wrote both epics, and most modern scholars prefer to ascribe the creation and initial shaping of both stories to oral tradition. As legends about heroes and their exploits were handed down from generation to generation over many centuries, bards developed highly formalized language to chant the stories in public performances. These singers had a large repertoire of tales from which they chose when aiming to satisfy a particular audience's demand, or more likely the request of the local lord. The material was familiar and the language traditional, indeed formulaic, so that a good singer could always perform a song in proper style and meter to suit the performance situation in theme, episodes, details, scope, and tone. The songs gave audiences a vision of their ancestors, people more glorious and admirable (they believed) than they themselves, whether in victory or in defeat. In their greatness, in their heroic pursuit of glory and undying fame, the epic characters defined the heroic code the listeners, at least initially members of a warrior class, were to follow. What conferred undying fame was epic song itself: listeners of epic would have aspired to become the subject of song for subsequent generations.

There must have been many signal moments in the history of epic before The Iliad and The Odyssey achieved the forms in which we know them, but two appear, in retrospect, to have been supremely significant. Many towns and settlements were sacked as peoples competed for land and power in what is now Greece and Turkey, but it seems that a city known as Troy or Ilion, on the northwest coast of Asia Minor and near the strait called the Dardanelles--and for that strategic reason a significant power--was the frequent target of marauding attacks and sieges. One of the most devastating destructions it suffered fell shortly before or after 1200 B.C.E. Around this destruction there seem to have coalesced stories of a Greek army on a mammoth campaign to sack the fortified city that sat astride sea and land lanes to the richer east. What was the reason for the expedition? Not greed and power politics--so legend has it--but the drive to recover something yet more precious: Greek honor in the shape of Helen, the beautiful wife of Meneláos, king of Sparta. Helen, the story went, had been abducted by Paris, the handsome if spoiled Trojan prince. And so the tale was spun backwards.

The legendary campaign against Troy took ten years. The Iliad, long though it is, narrates a crucial patch of the tenth year only, when the greatest hero of the Greeks, Akhilleus, fell out with the Greek commander-in-chief, Agamémnon, Meneláos' brother. By the end of The Iliad, Akhilleus has lost his companion, Patróklos, but has killed the great Trojan hero, Hektor. Troy is doomed, even if its actual fall as well as Akhilleus' death are narrated in the cycle of songs, now only fragments, that follow The Iliad. The storytelling cycle continued with stories of the homecomings of the various Greek heroes. It is the homecoming of the craftiest of those heroes, Odysseus, that is told in The Odyssey.

The other signal moment in the development of the two Homeric poems was, in fact, a series of moments, for only gradually did poems transmitted orally come to be written. By the middle of the eighth century B.C.E., there emerged singers--one, two, or more--who had so mastered the traditional material and style that they could spin out versions of these episodes of the Trojan cycle that were extraordinary in size, subtlety, and complexity of design, versions that increasingly became the models for performances of The Iliad and The Odyssey. The exact mode in which the Homeric poems were first written down remains obscure, but by the second half of the sixth century B.C.E., the technology of writing in an alphabet adapted from Phoenician letters had advanced to the point that written versions of the Homeric epics became at least thinkable. While we have evidence of considerable variation in written versions of the epics well into the Hellenistic Period--the
era following the death of Alexander the Great in 323 B.C.E.--and know of continued "live" performances at public festivals, the range of permissible variation was growing ever more limited. By the third century B.C.E., scholars were working on the epics as written texts, studying and annotating the Homeric poems and comparing different copies. By this date each epic was divided into twenty-four "books." It is for all intents and purposes this text, after transcription from papyrus rolls to vellum codices and finally printed on paper, that we read, whether in scholarly editions of the Greek original or in translations in many languages like the one you have before you.

However fascinating the history of its transmission, the story The Iliad tells is more compelling still. It is the story of a great military campaign, one that seeks redress for a grievance; when it ends, that redress is all but certain, though already the ultimate victors have paid terrible and unanticipated penalties almost as grievous as those the vanquished will pay.

The Iliad offers another perspective as well. High above the plain of Ilion, and usually invisible, the gods are at work--and play. The story of Paris' abduction of Helen, the justification for the Greeks' siege and sack of Troy, turns out to be a secondary effect of wrangling among the gods. This may be the strangest feature of the poem for modern students, for many reasons. For starters, apart from Zeus, none of the gods seems to be in the least "godlike." Zeus' consort Hêra, his daughter Athêna, his brother Poseidon, Aphrodítê, and Apollo, along with other deities, including lesser ones (such as Thetis, Akhilleus' mother), all jockey for power and standing. They have favorites and enemies among the mortals and openly take sides in the struggle between the Greeks and Trojans. Helen herself was Aphrodítê's reward to Paris for his having declared her the winner in the heavenly beauty contest between her, Hêra, and Athêna, in which each blatantly sought to bribe the judge with a promise of a fabulous reward. The gods, then, are hardly models of ideal behavior and values. The gods enjoy a world in which passions can be indulged at will and virtually without check. Virtually, that is, because ultimately, Zeus has the power to bend happenings to his will, even if he, too, must accept the loss of his mortal son Sarpêdôn. He grants Hektor and his Trojans great glory up to a point--at the cost of the lives of many Greeks--honoring his promise to Thetis, but he sets limits on Aphrodítê and Apollo's support of the Trojans, for its destruction is decreed.

But the great wonder of The Iliad is the poem itself. Homer--whether we think of him as a single creative power or the name we give to the tradition that evolved this particular combination of episodes from the last year of the Trojan War--is a virtuoso of prolongation, devising ways to extend the basic line of the plot and include within it bravura variations of detail, tempo, and tone. From within the temporal frame of a relatively few days he includes the history of the Trojan War--indeed, the history of Troy and the lineages of dozens of heroes, with episodes from earlier generations--just as he brings into a military setting, via myriad similes, worlds of hunting and farming, fishing and weaving. Though this is an epic of war, peace--or the dream of peace--is never far distant, whether in flashbacks to earlier, happier times or in scenes on the divinely wrought shield of Akhilleus.

At the beginning of the poem, Homer asked the Muse, guarantor of epic memory,
to sing through him. The Muse still sings in the pages of your book, and she is
eager to begin. Attend her, and wonder.

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