The Iliad

Ever since I wandered into the stacks of the RIT Library stacks back in 1975 and stumbled on a Leanard Baskin illustrated, 500 page, deckle-edged copy of The Iliad, Homer has had me. The story; the helpless pawn-prone humans, their relentless savage vengeance, the shallow adolescent gods, and always-tumbling verse, will not let me go.

Years later, a friend gifted me over-sized galley proofs of another illustrated version; a work of art I itself.

I bought Robert Fagles' translation for myself (marking it all up) and later for this library.

Last year, I surrendered to the wonderfully illustrated version by Gillian Cross for my library; an accessible path for new readers, and a sumptuous dessert for veterans.

And finally, I have recently read Christopher Logue's War Music, a kind of riff on Homer that bears the majesty, magic, and timeless imagery of the the original; even in its incompleteness.

The story resonates with me for many reasons. It is ancient and so I revere it. That translators tackle it when each has such a limited lifetime, urges me to read their investment. It makes me reflect on the human condition, my human condition. I marvel at the intricacies and labyrinths of mythology, and a bow again and again at how beauty yet imbues tragedy, violence, and loss; perhaps Homer's eternal triumph.