Apparently a number of people, inspired by the movie, are reading The Odyssey – or claiming to. I am not one of them. I read it in 2003, before a trip to Greece for the Sun-Sentinel, and while I know there have been new translations, notably one by Emily Wilson (daughter of A.N.), I was not captivated by it the way I was by the The Iliad. This might seem surprising – a war poem versus a travel poem – until you learn that I read The Iliad while auditing a class on Greek literature in translation at Florida Atlantic University. The professor – one of the best professors I ever had – made that epic poem come to life in a way that I, reading The Odyssey by myself, was unable to. And I’m not going to give it another try. I plan to give the movie a pass too.
The title of the story splashed across the front page of the Wall Street Journal Review section read: “How the U.S. Lost the World Cup – and Won Over the World.”
It seemed a fair assessment; the general consensus – even in non-U.S. media – was that this World Cup was an unqualified success. Which is not surprising. We are a sports-obsessed nation – so much so that we can even embrace a sport that is not our own – and we love a party. And the World Cup combines sport and parties as no other athletic competition. It makes the Olympics look as if they were run by ayatollahs. Perhaps, instead of starting wars, we should dedicate ourselves to becoming a beloved international host, relieving the world of its cares and seducing its citizens with free refills and stuffed raccoons.
Time magazine and The Spectator have both panned the Odyssey; Deborah Ross in the latter called it “shallow and tiring.” Apparently this is an instance in which the epic poem is better than the movie.
Research indicates that there are health benefits to be had from talking to strangers, the very behavior Progressive commercials – the ones about new homeowners becoming their parents – portray as pathetic.
Fifty years ago today I was in Kutzenhausen, France, having recently arrived as a farm hand at the 16th century Ferme des Fleckenstein. The day was like any other on the farm – cows don’t take off for national holidays – though I seem to recall that late in the afternoon the son – who was also 24 that summer – took me to the small village hall where we each received a glass of white wine. And in the evening, I believe, there was music from an oompah band.