A powerful version of the Latin classic by England's late Poet Laureate, now in paperback.When it was published in 1997, Tales from Ovid was immediately recognized as a classic in its own right, as the best rering of Ovid in generations, and as a major book in Ted Hughes's oeuvre. The Metamorphoses of Ovid stands with the works of Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton as a classic of world poetry; Hughes translated twenty-four of its stories with great power and directness. The result is the liveliest twentieth-century version of the classic, at once a delight for the Latinist and an appealing introduction to Ovid for the general reader.
|Publisher:||Farrar, Straus and Giroux|
|Product dimensions:||5.56(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.78(d)|
About the Author
Ted Hughes was Poet Laureate of England and the author of many books of poetry. His works include Phedre, Birthday Letters, and Oresteia of Aeschylus, among others. He died in 1998.
Read an Excerpt
Excerpt from Tales From Ovid by Ted Hughes. Copyright © 1999 by Ted Hughes. To be published in March, 1999 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
Creation; Four Ages;
Now I am ready to tell how bodies are changed
Into different bodies.
I summon the supernatural beings
Who first contrived
In the stuff of life.
You did it for your own amusement.
Descend again, be pleased to reanimate
This revival of those marvels.
Reveal, now, exactly
How they were performed
From the beginning
Up to this moment.
Before sea or land, before even sky
Which contains all,
Nature wore only one mask
Since called Chaos.
A huge agglomeration of upset.
A bolus of everythingbut
As if aborted.
And the total arsenal of entropy
Already at war within it.
No sun showed one thing to another,
Played her phases in heaven,
Spun in empty air on her own magnet,
Basked or roamed on the long beaches.
Land, sea, air, were all there
But not to be trodden, or swum in.
Air was simply darkness.
Everything fluid or vapour, form formless.
Each thing hostile
To every other thing: at every point
Hot fought cold, moist dry, soft hard, and the weightless
God, or some such artist as resourceful,
Began to sort it out.
Land here, sky there,
And sea there.
Up there, the heavenly stratosphere.
Down here, the cloudy, the windy.
He gave to each its place,
Independent, gazing about freshly.
Each one a harmonic of the others,
Just like the strings
That would resound, one day, in the dome of the tortoise.
The fiery aspiration that makes heaven
Took it to the top.
The air, happy to be idle,
Lay between that and the earth
Which rested at the bottom
Engorged with heavy metals,
Embraced by delicate waters.
When the ingenious one
Had gained control of the mass
And decided the cosmic divisions
He rolled earth into a ball.
Then he commanded the water to spread out flat,
To lift itself into waves
According to the whim of the wind,
And to hurl itself at the land's edges.
He conjured springs to rise and be manifest,
Deep and gloomy ponds,
Flashing delicious lakes.
Headstrong electrifying rivers
To observe their banksand to pour
Part of their delight into earth's dark
And to donate the remainder to ocean
Swelling the uproar on shores.
Then he instructed the plains
How to roll sweetly to the horizon.
He directed the valleys
To go deep.
And the mountains to rear up
Humping their backs.
Everywhere he taught
The tree its leaf.
Having made a pattern in heaven
Two zones to the left, two to the right
And a fifth zone, fierier, between
lSo did the Wisdom
Divide the earth's orb with the same:
A middle zone uninhabitable
Under the fire,
The outermost two zones beneath deep snow,
And between them, two temperate zones
Alternating cold and heat.
Air hung over the earth
By just so much heavier than fire
As water is lighter than earth.
There the Creator deployed cloud,
Thunder to awe the hearts of men,
To polish the bolt and the lightning.
Yet he forbade the winds
To use the air as they pleased.
Even now, as they are, within their wards,
These madhouse brothers, fighting each other,
All but shake the globe to pieces.
The East is given to Eurus
Arabia, Persia, all that the morning star
Sees from the Himalayas.
Zephyr lives in the sunset.
Far to the North, beyond Scythia,
Beneath the Great Bear, Boreas
Bristles and turns.
Opposite, in the South,
Is hidden in dripping fog.
Over them all
Weightless, liquid, ether floats, pure,
Purged of every earthly taint.
Hardly had he, the wise one, ordered all this
Than the stars
Clogged before in the dark huddle of Chaos
Alit glittering in their positions.
And now to bring quick life
Into every corner
He gave the bright ground of heaven
To the gods, the stars and the planets.
To the fish he gave the waters.
To beasts the earth, to birds the air.
Nothing was any closer to the gods
Than these humble beings,
None with ampler mind,
None with a will masterful and able
To rule all the others.r
Till man came.
Either the Maker
Conceiving a holier revision
Of what he had already created
Sculpted man from his own ectoplasm,
Being such a new precipitate
Of the etheric heaven
Cradled in its dust unearthly crystals.
Gathered that fiery dust and slaked it
With the pure spring water,
And rolled it under his hands,
Pounded it, thumbed it, moulded it
Into a body shaped like that of a god.
Though all the beasts
Hang their heads from horizontal backbones
And study the earth
Beneath their feet, Prometheus
Upended man into the vertical
So to comprehend balance.
Then tipped up his chin
So to widen his outlook on heaven.
In this way the heap of all disorder
It was adorned with the godlike novelty
And the first age was Gold.
Without laws, without law's enforcers,
This age understood and obeyed
What had created it.
Listening deeply, man kept faith with the source.
None dreaded judgement.
For no table of crimes measured out
The degrees of torture allotted
Between dismissal and death.
Prayed in panic to the tyrant's puppet.
Undefended all felt safe and were happy.
Then the great conifers
Ruffled at home on the high hills.
They had no premonition of the axe
Hurtling towards them on its parabola.
Or of the shipyards. Or of what other lands
They would glimpse from the lift of the ocean swell.
No man had crossed salt water.
Cities had not dug themselves in
Behind deep moats, guarded by towers.
No sword had bitten its own
Reflection in the shield. No trumpets
Magnified the battle-cries
Of lions and bulls
Out through the mouth-holes in helmets.
Men needed no weapons.
Nations loved one another.
And the earth, unbroken by plough or by hoe,
Piled the table high. Mankind
Was content to gather the abundance
Of whatever ripened.
Blackberry or strawberry, mushroom or truffle,
Every kind of nut, figs, apples, cherries,
Apricots and pears, and, ankle deep,
Acorns under the tree of the Thunderer.
Spring weather, the airs of spring,
All year long brought blossom.
The unworked earth
Whitened beneath the bowed wealth of the corn.
Rivers of milk mingled with rivers of nectar.
And out of the black oak oozed amber honey.
After Jove had castrated Saturn,
Under the new reign the Age of Silver
(Lower than the Gold, but better
Than the coming Age of Brass)
Fell into four seasons.
Now, as never before,
All colour burnt out of it, the air
Wavered into flame. Or icicles
Strummed in the wind that made them.
Not in a cave, not in a half-snug thicket,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
*Gruesome Alert*"Think of it.Your expensive coiffureWith your face wrapped in itWrenched off like a cork, at the neck,Your bloodPoured out over your mother and sisters,Your pedigree carcaseRipped by unthinking fingersInto portions, and your blue entrails,Tangled in thorns and draped over dusty rocks,Tugged at by foxes."Tales from Ovid by Ted Hughes takes 24 stories from the Metamorphoses and liberally translates them with vivid, powerful imagery. It is a rare one of these poems that doesn't contain violent and gruesome acts, albeit beautifully and lyrically rendered. Even in Pygmalion the Crestae "butchered their guests." You'll recall that these stories typically feature humans transformed by the Gods into animals, flowers, stone and so on (Pygmalion features the reverse). You're familiar with many of the stories in one way or another - greedy Midas wanting all he touches turned to gold, Hermaphroditas ("And there in the giddy boil/Two bodies melting into a single body/Seamless as the water"), Venus, Adonis, Atalanta, and the golden apples, etc. The stories are beautifully written and compelling, even as many of them make you squirm in discomfort.Some critics have said Hughes selected many of the most violent and gruesome ones from the 250 or so that Ovid wrote. Ovid scholars could comment on that better than I can, but the ones he selected certainly match up well with his talents (he unfortunately died in 1998). In his hands, these ancient Greek stories come to life, threatening to reach off the page and pull you in by your expensive coiffure.
Indispensable reading. An ancient postmodern masterpiece. Hughes translation is top notch.