Which translation of The Odyssey should you read?

Tell me, Muse, the story of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many people and he learnt their ways. He suffered great anguish on the high seas in his struggles to preserve his life and bring his comrades home. But he failed to save those comrades, in spite of all his efforts. It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly they devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.

Tell me the tale of a man, Muse, who had so many roundabout ways To wander, driven off course, after sacking Troy’s hallowed keep; Many the peoples whose cities he saw and whose ways of thinking he learned, Many the toils he suffered at sea, anguish in his heart As he struggled to safeguard his life and the homecoming of his companions. But he did not save his companions even so, though he longed to, For their heedlessness destroyed them, theirs and nobody else’s— Fools that they were, like children, who devoured the sun-god Hyperion’s Cattle, and so he took from them the day of their homecoming. Goddess, start where you will; daughter of Zeus, share the tale with us too.

Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven far journeys, after he had sacked Troy's sacred citadel. Many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of, many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea, struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions. Even so he could not save his companions, hard though he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness, fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God, and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.

SPEAK, MEMORY— Of the cunning hero, The wanderer, blown off course time and again After he plundered Troy’s sacred heights. Speak Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped, The suffering deep in his heart at sea As he struggled to survive and bring his men home But could not save them, hard as he tried— The fools—destroyed by their own recklessness When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun, And that god snuffed out their day of return. Of these things, Speak, Immortal One, And tell the tale once more in our time.

The man, Muse—tell me about that resourceful man, who wandered far and wide, when he’d sacked Troy’s sacred citadel: many men’s townships he saw, and learned their ways of thinking, many the griefs he suffered at heart on the open sea, battling for his own life and his comrades’ homecoming. Yet no way could he save his comrades, much though he longed to— it was through their own blind recklessness that they perished, the fools, for they slaughtered the cattle of Hēlios the sun god and ate them: for that he took from them their day of returning. Tell us this tale, goddess, child of Zeus; start anywhere in it!

The man for wisdom's various arts renown'd, Long exercised in woes, O Muse! resound; Who, when his arms had wrought the destined fall Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-built wall, Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray'd, Their manners noted, and their states survey'd, On stormy seas unnumber'd toils he bore, Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore: Vain toils! their impious folly dared to prey On herds devoted to the god of day; The god vindictive doom'd them never more (Ah, men unbless'd!) to touch that natal shore. Oh, snatch some portion of these acts from fate, Celestial Muse! and to our world relate.

Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, oh daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.

The Man, O Muse, inform, that many a way Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay; That wandered wondrous far, when he the town Of sacred Troy had sack’d and shivered down; The cities of a world of nations, With all their manners, minds, and fashions, He saw and knew; at sea felt many woes, Much care sustained, to save from overthrows Himself and friends in their retreat for home; But so their fates he could not overcome, Though much he thirsted it. O men unwise, They perish’d by their own impieties, That in their hunger’s rapine would not shun The oxen of the lofty-going Sun, Who therefore from their eyes the day bereft Of safe return. These acts, in some part left, Tell us, as others, deified seed of Jove.

“Cyclops,” I said, “you ask me my name. I’ll tell it to you; and in return give me the gift you promised me. My name is Nobody. That is what I am called by my mother and father and by all my friends.” The Cyclops answered me from his cruel heart. “Of all his company I will eat Nobody last, and the rest before him. That shall be your gift.” He had hardly spoken before he toppled over and fell face upwards on the floor, where he lay with his great neck twisted to one side, and all-compelling sleep overpowered him. In his drunken stupor he vomited, and a stream of wine mixed with morsels of men’s flesh poured from his throat.

‘Cyclops, you’ve been asking me for my famous name and now I shall tell you—and then you’ll give me the guest-gift you’d promised me. No-One is my name. No-One is what people call me, My mother and my father and all of my comrades, too.’ My words. And there came right away this reply from his pitiless heart: ‘I’ll eat No-One last of all, after the rest of his comrades. First I’ll eat the others—that will be your guest-gift!’ He teetered and fell down, flat on his back, and then Lay there, his massive neck bent at an angle. Then sleep, Which subdues all, seized him. Wine ran out of his gullet— Morsels of human meat, too. Loaded with wine, he kept belching.

“Cyclops, you ask me for my famous name. I will tell you then, but you must give me a guest gift as you have promised. Nobody is my name. My father and mother call me Nobody, as do all the others who are my companions.” So I spoke, and he answered me in pitiless spirit: “Then I will eat Nobody after his friends, and the others I will eat first, and that shall be my guest present to you.” He spoke and slumped away and fell on his back, and lay there with his thick neck crooked over on one side, and sleep who subdues all came on and captured him, and the wine gurgled up from his gullet with gobs of human meat. This was his drunken vomiting.

‘Cyclops, You ask me my name, my glorious name, And I will tell it to you. Remember now, To give me the gift just as you promised. Noman is my name. They call me Noman— My mother, my father, and all my friends, too.’ He answered me from his pitiless heart: ‘Noman I will eat last after his friends. Friends first, him last. That’s my gift to you.’ He listed as he spoke and then fell flat on his back, His thick neck bent sideways. He was sound asleep, Belching out wine and bits of human flesh In his drunken stupor.

‘Kyklōps, do you ask me my famous name? Very well, I will tell you— and then you give me that guest-gift, just as you promised! Nobody is my name, Nobody’s what I’m called by my mother and father and all my comrades.’ So I spoke, and at once he with pitiless heart responded: ‘Nobody I shall eat last of all, when I’ve had all his companions, and the others first: so, that will be your guest-gift.’ So saying, he swayed and fell on his back, lay sprawling with his thick neck twisted sideways: overmastering sleep possessed him, from his gullet there gushed out wine and gobbets of human flesh, as he drunkenly vomited.

'Thy promised boon, O Cyclop! now I claim, And plead my title; Noman is my name. By that distinguish'd from my tender years, 'Tis what my parents call me, and my peers. The giant then: 'Our promis'd grace receive, The hospitable boon we mean to give: When all thy wretched crew have felt my power, Noman shall be the last I will devour.' He said: then nodding with the fumes of wine Droop'd his huge head, and snoring lay supine. His neck obliquely o'er his shoulders hung, Press'd with the weight of sleep that tames the strong: There belch'd the mingled streams of wine and blood, And human flesh, his indigested food.

‘Cyclops, you ask my name and I will tell it you; give me, therefore, the present you promised me; my name is Noman; this is what my father and mother and my friends have always called me.’ But the cruel wretch said, ‘Then I will eat all Noman’s comrades before Noman himself, and will keep Noman for the last. This is the present that I will make him.’ As he spoke he reeled, and fell sprawling face upwards on the ground. His great neck hung heavily backwards and a deep sleep took hold upon him. Presently he turned sick, and threw up both wine and the gobbets of human flesh on which he had been gorging, for he was very drunk.

‘Cyclop! Now, As thou demand’st, I’ll tell thee my name; do thou Make good thy hospitable gift to me. My name is No-Man; No-Man each degree Of friends, as well as parents, call my name.’ He answer’d, as his cruel soul became: ‘No-Man! I’ll eat thee last of all thy friends; And this is that in which so much amends I vow’d to thy deservings. Thus shall be My hospitable gift made good to thee.’ This said, he upwards fell, but then bent round His fleshy neck; and Sleep, with all crowns crown’d, Subdu’d the savage. From his throat brake out My wine, with man’s flesh gobbets, like a spout, When, loaded with his cups, he lay and snor’d; …

At his words her knees began to tremble and her heart melted as she realized that he had given her infallible proof. Bursting into tears she ran up to Odysseus, threw her arms round his neck and kissed his head. ‘Odysseus,’ she cried, ‘do not be angry with me, you who were always the most understanding of men. All our unhappiness is due to the gods, who couldn’t bear to see us share the joys of youth and reach the threshold of old age together.

Right then and there, her knees and her heart gave way When she recognized the sure signs Odysseus had clearly described. Bursting into tears, she ran up to him, throwing her arms Around Odysseus’s neck and kissing his head as she said: “Don’t be vexed with me, Odysseus, since in all other things You were always so sensible. But the gods have given us sorrow— The gods who begrudged us the chance to remain at each other’s side While enjoying the days of our youth and then reaching the threshold of age.

So he spoke, and her knees and the heart within her went slack as she recognized the clear proofs that Odysseus had given; but then she burst into tears and ran straight to him, throwing her arms around the neck of Odysseus, and kissed his head, saying: ‘Do not be angry with me, Odysseus, since, beyond other men, you have the most understanding. The gods granted us misery, in jealousy over the thought that we two, always together, should enjoy our youth, and then come to the threshold of old age.

At this, Penelope finally let go. Odysseus had shown he knew their old secret. In tears, she ran straight to him, threw her arms Around him, kissed his face, and said: “Don’t be angry with me, Odysseus. You, Of all men, know how the world goes. It is the gods who gave us sorrow, the gods Who begrudged us a life together, enjoying Our youth and arriving side by side To the threshold of old age.

So he spoke. Her knees and heart were undone on the spot, since well she knew the sure tokens that Odysseus had described. Then she ran straight to him in tears, and flung her arms about his neck, kissed his face, and addressed him, saying: “Don’t be angry with me, Odysseus! In all other matters you’ve been the wisest of men—the gods it was brought us grief, begrudging that we two should remain one with the other, enjoy our joint life together from youth to the brink of old age.

While yet he speaks, her powers of life decay; She sickens, trembles, falls, and faints away. At length recovering, to his arms she flew, And strain'd him close, as to his breast she grew. The tears pour'd down amain, and "O (she cries) Let not against thy spouse thine anger rise! O versed in every turn of human art, Forgive the weakness of a woman's heart! The righteous powers, that mortal lot dispose, Decree us to sustain a length of woes. And from the flower of life the bliss deny To bloom together, fade away, and die.

When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly broke down. She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him. “Do not be angry with me Ulysses,” she cried, “you, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us. Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; …

This sunk her knees and heart, to hear so true The signs she urg’d; and first did tears ensue Her rapt assurance; then she ran and spread Her arms about his neck, kiss’d oft his head, And thus the curious stay she made excus’d: ‘Ulysses! Be not angry that I us’d Such strange delays to this, since heretofore Your suff’ring wisdom hath the garland wore From all that breathe; and ’tis the gods that thus, With mutual miss so long afflicting us, Have caused my coyness; to our youths envied That wish’d society that should have tied Our youths and years together; …