Personal Injury Law

Thursday Afternoon Horace

So may the goddess who rules over Cyprus; so may the bright stars, the
brothers of Helen; and so may the father of the winds, confining all
except Iapyx, direct thee, O ship, who art intrusted with Virgil; my
prayer is, that thou mayest land him safe on the Athenian shore, and
preserve the half of my soul. Surely oak and three-fold brass surrounded
his heart who first trusted a frail vessel to the merciless ocean, nor
was afraid of the impetuous Africus contending with the northern storms,
nor of the mournful Hyades, nor of the rage of Notus, than whom there is
not a more absolute controller of the Adriatic, either to raise or
assuage its waves at pleasure. What path of death did he fear, who
beheld unmoved the rolling monsters of the deep; who beheld unmoved the
tempestuous swelling of the sea, and the Acroceraunians--ill-famed
rocks?

In vain has God in his wisdom divided the countries of the earth by the
separating ocean, if nevertheless profane ships bound over waters not to
be violated. The race of man presumptuous enough to endure everything,
rushes on through forbidden wickedness.

The presumptuous son of Iapetus, by an impious fraud, brought down fire
into the world. After fire was stolen from the celestial mansions,
consumption and a new train of fevers settled upon the earth, and the
slow approaching necessity of death, which, till now, was remote,
accelerated its pace. Daedalus essayed the empty air with wings not
permitted to man. The labor of Hercules broke through Acheron. There is
nothing too arduous for mortals to attempt. We aim at heaven itself in
our folly; neither do we suffer, by our wickedness, Jupiter to lay aside
his revengeful thunderbolts.

N.B. We're pretty sure that this qualifies as poetry, even though this translation (which lives here) lacks the distinctive different-length lines. Adding line feeds and carriage returns in the middle of sentences seemed to us like a typographical affectation when we first encountered R. Buckminster Fuller doing it, and even more so with E.E. Cummings . We think that this has led to a notion that poetry is what happens when you chop up sentences into bits of two or three words, and, like King Canute, we bid the tide to turn, with about as much effect.

Full post as published by West Neanderthal Drive on February 21, 2008 (boomark / email).