I read some Seamus Heaney Beowulf tonight. His translation feels somehow ancient new, a kind of word accident that could only have been carefully planned.
I feel that way about my favorite translation of Catulus 85, which isn't one of the famous ones, and I can never remember who translated it.
Ōdī et amō. Quārē id faciam fortasse requīris. Nesciō, sed fierī sentiō et excrucior.
I hate her and I love her. Don't ask me why. It's how I feel, that's all, and it hurts.
Maybe that's how Grendal felt about his mother, too. But there's no way to find out for sure.
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