A Summer with Homer.
Editions of Ecuador| N° d'inventaire | 22948 |
| Format | 11 x 17 |
| Détails | 256 p., paperback with flaps. |
| Publication | Paris, 2018 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9782849905500 |
The Iliad is the story of the Trojan War. The Odyssey tells of Odysseus's return to his kingdom of Ithaca. One describes the war, the other the restoration of order. Both outline the contours of the human condition. In Troy, it is the rush of enraged masses, manipulated by the gods. In the Odyssey, we discover Odysseus, traveling between islands, and suddenly discovering the possibility of escaping predestination. A very violent oscillation thus plays out between the two poems: the curse of war here, the possibility of an island there, the time of heroes there, inner adventure there. These texts crystallized myths that spread through the bards among the populations of the Mycenaean kingdoms and archaic Greece 2,500 years ago. They seem strange to us, sometimes monstrous. They are populated by hideous creatures, deathly beautiful sorceresses, routed armies, uncompromising friends, sacrificial wives, and furious warriors. Storms arise, walls crumble, gods make love, queens sob, soldiers dry their tears on bloody tunics, men tear each other apart, and a tender scene interrupts the massacre to remind us that caresses stop vengeance. Let us prepare ourselves: we will cross rivers and battlefields, we will be thrown into the fray, invited to the assembly of the gods, we will endure storms and showers of light, we will be shrouded in mists, enter alcoves, visit islands, set foot on reefs. Sometimes, men will bite the dust, to death. Others will be saved. The gods will always watch. And the sun will always shine and reveal beauty mixed with tragedy. Men will strive to carry out their enterprises, but behind each of them, a god will watch over and play his part. Will Man be free to choose or will he have to obey his destiny? Is he a poor pawn or a sovereign creature? The poems will be set against islands, capes, and kingdoms, the precise location of which was determined by a geographer, Victor Bérard, in the 1920s. The Mare Nostrum is the high place from which one of the sources of our Europe sprang, the daughter of Athens as much as of Jerusalem. But one question haunts us. Where exactly do these songs come from, emerging from the depths, exploding into eternity? And why do they retain this incomparable familiarity in our ears? How can we explain that a story 2,500 years old resonates in our ears with a new luster, a sparkle as fresh as the surf of a cove? Why do these verses seem to have been written no later than today, by a very old poet of immortal youth, to teach us what our tomorrows will be made of? In less lyrical terms (Homer is the only master in this matter), where does the freshness of this text come from? Why do these gods and heroes, despite the terror they inspire and the mystery that surrounds them, seem such friendly beings?
The Iliad is the story of the Trojan War. The Odyssey tells of Odysseus's return to his kingdom of Ithaca. One describes the war, the other the restoration of order. Both outline the contours of the human condition. In Troy, it is the rush of enraged masses, manipulated by the gods. In the Odyssey, we discover Odysseus, traveling between islands, and suddenly discovering the possibility of escaping predestination. A very violent oscillation thus plays out between the two poems: the curse of war here, the possibility of an island there, the time of heroes there, inner adventure there. These texts crystallized myths that spread through the bards among the populations of the Mycenaean kingdoms and archaic Greece 2,500 years ago. They seem strange to us, sometimes monstrous. They are populated by hideous creatures, deathly beautiful sorceresses, routed armies, uncompromising friends, sacrificial wives, and furious warriors. Storms arise, walls crumble, gods make love, queens sob, soldiers dry their tears on bloody tunics, men tear each other apart, and a tender scene interrupts the massacre to remind us that caresses stop vengeance. Let us prepare ourselves: we will cross rivers and battlefields, we will be thrown into the fray, invited to the assembly of the gods, we will endure storms and showers of light, we will be shrouded in mists, enter alcoves, visit islands, set foot on reefs. Sometimes, men will bite the dust, to death. Others will be saved. The gods will always watch. And the sun will always shine and reveal beauty mixed with tragedy. Men will strive to carry out their enterprises, but behind each of them, a god will watch over and play his part. Will Man be free to choose or will he have to obey his destiny? Is he a poor pawn or a sovereign creature? The poems will be set against islands, capes, and kingdoms, the precise location of which was determined by a geographer, Victor Bérard, in the 1920s. The Mare Nostrum is the high place from which one of the sources of our Europe sprang, the daughter of Athens as much as of Jerusalem. But one question haunts us. Where exactly do these songs come from, emerging from the depths, exploding into eternity? And why do they retain this incomparable familiarity in our ears? How can we explain that a story 2,500 years old resonates in our ears with a new luster, a sparkle as fresh as the surf of a cove? Why do these verses seem to have been written no later than today, by a very old poet of immortal youth, to teach us what our tomorrows will be made of? In less lyrical terms (Homer is the only master in this matter), where does the freshness of this text come from? Why do these gods and heroes, despite the terror they inspire and the mystery that surrounds them, seem such friendly beings?