Further to the mysteries of a past day, Coco read* today ‘that a great and worthy twentieth century’ Irish poet ‘declined to produce a translation of’ Beowulf ‘because it was considered that someone of a different enthnicity, genre and mother tongue’, not to mention culture, to the Old English author ‘could not accurately reflect and interpret’ this great poetry.
For the real story of Beowulf he refers you to Professor Heather O’Donoghue, here and to her book…
Coco is now on the search for an original ancient Greek to labour afresh in the translation of the poetry of [place here the name of your favourite ancient Greek author] but in the words of one Latin translator slightly paraphrased: Don’t worry too much about your pronunciation there are no Romans about today to correct you, and in the Bowdlerised words of a Renaissance writer: My attempt for Greek’s labour to find is vain, for I who myself have deceivèd shall fail.
* The catastrophic and apostrophic additions and amendment in Coco’s first paragraph have been added for clarity.
The heightening of ‘the debate in the Netherlands over the ethics of translation’ probably suggests that the Dutch are expected to read every other language in the original tongue. Given their outstanding ability to speak English, as no true born Englishman can, Coco has no doubt that that every true born Dutchman will rise to the challenge to drive metaphorically the illiterati into the abyss of darkness otherwise known as the North Sea, as they consume with an avarice insatiable for other tongues unknown since the day of Babel.
