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Cargando... Sátiras ; Epístolas ; Arte poéticapor Horace
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Inscríbete en LibraryThing para averiguar si este libro te gustará. Actualmente no hay Conversaciones sobre este libro. Geen hekeldichten, wel een soort potpourri. Voor mij zijn de mooiste: nr 6: mooi zelfbeeld met accent op waarachtigheid, ondanks bescheiden afkomst, en trots op zijn klein fortuin dat hem geen plichten oplegt; nr 9: zeer vinnig geschreven stuk over een lastige man die Horatius op straat aanklampt en die hem niet lost. sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
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La poesia de Horacio rezuma la tristeza vital de su epoca, la nostalgia de la virtuosa Roma y el anhelo de un futuro esperanzador. Esa mirada ironica y una expresion ambigua es lo que persiste en sus Satiras, y la expresion maxima del anhelo de una vida armoniosa en sus Epistolas; ambas obras inician la gran tradicion de satira y epistola de todas las literaturas europeas. El Arte poetica, que la preceptiva neoclasica considero un tratado poetico, cierra con brillantez esta obra de Horacio. No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
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Google Books — Cargando... GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)871.01Literature Latin Latin poetry –500Clasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio:
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Horace composes hexameter dactyls, for his Satires and Epistles; he uses the same meter as heroic verse like the Aeneid. Or the Metamorphoses, though Ovid broke away in his love books, took a foot away from hexameters for elegiac couplets. A few lines from Horace's first Epistle:
Silver's less valuable than gold, though gold's
less than virtue. "Fellow Americans,
make money-- Then worry about being
good." That's Wall Street speaking, young and old
alike, Backpack set and too, the Blackberry. (I.i.52ff)
If you're wondering, my "Fellow Americans" is Horace's "O cives, cives..." Forty lines later, he describes my classroom experience,
If you see my hair cut jagged, uneven,
you students laugh, or if my collar's
worn, my cuff frayed, my overcoat, well...
you laugh. Teachers are figures of fun
to the stupid...and to smart-alecks.
But would you laugh if my ideas are
too stupid for words, only acceptable
in the Republican primary? I would.
He ends this first verse letter,
Sum it up: Less than Jove only
Is the wise man, who is rich enough,
free, honored, goodlooking, therefore king
of others, and above all, healthy--
except when bothered by this damn cold. (lines 106-09)
His Satires are not political, but behavioral. For instance, he observes of singers their reluctance when asked, or their plenitude when ignored, "inter amicos / ut numquam inducant animum cantare rogati, / inussi numquam desistant." Asked to sing, they don't, but can't be stopped, if unasked. (I.iii.p33). He continues with a specific singer, then looks at his ability to accept criticism of his inconsistencies, or anyone's ability. And Horace's very next satire defends satire, but in more detail in Book 2, II, #1. Some say his verse is too "acer," too cutting, others, too weak; what to do? Trebatus says, Stop. Horace, "But I can't sleep." "Then oil up and swim across the Tiber three times, and with nightfall, gas up with wine. You'll sleep. Or write about victorious Caesar"(126). Horace, "No, I can't write about war--not everybody can write about Parthians. A thousand different tastes for a thousand men. For me, "me pedibus delectat claudere verba."(128) I like housing words in a beat.
He describes specific critics, Cervius sues, Turius IS a judge, will fine you, Scaeva the big spender will polish off his great aunt with hemlock.
I had first read these a couple of decades back. Wonderful account of travel, by boat overnight through the Pontine swamp, meeting up with Vergil and Maecenas in Campania, on to Benevento, on to Brindisium to mediate with Marc Antony for Augustus.
Then there's his magnificent, thorough Ars Poetica, 500 lines. My teacher Archibald MacLeish wrote a much briefer one, easily memorized, which famously ends,
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea./
A poem should not mean
But be.
Horace begins his,
To a human head a sculptor joins a horse's
Ass, and daubs scatteres feathers onto
Limbs from gross anatomy lab, s a woman's
Lovely top bottoms in a black hairy fish
That can stink. Now you're laughing at me, but
How's this any worse than a book
Where nothing fits, from head to foot?
Sure sculptors are free to be licentious,
But shouldn't even "poetic license" be licensed?
I grant it just as it's to me been granted,
But not to this extent, the sweet turned tart,
Serpents twinned with birds, lambs tigers. (AWP, Princeton, 1978) ( )