TW3

The week just past was largely eaten by locusts. My cold persisted into Wednesday, and I cancelled my classes; on Friday, I was only able to muster about half an hour of croaking lecture before dismissing my calculus students.

I've been adding to the collection of Greek and Latin classics on my Kindle. At one point, I decided to add the poetry of Juvenal and Catullus to the stock. However, searching on "Juvenal" on Project Gutenberg produces a list of... juvenilia. No Juvenal. (I did manage to find a translation of the Satires elsewhere, later on.) Meanwhile, a search on "Catullus" produced an inviting dual translation, into verse by Richard Burton and into prose by Leonard Smithers. The name "Smithers", in connection with Catullus, rang a bell; after some thought, I pulled out 84, Charing Cross Road and flipped to Helene Hanff's reaction to her encounter with this work:

i write you from under the bed where that catullus drove me.

i mean it PASSETH understanding.

Up till now, the only Richard Burton I ever heard of is a handsome young actor I've seen in a couple of British movies and I wish I'd kept it that way. This one got knighted for turning Catullus - caTULLus - into Victorian hearts and flowers.

and poor little mr. smithers must have been afraid his mother was going to read it, he like to KILL himself cleaning it all up.

all right, let's just you go find me a nice plain Latin Catullus, I bought myself a Cassell's dictionary, I'll work out the hard passages by myself.

(I love Helene Hanff.)

Needless to say, I took a pass on that one. I suppose I could pay for a modern translation.

The cold does seem to be finally going away, after a prolonged duel with the Quils.