A Year of Greek

     I have finished Hans-Friedrich Mueller’s Greek 101 course in Homeric Greek, through the Great Courses series. It’s supposed to be a two-semester course, but it took me two and a half years to get through the thirty-six lessons and their exercises, since I was moving at my own pace and enjoying myself. I immediately started a review, which I hope to finish in a couple of months rather than years. The course includes a half-hour video of Mueller (who teaches Classics at Union College in Schenectady) presenting the material for each lesson, and in the handbook supplied with the DVD or download there are morphology exercises for each lesson, translation of sample sentences from Greek to English and English to Greek, some short koiné or common Greek translations from the New Testament, and, after the first dozen lessons, translation from the Iliad—five or six lines to scan and translate in each lesson, so that by the time you’re through, you’ve translated about 130 lines of the Iliad. Fred is a good, entertaining, often funny teacher and an interesting fellow—I’ve corresponded with him by email—and he follows the general approach in the classic textbook Homeric Greek for Beginners written by Clyde Pharr and revised by others over the years. I’d give myself a solid B- for the first semester. For the second semester, I think I’ll be kind to myself and say I changed my status to auditor. But I expect to do better in reviewing the second half.

Dueling in Lit

            Dueling was always condemned by moralists, but the imagination of writers worked hard to shock and humiliate it out of style. Sir Richard Steele pointed out in The Tatler that it was an odd way of getting satisfaction from a man (there are female instances: http://listverse.com/2017/09/04/top-10-female-duels-and-duelists/) to give him the opportunity of shooting you through the head. Shakespeare makes a joke of it: the terrified coxcomb urged to the fight, the terrified woman disguised as a man, almost forced into a duel by the jokers who later humiliate Malvolio. Pushkin, later to die in a duel himself, has his foolish hero Eugene Onegin kill his best friend in a duel growing out of petty irritation. Thackeray’s Barry Lyndon believes himself to have killed his dueling opponent when in fact their pistols were loaded with blanks. In The Radetzky March, we are in the twentieth century, though the officers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire have barely heard the news, when Lieutenant Trotta’s best friend dies in a duel Trotta’s behavior has provoked, though he does not fire the shot. For our authors, dueling represents many centuries of petty resentment, forced acquiescence to a murderous practice, deadly misunderstandings, tragic and needless consequences.

Another million-dollar idea

Crowd-sourcing a question: how would you die-cut a business-card sized piece of card stock so that you could fold it into a wedge-shaped shim to steady a table with uneven legs? Wouldn’t this be a handy thing to have in your wallet? Yes, I know you can fold a napkin or use a matchbook—but use your engineering smarts and come up with a real answer.

My Favorite Cather

            My favorite Willa Cather book is Death Comes for the Archbishop, which was published in 1927. Father Jean Marie Latour from Auvergne is the man chosen at the midpoint of the nineteenth century to be the vicar and then the bishop of the huge territory of New Mexico as it moves from Mexican to American control. From his seat at Santa Fe he travels enormous distances in the service of his church and his god, dealing patiently but eventually effectively with the recalcitrant Bishop of Durango, avaricious and concupiscent priests, an unforgiving desert, and the cultural conservatism of the Indians. He builds a cathedral at Santa Fe and eventually must say goodbye to his devoted assistant Father Joseph Vaillant, who goes to head dioceses first in Tucson and then in Denver.

            Cather has some peculiarities: she consistently uses the form drouth for drought, as if she were transcribing the way many Nebraskans say it; she takes pious capitalization so far as to include pronouns for Mary; she seems more at home with place description than with summary of action or character delineation; and she invests her French-born bishop with an attitude about the Indians that finds expression in odd imagery: “He felt as if he were celebrating Mass at the bottom of the sea, for antediluvian creatures; for types of life so old, so hardened, so shut within their shells . . . . those shell-like backs . . . . rock-turtles . . . something reptilian . . . like the crustaceans in their armour.”

            My favorite passage tries to get at the feeling of the western landscape: “Elsewhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longs for when one was far away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived in, was the sky, the sky!”