The Naming of Things

So my blog has a silly name. Sure, I could have followed suit with two of my favourite bloggers (Amanda Palmer & Neil Gaiman) and had chrismccartney.blogger, but let's face it, I don't have a whole lot of name recognition. And my name is certainly much less memorable than a weird phrase. It's also a reference that almost nobody will get, so, without further ado, it's time to G(r)eek out.

If you've ever studied Classical Greek at Oxbridge (I'm aware that this is unlikely to be the largest group in) it's quite likely that you've come across Epigram II by Callimachus, also known as Heraclitus. It seems to be a favourite for verse translation practice. Teachers show it to their students because their teacher showed it to them, and so it shall be forever until the end of time. Or until Oxbridge Classics modernises. (Hah.)

Anyway, if you've ever studied the poem you will most likely have also come across across the verse translation of William Cory:

II.

THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept as I remember'd how often you and I 
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, 
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, 
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; 
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. 

*

Odd man, William Johnson Cory (1823-1892). Studied at King's, Cambridge, taught Classics at Eton, beloved tutor of a number of Prime Ministers. Also part of a Classics-obsessed poetical movement known as The Uranians. Proto-homosexual before they'd come up with a word for it, they, amongst other things, continued the classical Greek tradition of praising the adolescent male form. Corey was forced to resign from Eton after a letter to a student, which the student's parents deemed "indiscreet", was made public - yes, I know what you're all thinking. He did marry and have a kid though, so speculate away.

Anyway, he published a collection of verse called Ionica. It includes the translation of Heraclitus, a variety of poetry written in Latin, and a number of - rather good - poems about male beauty. I got a little fascinated after some minimal research and scoured the internet for a copy of the aged little volume. It currently sits on my poetry shelf; yes, I have a poetry shelf.

For those who like their book porn. (It's the slim blue-grey volume in the centre.)

A few things always get me about the poem. Most immediate is that it speaks so easily and directly to grief from ca. 2,500 years ago. I know this shouldn't be a surprise, at least not really, but I never get tired of seeing the extent to which humans, in all times and all cultures, are always very much human. I think that's very worth bearing in mind as a writer too.

Next, it rhymes. Which I'm a sucker for. I very rarely rhyme my personal poetical scribblings, and if I do it's for the odd couplet here or there. That's mainly because rhyming is hard to pull off in a modern context without looking silly; AA, BB, CC, DD is something that we appear to have abandoned as a bit childish. But in a simple way it gives the translated epigram a touch of elegance.

Thirdly, Heraclitus was a poet (or a singer). This is art, not just between friends, but from one artist to another. I wince at the concept of bromance, but there is something compelling about the dynamic. Everyone has read a dozen poems about loss, poetry loves it, but they are invariably lost loves. The loss of an equal and a friend is just as failair, just as compelling, but even today feels like much fresher ground.

And lastly, line 4. "[You and I had] tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky".

Now. I could probably start an argument in an empty room with the air-conditioning unit  (to misappropriate Dead Ringers). If I go see a film, or a play, almost the best part for me is discussing it afterwards. (Which drove my ex-fiance Ed up the wall.) If someone says something very silly at a party, I'm the one who will break self-control and say "But why do you think the EU is a bad thing?".

To me the vital and best part of human interaction is verbal. So I don't like clubs very much, on the grounds that you can't hear a word anyone says. Give me a long chat over a couple of pints any day, and I will very happily talk the sun down the sky.


PS. It has just occurred to me that another way of looking at this blog's title is "I will waste a lot of your time". I think I'm good with that.

It is also quite appropriate that I'm drafting this at 5am.


Music: Andrew Bird, The Naming of Things