Calling Up the Dead: Translating the Footnotes to Book 11 of the Odyssey

Guest post written by Camden Roy (UNH 2022, Classics and Italian Studies), based on remarks given at the UNH Undergraduate Research Conference.

When I tell people that I’ve spent much of my time in the last two years here translating footnotes, they look puzzled. You see, with my other research, there’s a foothold for the perplexed. Irish literature has its commonplace appeal and seemingly everyone has an opinion on Christianity. But footnotes? They’re a bit less exciting—at first glance. 

I’m here today to talk about my experience translating the scholia (essentially, ancient footnotes, more precisely marginal footnotes) to book 11 of the Odyssey (technically called the V-Scholia). My goal is to show you what reading scholia is like, how it replicates the journey of Odysseus’ calling up of the dead in the Odyssey—that strange reversal of κατάβασις, “a going downward” into the underworld. Along the way we’ll meet guides, get lost on digressions, and glimpse those bits of life that stand in relief to mythical lands of death. By the end , I hope to have shown you—if only a bit—the value of the scholia for the modern reader—and the joy you can find in translating ancient footnotes.

As a brief word of preface, my work is but a portion of the first publicly available translation of the mythological narratives contained in the scholia, captained by UNH’s own Professor Scott Smith. My translations, alongside others, will be published online—freely available as a companion for any reader of the Odyssey. In a time when Classics programs across the country are at risk, this kind of public humanities work is immensely important.

Now, on to our underworld journey.

In Odyssey 11, Odysseus enters the dark land of Cimmeria and, following the instructions of the goddess Circe, offers libations and the blood of cattle and sheep to the Dead. To borrow the words of Emily Wilson, recent translator of the Odyssey, Odysseus is immediately surrounded by the shades of “Teenagers, girls and boys, the old… fresh young brides… and many men cut down in battle.” Throughout the rest of the book, Odysseus asks the spirits for guidance, hears the stories of their past lives, and listens to their desires.

Strangely, I find the feeling of perusing the scholia to be strikingly similar to calling up the dead—minus the blood sacrifice, of course. Opening the text of the V-Scholia, you’re immediately surrounded by the musings of long-dead scholars and commenters. Text entries, each indexed to individual lines in the epic text, each have some bit of wisdom—relevant or otherwise—to offer. 

The simplest of these entries to account for are the glosses. Just as an introductory edition of Shakespeare will offer “please” as a more palatable modern alternative to “prithee,” these glosses exchange a Homeric word for more common alternatives. Unfamiliar with the poetic word ὁδίτης in line 127? Try ὁδοιπόρος (equally poetic, but also found in a prose inscription. These entries are legion, and of little practical use for the translator, but they push us onward.

Next are the guides. These clarify simple, objective, bits of information. For instance, the note to line 577 tells us that one Greek plethron is equal to one sixth of a Greek stade. Or—perhaps more useful to the modern reader—the note to line 107 clarifies that the island of Thrinacia is itself Sicily, where one can find three capes: Pelorus, Pachynus, and Lilybaion. 

The glosses and the guides offer what we expect from footnotes. The text presents us with a problem, and the scholia provides us with a solution. These are the translator’s Tiresias—the Virgil to the translator’s Dante—in that they give us exactly what we came for. 

Going forward and deeper into the scholia, we meet entries that take on a mind of their own. They force us to digress from the text, consider what they have to say. The simple mention of a name in Odysseus’ narrative summons a grand narrative in the scholia. For instance, the mention of Neleus in line 283 prompts the scholiasts to tell us his relationship to Poseidon, how he was driven out of his home-city of Pelias and founded Pylos in the Peloponnese, and simply that “he lived prosperously.” For another example, the Scholia takes Homer’s simple mention of Eriphyle, who “took precious gold in exchange for the life of her own lord,” in line 326 and turns it into an epic narrative of its own:

Amphiaraus, son of Iocles [sic = Oicles], married Eriphyle, daughter of Talaus. He had a disagreement with Adrastos regarding some things. When he was once again reconciled, Amphiaraus swore an oath. He agreed that when he and Adrastus would disagree with each other, they would turn to Eriphyle to judge and trust in her. Later on, when his army was at Thebes, Amphiaraus held back the Argives because he foresaw their forthcoming destruction. Eriphyle, having taken the necklace of Harmonia from Polyneices, betrayed those fighting alongside Adrastos. Amphiaraus saw her receiving the gift and laid many charges upon her. When he sent the army to war, he commanded Alcmaeon not to travel to Thebes with the Epigoni until he killed his mother. All this transpired, it is said: on account of his matricide, Alcmaeon was driven mad, but the gods released him from his madness because he piously came to his father’s aid by killing his mother. This is the story according to Asclepiades.

Here we can see the goal of the scholiast—and any good footnote—is to explain the Homeric passage as concisely as possible. As such—and perhaps despite this goal—other details are included with minimal explanation. Amphiaraus and Adrastos argue over “some things.” Amphiaraus suddenly has the ability to give accurate prophecy. Alcmaeon, their son, loses his mind and regains it in the same line. These are digressions and they are rich in these little details, providing windows into a broader mythical landscape than the Odyssey alone allows. 

For the most part, these entries end with the short conclusion “This is the story according to…” followed by a mythographer’s name. If we view the mention of names as a summoning, a calling up of the dead mythographer to tell us their tale, then this short phrase acts as their banishment, returning them to the crowd of scholia entries. Underlying these digressions is a sense of the past. By ascribing a source to these entries, the scholiast resigns them to the past—Pherecydes is gone. So too are Hesiod and Asclepiades. They’re all able to be banished. 

In stark contrast, we have our final group of entries. These, too, are digressions but they lack a source. Here we see the voice of the Scholiasts themselves. For example, a note to line 521 relays a narrative regarding the dealings of the mythical Eurypylos’ mother.

Some say that the “women’s gifts” is the golden vine (= a necklace) given to Tros by Zeus in exchange for the abduction of Ganymedes. It then fell to Priam through succession. Homer knew nothing of this, however. A better explanation is that Priam promised to give one of his daughters to Eurypylos as a wife, just as Othryoneus did (Il. 13.365–69). In other words, “The gifts were given to Eurypylus’ wife by Priam to persuade her husband, though unwilling, to fight as an ally of the Trojans.”

The scholiast tells his tale, but ultimately concludes “Homer could not have known this, however.” These sort of comments — small value judgments more than anything—reveal the bits of imminent life underlying the seemingly “dead” landscape of mythographers. In the end, the only spirit that cannot be banished is the scholiast himself.

And so we look back on a journey not so unlike Odysseus’ own in Book 11. Reading the scholia is calling up the dead. Looking for guidance, getting lost in mythological digressions, and finding bits of everyday—albeit scholarly—life among the dead. Thank you for coming along on this journey with me—I hope you find footnotes just a bit more interesting now.