Anyone inclined to follow G.K. Chesterton’s advice to read Virgil (
ht), might consider the Robert Fitzgerald translation of
The Aeneid for starters. Back a year or two ago now I was reading Dante’s
Divine Comedy. In that work Dante, borrowing fame and name, makes Virgil his principal guide. Nearing the end, thus beginning
Paradiso where Beatrix takes over, I resolved to read Virgil too. It took a while. Then I came across Fitzgerald’s translation which, wow!, offers the famous poet in a most accessible and vivid form. The book arrived from Amazon some weeks before our scheduled trip to the Florida Keys, and I had the notion of reading him there, in the sunshine, the Atlantic my foreground. And, indeed, I did, but just for part of one brilliant hot morning. The time and place claimed all the rest of our collective attention. Now I’m reading the Aeneid again in still wintery Michigan, although the first green shoots are up and, on a recent walk, I saw the first tiny lilies braving the challenges of Spring.
