#the original Odysseus seems to be more concerned for Ithaca and then his son

[tazabel]

Ok, Odysseus, the raining* king of Ithaca, is my Roman Empire.

And I don't particularly mean all the "adventures" he went through or the wrong he might have done.

It's the pain of a parent who has not been able to watch his child grow up.

He remembers him as a baby. He was once very close to home, to be able to see (and raise) him still as a child, but that too was taken from him. If it weren't for the right circumstances, he might not have recongnise him in adulthood.

* I apologize for this silly joke that still makes me smile.

[fanficflaneuse]

One Day - Part 10

A/N: Dear magical tumblr friends, we’ve reached part 10. I’m sorry if it’s not that good. I was really excited to write it, but today I had to do a bunch of things for my graduate applications and it was just hectic. Still, it is Draco Malfoy’s birthday and I didn’t want to let the day pass without uploading a big, nice chapter. I hope you like it either way. 

Also, before we start, I feel the need to express my utter love for Theo Nott and Astoria Greengrass lol. I don’t hate them. In fact, if anyone wants to recommend some Theo Nott fanfiction, I’m all for it.  

Let’s do this! 

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 1921 Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist 

Enjoy! 

3 May, 2009

“What is this?” Draco asked in awe, motioning to (Y/N)’s hair.

“It’s my take on the French bob,” she answered playfully.

Every time he saw her, Draco found (Y/N) more beautiful than before. This time, though, he swore she was actually glowing. She had gotten a haircut and now her locks framed her face differently. She dressed so…French now, which he found adorable and incredibly sexy. And her smile was bigger and brighter than he had seen in years. In general, this version of his best friend made him feel like a teenager again.  

Draco had been postponing this trip for weeks now. They had not addressed the issue yet, (when had they ever?) but everyone knew that the moment one of them reached out for the other, things would finally be settled. Their friends were tired of seeing them clumsily stumble through their feelings. That’s why Astoria took Scorpius to the Nott’s chalet on the Swiss Alps and practically forced him onto a train to Paris.

Astoria and Draco were not exactly the closest friends, but they had a son together and for his sake they maintained a more than civil relationship. She had settled down with Theo Nott, marrying him just after the divorce was finalized. They were happy together and she wanted his son’s father to move on as well. She was not only moved by a sense of guilt; deep down, Astoria had always known that the connection Draco and (Y/N) had was deeper than she would ever comprehend.

Whatever the case, the feeling of elation that washed over him as they held each other at Gare du Nord made him grateful for being alive again. He had butterflies in his stomach and a tingling all around. As if their bodies were connected, (Y/N) could also feel something electrifying. They hugged for the longest time, as if they weren’t in a crowded station with people rushing around.

(Y/N) and Draco walked arm in arm to her apartment in Montmartre. He still had a lot of questions about muggles, so she enjoyed pointing things out for him as they strolled. He had been to Paris countless times in his childhood and even once with Astoria, but this felt different. Walking with (Y/N), listening as she told him about the things she did every day, the places she frequented and the muggle history behind them felt like a dream come true. (Y/N) was very excited about taking him to a bunch of places and she numbered cheerfully all of the activities she had planned for them. Draco wished he could live in this moment forever.

“So, you’ve been consistently on the Prophet’s Best Seller list for almost a year and now you’ve won the Beedle the Bard literary prize. Don’t you dare to forget about your commoner friends, (Y/L/N),” he teased.

“You’re hardly a commoner, Healer Malefoy,” she taunted back, using the French translation of his last name.

Draco rolled his eyes playfully. “But really, you’re conquering the world one book at a time and I cannot be prouder…of myself for still having your original poetry saved somewhere at home.”

(Y/N) snickered. “I guess magical readers like the flavour of muggle literature. ‘That Kafka fellow? An absolute genius’,” as she quoted him playfully, Draco’s heart flipped.

When they reached the apartment, Draco observed everything in astonishment. Each little detail around the house embodied her. From the towers of books that flooded the flat to the position of the sofa by the fireplace, the rickety spiral staircase leading to the second floor, the creamy colours of the walls, the muggle paintings – she would later call them ‘impressionist’ –, the huge windowpanes and the mismatched yet harmonious furniture, it was all her. Draco had never seen a place represent a person so well. Even more surprising was the feeling that invaded him as soon as he set foot inside; he sensed that he had finally arrived home. He was Odysseus returning to his beloved Ithaca and he never wanted to set sail again.

They goofed around for a while, talking nonsense as they drank some very expensive wine. They danced around the room, enjoying the different layers to muggle music. Lately, (Y/N) had got then both hooked on muggle jazz. Draco relished greatly how the music seemed to pierce through them as they swayed around the room.

As the sunset painted the sky with colourful swirls, Draco stood by the window, observing the rooftops, the quaint streets and the Eiffel tower at a distance. (Y/N) took in his form. He looked much better. He stood taller; his shoulders no longer sagged forward in defeat. The bags under his eyes were practically gone. She could tell he was eating more. And he seemed generally happier. It made her smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go anywhere tonight?” she asked softly, walking towards him.

He turned to face her and nodded vehemently. He knew what he wanted to do. But it was only about an hour later, when they were cuddling in her bed, that he delved slowly into the much-awaited conversation.

Draco’s head laid on (Y/N)’s stomach. He was facing her way, eyes closed as her fingers worked their magic on his scalp. He was thinking about the right way to say it. And it all started off clumsily.  

“So, Olivier Flamel, huh?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

For a while, (Y/N) had dated Olivier Flamel, a descendant of the one and only Nicholas Flamel, who, not coincidentally at all, was also a big-shot alchemist. It had ended like most of her relationships and flings in the last few years: casually, easily, no real pain for either part involved because they hadn’t been really that involved.  

“Do I have to hex him?” Draco asked seriously.

(Y/N) snorted. “Ron asked me just the same,” she explained when he shot her an amused look, “And of course not, Dray. Olivier is an amazing guy. There was a lot of chemistry between us and we had a very passionate affair. But ultimately, we were just so different.”

Draco was invaded by a horrible feeling of envy when she talked about their amazing chemistry, but he did his best not to show it, to be rational and kind.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, even though he already knew. He needed the confirmation that still didn’t have feelings for him.

“You know it’s fine,” she shrugged, “I guess I’m just shook. For a while there I was half of the ‘it’ couple of the French wizarding jet set. It was a wild ride. Way too much to handle”.

Her cheeky smile then turned into a more concerned gesture. “How are you holding up?”

To say that (Y/N) had been surprised by Draco and Astoria’s divorce was the understatement of the century. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to see Draco suffer like that ever again. It had made her physically sick, to see him in so broken. She had been there through every stage of his grief. She helped him move back to Malfoy Manor. She took care of Scorpius on the days in which he couldn’t get out of bed. She cried with him. She got drunk with him. She was the big spoon. And through it all, (Y/N) only real target was to help Draco’s heart heal.  

“I’m alright now. In hindsight I guess I am not surprised, you know? Our relationship was doomed since the beginning. The most important thing to me is Scorpius and I believe we’re handling it well, the share custody and all. He’s a happy boy.”

(Y/N) kept caressing Draco’s hair. There was a painfully long silence. The feeling of repressed words and feelings clouded the air. They had kissed a couple of times before. Once they had a very heated make out session that almost leads to them shagging. But they hadn’t talked about it. Every time it happened, they would just ignore it and carry on, as if they were not both elated by it. (Y/N) had spent countless nights telling herself that she wouldn’t kiss him again; she didn’t want to be Draco’s rebound.

“We totally suck at this love thing, don’t we?” (Y/N) finally said.

Draco’s heart was beating hard on his chest. It was now or never. “I don’t think we suck at this ‘love thing’,” he pointed out, raising up to face her, “I think we have ignored the right person to do the love thing with”.

(Y/N) regarded him seriously for a second. This is really not how she thought the infamous conversation would go. She was braising herself for yet another disappointment. And now here he was, saying the things she had wanted for so long. A lot of mixed messages were bouncing in her mind.

“You mean us? Together?” (Y/N) sat up, “Dray, don’t you think that boat sailed about a decade ago?”

Draco’s smile fell. He was certainly not expecting that. All of a sudden, he felt an emptiness in his stomach and an urgent need to cry. “D-do you really think so?”

“The timing is never right,” she breathed out.

“Look at us now, love. The timing is perfect,” he said before kissing both of her cheeks.

(Y/N)’s eyes welled with tears. “I don’t want to be your rebound, Dray,” she softly.

Draco looked at her, his expression softening. “I’ve been in love with you for the longest time, (Y/N). I pushed you away, convinced that I was doing the ultimate sacrifice for you. I wanted to save you from, well, me. You deserved better. You still do”, he heard her scoff, “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

They looked at each other intently. “Now,” he said dramatically, “I’ve come all this way to confess my undying love for you…”

“Idiot,” she muttered playfully, the widest and most genuine smile plastered on her face. He inched forward and kissed her face again: her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. (Y/N) felt like she was floating on a cloud.

“I want to be yours, (Y/N). I want you to be mine,” he whispered in her ear, before kissing her on that soft spot he knew made her breathing hitch.

“Draco, I swear if you hurt me, if you use me as a rebound, I swear to Circe I’m going to hex you and never talk to –“

He shook his head. “I will never hurt you, (Y/N/N). I am in love with you.”

“I’ve always been yours, Dray,” she said, softly.

“As I’ve always been yours,” he answered. 

They looked at each other then, eyes full of adoration. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes quickly set on her lips before meeting her gaze again. (Y/N) pressed her lips to his. It was, by no means, the first time Draco and (Y/N) kissed. It was, though, the best one they had shared to date. It started sweet and loving, but its intensity raised as the minutes went by. Their feelings let loose, pressing themselves unfiltered with each caress.

“I love you, Draco,” she said breathlessly.

He pressed (Y/N) to his chest, kissing the top of her head multiple times.

“Say that you love me again,” he almost pleaded, his voice small and a bit ashamed. Draco couldn’t believe his ears and he wanted every confirmation he could possibly get.

“I love you, Dray,” she said, pecking his lips, “I love you.”

tags: @fandomscombine @okaydraco @naomi02hook @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @happycomb @xtrashmouthxtozierx @animelover09556 @hopplessdreamer

[didanawisgi]

The Odyssey is about a man. It says so right at the beginning — in Robert Fagles’s 1996 translation, for example, the poem opens with the line, “Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns.”

In the course of the poem, that man plots his return home after fighting the Trojan War, slaughters the suitors vying to marry his wife Penelope, and reestablishes himself as the head of his household.

But the Odyssey is also about other people: Penelope, the nymph Calypso, the witch Circe, the princess Nausicaa; Odysseus’s many shipmates who died before they could make it home; the countless slaves in Odysseus’s house, many of whom are never named.

Emily Wilson, the first woman to translate the Odyssey into English, is as concerned with these surrounding characters as she is with Odysseus himself. Written in plain, contemporary language and released earlier this month to much fanfare, her translationlays bare some of the inequalities between characters that other translations have elided. It offers not just a new version of the poem, but a new way of thinking about it in the context of gender and power relationships today. As Wilson puts it, “the question of who matters is actually central to what the text is about.”

Why it matters for a woman to translate the Odyssey

Composed around the 8th century BC, the Odyssey is one of the oldest works of literature typically read by an American audience; for comparison, it’s almost 2,000 years older than Beowulf. While the Iliad tells the story of the Trojan War, the Odyssey picks up after the war is over, when Odysseus, the king of Ithaca, is trying to make his way home.

Both poems are traditionally attributed to the Greek poet Homer, but since they almost certainly originated as oral performances and not written texts, it’s hard to tell whether a single person composed them, or whether they are the result of many different creators and performers refining and contributing to a story over a period of time. (The introduction to Wilson’s translation includes a longer discussion of the question of who “Homer” was.)

Wilson, a professor of classical studies at the University of Pennsylvania, has also translated plays by the ancient Greek playwright Euripides and the Roman philosopher Seneca. Her translation of the Odyssey is one of many in English (though the others have been by men), including versions by Fagles, Robert Fitzgerald, Richmond Lattimore, and more. Translating the long-dead language Homer used — a variant of ancient Greek called Homeric Greek — into contemporary English is no easy task, and translators bring their own skills, opinions, and stylistic sensibilities to the text. The result is that every translation is different, almost a new poem in itself.

A battlefield epic, the Iliad has very few major female characters. The Odyssey, however, devotes significant time to the life (and even the dreams) of Penelope. Circe, Calypso, and the goddess Athena all play important roles. This was one of the reasons I was drawn to the Odyssey as a teenager, and why I’ve returned to it many times over the years.

But the Odyssey is hardly a feminist text. Odysseus may have trouble getting home, but at least he gets to travel the world and have sex with beautiful women like Calypso and Circe. Penelope, meanwhile, has to wait around while boorish suitors drink and carouse in her family’s home, pressuring her to marry one of them. To buy time, she says she can’t marry until she finishes weaving a funeral shroud for her father-in-law, but every night she undoes the day’s work, making the task last as long as she can. “His work always gets him somewhere,” Wilson told me. “Her work is all about undoing. It’s all about hiding herself, hiding her desires, and creating something whose only purpose is to get nowhere.”

Some feminist readings of the Odyssey have tried to cast Penelope as heroic in her own way, sometimes by comparing her to Odysseus. “I think there’s so many things wrong with that,” Wilson said. “She’s constantly still being judged by, is she like him.” What’s more, the heroic-Penelope reading focuses on a wealthy woman at the expense of the many enslaved women in the poem, some of whom meet an untimely and brutal end. When Odysseus returns home and kills all the suitors, he also tells his son Telemachus to kill the slave women who had sex with (or were raped by) the suitors. “Hack at them with long swords, eradicate / all life from them,” Odysseus says in Wilson’s translation. “They will forget the things / the suitors made them do with them in secret.”

As a woman, Wilson believes she comes to the Odyssey with a different perspective than translators who have gone before her. “Female translators often stand at a critical distance when approaching authors who are not only male, but also deeply embedded in a canon that has for many centuries been imagined as belonging to men,” she wrote in a recent essay at the Guardian. She called translating Homer as a woman an experience of “intimate alienation.”

“Earlier translators are not as uncomfortable with the text as I am,” she explained to me, “and I like that I’m uncomfortable.” Part of her goal with the translation was to make readers uncomfortable too — with the fact that Odysseus owns slaves, and with the inequities in his marriage to Penelope. Making these aspects of the poem visible, rather than glossing over them, “makes it a more interesting text,” she said.

Wilson’s translation is different from its predecessors in subtle — and not so subtle — ways

Part of the way Wilson challenges previous readings of the Odyssey is with style. Her translation made a splash months before it was published, when an excerpt ran in the summer 2017 issue of the Paris Review. I and other Odyssey fans were excited by Wilson’s opening line: “Tell me about a complicated man.” In its matter-of-fact language, it’s worlds different from Fagles’s “Sing to me of the man, Muse,” or Robert Fitzgerald’s 1961 version, “Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story / of that man skilled in all ways of contending.” Wilson chose to use plain, relatively contemporary language in part to “invite readers to respond more actively with the text,” she writes in a translator’s note. “Impressive displays of rhetoric and linguistic force are a good way to seem important and invite a particular kind of admiration, but they tend to silence dissent and discourage deeper modes of engagement.”

“There’s an idea that Homer has to sound heroic and ancient,” Wilson told me, but that idea comes with a value system attached, one that includes “endorsing this very hierarchical kind of society as if that’s what heroism is.” Telling the story in plainer language allows readers to see Odysseus and his society in another light.

There are flashes of beauty in Wilson’s Odyssey. “The early Dawn was born,” she writes in Book 2; “her fingers bloomed.” Of the forest on Calypso’s island, where many birds nest, she writes, “It was full of wings.” But throughout the book, there’s a frankness to Wilson’s language around work and the people who do it. Of Eurymedusa, a slave in the house of princess Nausicaa, she writes, “She used to babysit young Nausicaa / and now she lit her fire and cooked her meal.”

The slaves in older translations of the Odyssey do not “babysit” — often, they’re not identified as slaves at all. Fagles, for instance, calls Eurymedusa a “chambermaid.” Fitzgerald calls her a “nurse.” “It sort of stuns me when I look at other translations,” Wilson said, “how much work seems to go into making slavery invisible.”

Wilson, by contrast, uses the word “slave” for Eurymedusa and many other enslaved characters, even when the original uses a more specific term. The Homeric Greek dmoe, or “female-house-slave,” Wilson writes in her translator’s note, could be translated as “maid” or “domestic servant,” but those terms would imply that the woman was free. “The need to acknowledge the fact and the horror of slavery,” she writes, “and to mark the fact that the idealized society depicted in the poem is one where slavery is shockingly taken for granted, seems to me to outweigh the need to specify, in every instance, the type of slave.”

While Wilson’s language is often plain, it’s also carefully chosen. She told Wyatt Mason at the New York Times magazine she could have begun the poem with the line “Tell me about a straying husband,” an even more radical choice that would still have been “a viable translation.” But, she said, “it would give an entirely different perspective and an entirely different setup for the poem.” She spoke, Mason noted, with “the firmness of someone making hard choices she believes in.”

Those choices show up clearly in her treatment of Penelope. Penelope is a frustrating character — it’s not entirely clear why she doesn’t simply send the suitors away or marry one of them, and the poem offers limited access to her thoughts and feelings. Wilson didn’t try to make Penelope easier to understand — “the opacity of Penelope,” as she puts it, is one of the aspects of the poem she wants to trouble readers and make them uncomfortable.

But small details can tell us something about even the most frustrating of characters. At one point in Book 21, Penelope unlocks the storeroom where Odysseus keeps his weapons — as Wilson writes in her translator’s note, this act sets in motion the slaughter of the suitors and the resolution of the poem. As she picks up the key, Homer describes her hand as pachus, or “thick.” “There is a problem here,” Wilson writes, “since in our culture, women are not supposed to have big, thick, or fat hands.” Translators have usually solved the problem by skipping the adjective, or putting in something more traditional — Fagles mentions Penelope’s “steady hand.” Wilson, however, renders the moment this way: “Her muscular, firm hand/ picked up the ivory handle of the key.”

“Weaving does in fact make a person’s hands more muscular,” she writes. “I wanted to ensure that my translation, like the original, underlines Penelope’s physical competence, which marks her as a character who plays a crucial part in the action — whether or not she knows what she is doing.”

Wilson does not give Penelope more agency or power than she has in the original poem, but she also does not take any of the queen’s original power away by making descriptions of her conform to modern gender stereotypes.

“Part of fighting misogyny in the current world is having a really clear sense of what the structures of thought and the structures of society are that have enabled androcentrism in different cultures, including our own,” Wilson said, and the Odyssey, looked at in the right way, can help readers understand those structures more clearly. The poem offers a “defense of a male dominant society, a defense of its own hero and his triumph over everybody else,” she said, “but it also seems to provide these avenues for realizing what’s so horrible about this narrative, what’s missing about this narrative.”

Recent events have led to a widespread debate over how audiences should consume the work of people we know to be abusers of women. This is intertwined with the question of how we should consume art that has racist, sexist, or otherwise bigoted elements. Often elided from this conversation is the fact that people of color and women of all races have been consuming racist and sexist art in America for generations (in many classes on Western literature, for instance, they have had little choice), and developing their own responses to it, responses that are often deeply nuanced.

Conservative talk of “special snowflakes” demanding trigger warnings ignores the fact that people marginalized in the Western canon have long read literature from it in exactly the way Wilson describes: both as an endorsement of its author’s values, and as evidence of how horrible those values can be, and whom they leave out.

Wilson’s translation, then, is not a feminist version of the Odyssey. It is a version of the Odyssey that lays bare the morals of its time and place, and invites us to consider how different they are from our own, and how similar.