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A wise and witty revival of the Roman poet who taught us how to carpe diem
What is the value of the durable at a time when the new is paramount? How do we fill the void created by the excesses of a superficial society? What resources can we muster when confronted by the inevitability of death? For the poet and critic Harry Eyres, we can begin to answer these questions by turning to an unexpected source: the Roman poet Horace, discredited at the beginning of the twentieth century as the "smug representative of imperialism," now best remembered-if remembered-for the pithy directive "Carpe diem."
In Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet, Eyres reexamines Horace's life, legacy, and verse. With a light, lyrical touch (deployed in new, fresh versions of some of Horace's most famous odes) and a keen critical eye, Eyres reveals a lively, relevant Horace, whose society-Rome at the dawn of the empire-is much more similar to our own than we might want to believe.
Eyres's study is not only intriguing-he retranslates Horace's most famous phrase as "taste the day"-but, enlivening. Through Horace, Eyres meditates on how to live well, mounts a convincing case for the importance of poetry, and relates a moving tale of personal discovery. By the end of this remarkable journey, the reader too will believe in the power of Horace's "lovely words that go on shining with their modest glow, like a warm and inextinguishable candle in the darkness."
What is the value of the durable at a time when the new is paramount? How do we fill the void created by the excesses of a superficial society? What resources can we muster when confronted by the inevitability of death? For the poet and critic Harry Eyres, we can begin to answer these questions by turning to an unexpected source: the Roman poet Horace, discredited at the beginning of the twentieth century as the "smug representative of imperialism," now best remembered-if remembered-for the pithy directive "Carpe diem."
In Horace and Me: Life Lessons from an Ancient Poet, Eyres reexamines Horace's life, legacy, and verse. With a light, lyrical touch (deployed in new, fresh versions of some of Horace's most famous odes) and a keen critical eye, Eyres reveals a lively, relevant Horace, whose society-Rome at the dawn of the empire-is much more similar to our own than we might want to believe.
Eyres's study is not only intriguing-he retranslates Horace's most famous phrase as "taste the day"-but, enlivening. Through Horace, Eyres meditates on how to live well, mounts a convincing case for the importance of poetry, and relates a moving tale of personal discovery. By the end of this remarkable journey, the reader too will believe in the power of Horace's "lovely words that go on shining with their modest glow, like a warm and inextinguishable candle in the darkness."
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Reviews
"Mr. Eyres writes with insight about why Horace first left him cold, then with intense feeling about all he has gained from the odes in recent years . . . [A] love of small experiences, closely observed, is what most binds Mr. Eyres to Horace. The ode he treasures most highly, and quotes as the book's epigram, celebrates a cooling spring called Bandusia that filled a small pool on Horace's farm. S
James Romm, The Wall Street Journal
"In this beguiling book [Eyres] describes how . . . he came back to Horace, and to himself . . . With the lightest of touches Mr. Eyres sketches his own life and examines that of Horace . . . As Mr. Eyres began to ponder questions of existence, the excesses of a superficial society, the problem of how to live well and the inevitability of death, he came to realise that even after 2,000 years, Hora
The Economist
"Harry Eyres's brilliant new book Horace and Me . . . is part biography of Horace, part autobiography of Eyres, part literary criticism, part travel (and wine) guide, part philosophical musing--but all is poetry. The writing is poetic and musical in every phrase and its inner message is poetry's power and relevance in a world squashed with materialism and its obsession with quantifiable measuremen
Stephen Hough, The Telegraph