Another morning and I run into the final paragraph of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. It’s Ovid’s conclusion to his massive effort. Maybe he wrote it before everything else. Maybe the end kept itself out of reach just long enough to keep Ovid going. In any event, the end gives the whole of Ovid’s work over to the stars, making the demand that this poem, a poem, be indestructible against all odds. So far the odds haven’t won. The blast of fame is ancient and also current. This could be a brash rap. Maybe it is.
“And now my work is done: no wrath of Jove / nor fire nor sword nor time, which would erode / all things, has power to blot this poem. / Now, when it wills, the fatal day (which has / only the body in its grasp) can end / my years, however short their span. / But, with the better part of me, I’ll gain / a place that’s higher than the stars: my name, / indelible, eternal, will remain. / And everywhere that Roman power has sway, / in all domains the Latins gain, my lines / will be on people’s lips; and through all time- / if poets’ prophecies are ever right- / my name and fame are sure: I shall have life.”
—Book 15 of The Metamorphoses of Ovid. Translation by Allen Mandelbaum. London, New York: A Harvest Book, 1993. 549.
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