In which I futz around with Lucan. I believe I've managed to err on the side of translation rather than version, because the latter is not what I'm interested in right now, but I still worry it's one of those Venn orphans that happen when you're trying to avoid being the Loeb Classical Library, but the other alternative is Robert Fitzgerald. (I quite liked Fitzgerald when I couldn't read Greek.) I have also realized that I suck at vaguely worded, philosophically reassuring sententiae. This may be a problem; Cato is a Stoic and kind of talks in nothing but.
In any case, the following forty-four lines are the prophecy Sextus Pompeius receives from the zombie oracle in Book 6, after an appropriate corpse has been reanimated by the witch Erictho in an elaborate and disgusting ceremony which I will probably translate next. Note that the degree of whiskey tango foxtrot currently being experienced by the Roman Republic can be measured by the fact that Sulla is here classified as a good guy. All rights reserved to decide I'm still dissatisfied and delete it.
( He's dead, Dave. Everybody's dead. Everybody is dead, Dave. )
In any case, the following forty-four lines are the prophecy Sextus Pompeius receives from the zombie oracle in Book 6, after an appropriate corpse has been reanimated by the witch Erictho in an elaborate and disgusting ceremony which I will probably translate next. Note that the degree of whiskey tango foxtrot currently being experienced by the Roman Republic can be measured by the fact that Sulla is here classified as a good guy. All rights reserved to decide I'm still dissatisfied and delete it.
( He's dead, Dave. Everybody's dead. Everybody is dead, Dave. )
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