Robert Fagles vs. Robert Fitzgerald: which Odyssey translation should you read?

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home. But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove — the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all, the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun and the Sungod wiped from sight the day of their return. Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, start from where you will —sing for our time too.

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all ways of contending, the wanderer, harried for years on end, after he plundered the stronghold on the proud height of Troy. He saw the townlands and learned the minds of many distant men, and weathered many bitter nights and days in his deep heart at sea, while he fought only to save his life, to bring his shipmates home. But not by will nor valor could he save them, for their own recklessness destroyed them all— children and fools, they killed and feasted on the cattle of Lord Hêlios, the Sun, and he who moves all day through heaven took from their eyes the dawn of their return. Of these adventures, Muse, daughter of Zeus, tell us in our time, lift the great song again.

‘So, you ask me the name I’m known by, Cyclops? I will tell you. But you must give me a guest-gift as you’ve promised. Nobody —that’s my name. Nobody — so my mother and father call me, all my friends.’ But he boomed back at me from his ruthless heart, ‘Nobody? I’ll eat Nobody last of all his friends — I’ll eat the others first! That’s my gift to you!’ With that he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side, and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet with chunks of human flesh —he vomited, blind drunk.

‘Kyklops, you ask my honorable name? Remember the gift you promised me, and I shall tell you. My name is Nohbdy: mother, father, and friends, everyone calls me Nohbdy.’ And he said: ‘Nohbdy’s my meat, then, after I eat his friends. Others come first. There’s a noble gift, now.’ Even as he spoke, he reeled and tumbled backward, his great head lolling to one side: and sleep took him like any creature. Drunk, hiccuping, he dribbled streams of liquor and bits of men.

Penelope felt her knees go slack, her heart surrender, recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered. She dissolved in tears, rushed to Odysseus, flung her arms around his neck and kissed his head and cried out, “Odysseus —don’t flare up at me now, not you, always the most understanding man alive! The gods, it was the gods who sent us sorrow — they grudged us both a life in each other’s arms from the heady zest of youth to the stoop of old age.

Their secret! as she heard it told, her knees grew tremulous and weak, her heart failed her. With eyes brimming tears she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissed him, murmuring: “Do not rage at me, Odysseus! No one ever matched your caution! Think what difficulty the gods gave: they denied us life together in our prime and flowering years, kept us from crossing into age together.