Translator's Note

De rerum natura is a six-book Latin didactic poem which sought to introduce ideas from the Greek philosopher Epicurus into Roman society in the 1^st century BCE. It is a shockingly eclectic poem, covering atomic theory, optics, the mortality of the soul, the impossibility of the afterlife, and the pursuit of pleasure, and it famously argues that gods are distant and unconcerned forces, giving its author a reputation for atheism. De rerum natura emphasizes the role of random accident over destiny or divine will; the fundamental feature of the Lucretian universe is that all matter is essentially atoms moving in a void, so everything that exists derives from the random and purposeless movement of invisibly small bodies.

This is what Lucretius means when he says most people shrink from his philosophy. It’s not an obviously comforting idea that the universe is random and completely unsteered by any divinity or intention. Lucretius wants us to see that we’re all just collections of matter, too busy being scared of death to remember our lives are temporary and should be enjoyed. But the walk to get there is dense and dark: it winds through complex scientific descriptions of atoms, a detailed natural philosophy for which Lucretius had to invent a new technical vocabulary in Latin. 

But the passage I’ve translated here, which falls near the end of the first book, showcases none of those problematic elements. Instead, it is one of many passages Lucretius uses to set off the more technical aspects of his poem, stepping back and acknowledging how hard this all is (intellectually and emotionally) and reminding us what the poem is doing overall. Here Lucretius tells us why the poem is a poem and not some other kind of writing. 

First of all, no one has ever taught atomic theory through poetry—it’s new artistic ground, which Lucretius imagines himself treading in the garden of the Muses (a trope common across Greek and Roman literature). Doing something first means the opportunity to find praise for your ingenuity. And when Lucretius speaks of the Muses, he is not only invoking the anthropomorphic divinities of poetry, music, and other creative arts, he is also using them as a metonym for poetry itself. To love the Muses is to love poetry, and turning natural philosophy into poetry is a radical choice. 

But Epicurean ideas also need poetry. The mortality of the soul is a bitter pill to swallow and the sweetness of poetry helps these ideas find their audience. Or at least, that’s what Lucretius hopes, that poetry can entice the reader just enough to lower their defenses and take in his startling ideas. Just as honey on the rim of a cup of medicine tricks children into taking what they need to get better, poetry tricks men into accepting what they don’t want to know. But it’s no accident that this image is as sinister as it is earnest. The child in the poem’s simile is decapta non capiatur, “deceived but not misled.” But he is deceived nonetheless. Even as Lucretius is telling us his game, explaining why he would talk about atoms and their swerves in a poem, he is also telling us how startling and powerful poetic language can be. It can engage us, trick us, and we’ll have to trust him that the cure is worth it, or work through the philosophy of the whole poem and see for ourselves.

“On the Nature of Things” is a seductive poem. In the first century BCE it sought to seduce its readers into changing their entire understanding of the universe. Today it seduces us into forgetting the 2000+ years that separate us from its composition. The poem can feel shockingly modern, rejecting the threat of hell, preferring a physical universe to a mystical one. It charges us to look outside our inherited beliefs and anxieties to identify a better foundation for meaning and enjoyment. But we should be on our guard. These anxieties predate Lucretius, have outlasted him, and will likely outlast us. To be a materialist (in the Lucretian sense) is not necessarily any more modern, or to indulge superstition any more archaic.

In translating the poem, I have tried to leave its seductiveness intact.

Note on line 3: A thyrsus is a staff wielded by the followers of Dionysus, god of wine, ecstatic madness and other things, and a figure of chaotic and sometimes violent excess. In this reference and the language of striking (percussit, incussit), I see Lucretius’ images of poetic inspiration as strikingly violent, which I have tried to retain in translation.

Kate Needham

In the Classroom