1817. Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad, translated by Madame Dacier — a woman who, in a time when women were barred from the academy, forced her way into the ancient world and took Homer by the throat. She wasn’t just the first woman to translate the epics into French — she was the voice that reintroduced Homer to Enlightenment Europe, shaping generations of classical education. Napoleon kept her translation by his bedside. That’s not a metaphor.

This edition is old. The kind of old that creaks. The kind of old that smells like damp stone and iron. When you open it, the spine groans like a door in a ruined temple. The Greek fire hasn’t gone out — Dacier keeps it burning line by line, word by word, elegant and merciless. Her translation doesn’t smooth Homer over — it reveals his bones. His rage. His sorrow. His brutal, aching humanity.

Read it too long and your eyes adjust to the darkness. The war becomes familiar. The sea starts calling. I’ve lived with this book, and I’m not sure I walked away untouched. It’s a historical artifact, yes — but it also feels like something older, colder, watching. Waiting

-Great - Book is well kept and displays minimal signs of age or wear.

-All conditions are subjectively evaluated based upon age.