"The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam"

Edward Fitzgerald was on his way to be best remembered (or not) as a minor English writer until a friend shared with him a transcribed copy of a 15th-century manuscript. The friend was Fitzgerald’s dearest mentor Edward Cowell, and the manuscript, its original housed in the Bodleian Library in Oxford, contained verses attributed to 12th-century Persian philosopher Khayyam. Cowell, who was much younger and who had introduced Fitzgerald to Persian, had meant the volume as a sort of going-away present: Despite Fitzgerald’s objections, he was moving to Calcutta, India, to teach English at Presidency College. Fitzgerald, initially lukewarm towards the manuscript, soon fell under its spell. The verses contained themes of irreverence, hedonism, a reckless courage, and free thinking which struck an immediate chord with Fitzgerald, a member of one of England’s wealthiest families, a man looking for meaning in life. Fitzgerald was 47 at the time, and despite his literary ambitions, had been pipped to the post by his better-known writer friends, like the poet Alfred Tennyson. Khayyam’s verses offered him a chance to make his name in a way that had eluded him so far. Additionally, in recognizing the importance of Khayyam’s verses, Fitzgerald had also unknowingly captured the zeitgeist of his time, a fact which would contribute to the immense popularity of “The Rubaiyat.”

So charmed was Fitzgerald by the verses that he decided to edit and translate them despite the fact that in 1856 he had been learning Persian—a highly complex mother-language in the vein of Latin and Sanskrit—for a mere four years. The first few translations were in Latin, the others in English. Fitzgerald regularly posted the translations to Cowell, now in Calcutta. Cowell then sent Fitzgerald a copy of the Calcutta manuscript of the verses, which he found in a library in India. Fitzgerald made many bold editorial decisions when it came to editing and translating the verses, including arranging “The Rubaiyat” as a narrative in the style of a spring eclogue or pastoral dialogue in the broad Western tradition. The first edition of “The Rubaiyat” (published in 1859; there would be five versions, with Fitzgerald reworking the translation for much of his life) was not the smash hit that one would assume. However, within two years after that first publication, “The Rubaiyat” was well on its way to becoming one of the most famous (and oft-quoted) poems in the English language.

The success of “The Rubaiyat” was no accident. For one, the rubai form itself is attention-grabbing and memorable. It introduced Victorian readers jaded with the formal, long-winded poetry and dramatic monologues of the time to something pithy, quotable, and profound. The orientalism (a stereotypical representation of Asia that ultimately portrays colonialist/racist thinking) of the era played a part in the success of “The Rubaiyat” as well, giving English readers another version of the exoticized world of gardens, caravanserais, mosques, and nightingales impaled on rose thorns. Significantly, the verses also resonated with readers because of their subversive appeal: Chafing against strict Victorian propriety and informed with a new scientific sensibility, readers were instantly charmed by the poetry’s call to seize the day and make sensual enjoyment their religion. But in doing so, were readers, like Fitzgerald, projecting their own image on the mirror of the verses? This is where things get tricky, especially when we consider “The Rubaiyat” with a critical lens informed by postcolonialism, the critical school which analyzes the cultural legacy of colonialism. For instance, Fitzgerald’s arrangement of the rubais in a narrative structure often creates a tonal dissonance, since ideas in the standalone verses clash with each other, creating an inaccurate representation of the philosophies of Persian tradition. Fitzgerald’s translation is also said to be influenced by his love of the Roman philosopher Lucretius (99-55 BCE), a fierce rationalist who later Christian authors maligned.

Though pre-Raphaelite (a late 19th-century aesthetic movement in art and literature) poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rosetti popularized “The Rubaiyat” in England and Europe and writer Oscar Wilde celebrated its hedonistic appeal, not every response of the time was as uncritical. Soon after its publication, many scholars began debating the authenticity of the translation in “The Rubaiyat”: did it reflect the voice of Khayyam or the voice of Fitzgerald? As scholars turned to the Persian original for answers, it became clear that the translation had invented many images now fused with “The Rubaiyat” in popular imagination. For instance, in Farsi, the verses don’t take place in a garden, nor is the “you” or “thou” they reference necessarily presented as a lover. Rather, “thou” refers to a companion or a friend. Verse 58, which mentions the snake in the Garden of Eden, is altogether absent from the Bodleian manuscript and may be a complete invention. Additionally, the artwork which often accompanied the verses included camels, Houries (celestial beauties), and sheikhs, none of which are actually mentioned either in Fitzgerald’s “The Rubaiyat” or the original Persian rubais. It must be however noted that the artwork was not commissioned or even suggested by Fitzgerald. Yet, it did create for the Western reader an inauthentic portrayal of 12th-century Persia.

Scholarship—both older and more recent—has noted the use of anachronistic expressions such as the very Victorian and Edwardian “Pish!” as well as “take the cash in hand” (Verse 12). Further, many of the translations are reminiscent of the works of Shakespeare, Andrew Marvell, and even Fitzgerald’s contemporary Alfred Tennyson. Some of these influences are of course subconscious: Writers write what they read. And translation theory actually advocates a freer form of translation, since a literal copy only dulls the appeal of the original. However, given the context of the colonial white and Western gaze, the idea of the free translation becomes more problematic here. For instance, in his attempt at free translation, Fitzgerald included very few Farsi words in “The Rubaiyat,” including only Persian names for exotic appeal. Fitzgerald’s notes on the text complicate matters further, with his insistence on interpreting the verses for the reader and declaring Khayyam a “material Epicurean” (“Introduction”). The truth is Fitzgerald was not a scholar of Persian literature and philosophy. Daniel Karlin notes that it is unlikely that Fitzgerald ever visited Persia or even met a Muslim person, let alone a Muslim person from that region. Therefore, for him to declare Khayyam an absolute Epicure or a Sufi a pantheist are superficial claims at best, and culturally appropriative declarations at worst. To be fair to Fitzgerald, he was somewhat aware of the limitations of his knowledge and translation—thus the constant tinkering with the verses.

However, as poetry in English, “The Rubaiyat” does have immense literary and historical value, featuring immortal lines like the following from Verse 51:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it (Lines 201-04).

It is perhaps best to approach “The Rubaiyat” not as a reflection of Khayyam in 12th-century Persia, but as the reflection of a Victorian poet’s imagining of Khayyam in 12th-century Persia. Other translations of Khayyam’s verses, such as Juan Cole’s The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam: A New Translation from the Persian (Bloomsbury 2020), attempt to bridge the gap between a literal, dull retelling and a vivid but colorblind “transmogrification.”