Was there ever such an example of the futility of LT's star-system? Yet, full of the love which casts-out fear (and giggling), I'm giving it a rating, because some attention needs to be paid to the multiple interests of this quirky volume. The vast majority of English-language readers, of-course, know Omar through the hundred or so quatrains of Edward Fitzgerald. That in-turn is far less a translation than an original work of English verse inspired by the Persian original. On a parallel track, Rolfe -- as "Frederic [sic] Baron Corvo" -- offers his take on the little-known French version by J. B. Nicolas. Nicolas knew Persian, Rolfe didn't, but that didn't prevent his creating a set of almost four-hundred brief prose pieces in praise of an Epicurean life-vision, not surprisingly coloured by his well-known homosexuality.
As philology, this volume is by no means without merit, not leastwise thanks to Edward Heron-Allen's informed comment. As an example of the art of translation from the French, it is marginal, simply because that wasn't Rolfe's intention. As prose-poetry, it's in class by itself, less for Rolfe's thought and imagery -- which are fine -- than for Rolfe's bizarre English, with his love for words of his own confection. From the very outset, we know we're in Rolfe's realm. Recall Omar/Fitzgerald's straightforward invitations and exhortations to drinker. Rolfe by contrast commits a line like "come, hilarious Philopots, enter, hybrist Youths". As I said: in a class like itself. For some of us, it's a joy. Why else would I have two copies? ( )