Or any other passage you feel particularly highlights the advantages/differences of your technique compared to the sanitized translations

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48541804)

That wrath which became the direful spring of endless woes for the Greeks,

Hurling countless mighty souls untimely into the shadowy depths of Hades,

Their bodies left unburied, torn apart by ravenous dogs and vultures—

Such was the will of Zeus, the all-encompassing sovereign, fulfilled in its dreadful decree.

Declare, O Muse, what cursed moment gave birth to this ruinous strife?

What god’s fury brought the Greeks such calamity,

When Apollo, son of Zeus and Latona, unleashed a deadly plague,

Stacking the Achaean camp with mountains of the dead?

It began when the lord of men, Agamemnon, defied Apollo’s priest—

An offense of hubris for which the people paid in blood.

For Chryses, priest of Apollo, had come bearing priceless gifts,

Begging for the release of his captive daughter.

With his hands adorned by Apollo’s sacred signs—

The golden scepter and laurel crown—he stood before the Achaeans,

A father in anguish, speaking words of supplication:

“Great kings, warriors of bronze and glory,

May the gods grant you victory and Troy’s walls leveled to the ground.

May Zeus restore you to the pleasures of your homes,

Safe across the wine-dark sea.

But grant me this: release my beloved child, Chryseïs.

Accept this ransom, and honor Apollo, son of Zeus.

Do not provoke the god whose arrows never miss their mark.”

The Achaeans roared their approval, their voices joined as one:

Honor the priest, release the captive, accept the ransom.

But not so Agamemnon, king of men.

His pride, boundless and insolent, rejected the plea.

And with a darkened heart, he spoke:

“Old man, be gone from my sight.

Do not linger here, testing my patience.

Do not bring your laurel crown, nor your golden staff,

Thinking to sway me with these signs of your god.

The bitch is mine, and she will remain mine.

Not your prayers, nor your tears, nor all the gold in your coffers

Will take her from me.

She will grow old in my house, far from her homeland,

Spending her days at the loom,

And her nights on my bed, where she will serve me as she must.

Now leave these shores while you still have breath in your lungs.

Do not return, or the sacred signs of your Apollo

Will not save you from what my hands will bring.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48541818)

It's me. I'm still here (more here post-election than I was the past few years) much to everyone's chagrin.

I've taken up bookbinding as a hobby, and binding a unique translation of the Iliad would be 180

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48542045)

Moar

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48541851)

He walked silently along the shore of the loud-roaring sea,

And when far from the ships,

He lifted his hands and prayed to Apollo,

Son of fair-haired Leto:

“Hear me, O Silver-Bowed One,

You who stride around Chryse and sacred Cilla,

Who rule mightily over Tenedos!

Smintheus, if ever I built for you a pleasing temple,

Or burned rich thighs of bulls and goats,

Fulfill this prayer for me:

Let the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows!”

So he prayed, and Phoebus Apollo heard him.

From the peaks of Olympus he came,

His heart burning with wrath.

Across his shoulders hung his bow

And his quiver filled with arrows.

As he moved, the arrows rattled in their case,

And his coming was like the night.

He sat apart from the ships and loosed a shaft;

The silver bow sang a terrible cry.

First he struck the mules and the swift dogs,

But soon his arrows found the men themselves.

Pyres of the dead burned thick and constant.

For nine days the god’s arrows rained death upon them,

And on the tenth, Achilles called an assembly,

For white-armed Hera had placed it in his heart.

She grieved to see the Danaans perish.

When all were gathered, swift-footed Achilles stood and spoke:

“Son of Atreus, I see no course but to return home,

If we can escape death at all,

For war and plague together are crushing the Achaeans.

But let us now ask some seer or priest

Or dream-reader, for dreams too come from Zeus.

Let him declare why Phoebus Apollo rages,

Whether he blames a vow unfulfilled or a slaughtered offering,

And if by smoke of lambs or goats

We might appease the god and turn aside this ruin.”

So he spoke and sat down. Then rose Calchas,

Son of Thestor, best of bird-seers,

Who knew all things that are, will be, and were before.

By his prophetic skill, a gift of Apollo,

He led the ships of the Achaeans to Ilium

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48541896)

And where Thersites gets the shit beaten out of him by Odysseus?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5662349&forum_id=2#48542117)