In recent months, there has been much public debate about the political and ideological reasons behind the translation of contemporary Croatian authors’ works into foreign languages. In this context, it almost sounds like a breath of fresh air that, at this year’s Croatian Book Days, the »Davidias« award from the Croatian Writers’ Society for the best translation of a work from Croatian literary heritage into a foreign language was given to the English translation of Marko Marulić’s »Davidiad«. In anticipation of Croatian Book Month, we spoke with the translator, philologist and philosopher Prof. Dr. Edward Mulholland, about Marulić’s poetic genius and his relevance for contemporary generations. As the head of the classics department at Benedictine College in Kansas, he also reflected with us on the crisis in humanities education and Catholic universities at the start of the academic year.
While teaching Latin and philosophy in New York two decades ago, I was preparing a friend who wanted to study patristics in Rome for a Latin exam. His name was Anthony Valle. His father was from Pula, while his mother — née Martinović — was from Olib. He was the first to mention Marulić and his Davidiad, of which I had not previously heard. On his recommendation, I acquired the 1974 edition, but only years later did I apply for a grant at the University of Kansas that allowed me to begin translating it. That summer, I translated four books in three weeks and continued translating during every academic break until 2020, when I contacted the Croatian philologist Bratislav Lučin. He informed me that mine was the first complete translation into any language other than Croatian, and through his contacts Jeroen De Keyser of Lysa decided to publish it. Although he was initially reluctant to publish anything religious, he was struck both by Marulić’s epic and by the epic story of the poem’s sole surviving manuscript — long lost until 1922 and preserved in Turin.
Marulić does something similar to what the authors of The Chosen are doing today: he retells a biblical story in a different genre. There are some prerequisites for such an endeavor. To write an epic poem, the underlying story must itself be epic — and it was Marulić who revealed to me that David’s story truly is. Even those familiar with the biblical account may overlook the fact that it is the story of a man destined for kingship without knowing it, charged with a divine mission that can only be fulfilled by overcoming immense trials with divine aid. Marulić saw this clearly, and I still marvel at how faithfully he adheres both to Scripture and to epic conventions — and how much he has to say to Christians today.
David is not only the most fitting of Old Testament figures for epic treatment; he is also the closest to Christians of the post–Vatican II era — being prophet, priest, and king, which each Christian, according to the conciliar Decree on the Apostolate of the Laity, becomes through baptism into Christ. David’s story is therefore the story of every baptized person: a man awakening to a lofty vocation, reckoning with his own sinfulness, overcoming inner and outer adversity, seeking God’s will along life’s zigzag path, building a family, and handing on his vision to the next generation. There is a point of identification for everyone: David is a warrior and a poet, a king and a father; above all, his life is not easy, and he must rely on others. More than Odysseus — an individualist who loses all his men through imprudence — Marulić’s David resembles Aeneas, a leader who literally carries his tradition on his shoulders. In this respect, the Davidiad speaks powerfully to today’s generation of Croats.
No reader of the Aeneid in Virgil’s own time had experienced lasting stability. Rome had endured a century of civil war, and its very identity was in crisis. The Aeneid is Virgil’s poetic response to the question: Who are we as Romans? Marulić’s intent is similar; yet his concern is not national but Christian identity. Describing the moment when Ahimelech questions David and his men to see whether they are ritually pure enough to receive the Bread of Presence reserved for priests, Marulić turns directly to the reader: If this was required for mere bread, how much more should you prepare for Holy Communion? He speaks of David only to reveal the true identity of the believer — to show the Christians of his age that their lives are an epic struggle. Few messages could resonate more deeply with a generation emerging from the dark years of communism and again facing the question: Who are we?
David’s story differs from other epics precisely because it is not fiction. Being inspired, it is both true and salvific — which is why Marulić feels compelled to proclaim it. My introduction to the Davidiad draws on Božičević’s biography of Marulić, which describes the poet’s final moments using the words of both Saint Paul and Horace. This balance of Christianity and humanism is essential to Christian morality — and to the Davidiad itself. Marulić walks in Virgil’s footsteps, yet knows he is aiming higher. He invokes not the Muses but the living God; he does not write twelve books but fourteen — the number of David’s generations. It is a kind of cultural baptism, akin to what Michelangelo had accomplished decades earlier in the Sistine Chapel: taking the noblest elements of classical culture and placing them in the service of the Christian story. And it is no accident that this baptism occurs amid the Reformation, which would soon strip culture of its classical foundation in a prudish and anti-intellectual way, reflecting the Protestant divorce of nature and grace. Marulić understands that grace does not destroy nature but elevates it — and this is precisely the kind of inclusivity our culture, especially Catholic culture, needs today.
I have not yet spoken with many readers — though I expect that to change once the English Davidiad becomes available digitally. Yet it was gratifying to hear from some Croatian readers who have appreciated the translation. I never thought of dissecting Marulić’s layers; I simply tried to let each one come forward at the appropriate moment, so that an English reader might have an experience akin to a Latin reader. Marulić’s hexameters are rich with alliteration and resonance, which I sought to echo using the marked beat of the iambic pentameter, the English heroic verse, long associated with translating classical epics.
The Davidiad is no second-rate Virgilian fanfiction, but a masterpiece in its own right. Knowing that Marulić labored over it for years without a patron — supporting himself as a civil servant — it shines not just as a fruit of profound education and rhetorical skill, but also as a labor of love. Translating Marulić, I wanted to preserve some of his archaic Latin expressions and the rhythm of his narration. In translating him, I tried to preserve both his archaic Latin expressions and his narrative cadence. The latter reveals a fine, maybe even musically trained ear; the former attests not only to immersion in the Mediterranean liberal arts tradition but to genuine poetic genius. Marulić’s dialogue with classical Latin and Greek poets – from the Christian poetical hero Virgil to lesser-known figures such as Aratus – can be compared to the craftsmanship of a jazz musician: someone who knows every standard, yet invents freely, quoting old themes unconsciously or consciously paralleling them. In this aspect, he is a great – if not the maximum – representative of classically trained writers creating Christian literature at a moment of profound historical transition.
What should Marulić’s »ardent reading« look like for Christians today?
Marulić has long stood at the center of debates over required reading in Croatian high schools, often criticized as linguistically inaccessible or thematically irrelevant to today’s youth. How would you respond to such objections?
Surely a prophet is not without honor except in his hometown. I am pleased to say that a colleague of mine will begin teaching Marulić this semester in a course on Latin epic, placing him alongside figures such as Virgil and Lucretius. One could object to Shakespeare on the same grounds as to Marulić: the average modern English reader requires footnotes to make sense of him. Yet the effort to read them is worthwhile, because such works contain a vision of humanity that endures across centuries. These objections, therefore, seem to arise not from legitimate critique, but from a naïve belief in progress — a myth inherited from modernity.
A perfect example lies in the English language itself. When Jane Austen uses the word primitive, she means pure and unspoiled. A hundred years later, in the late nineteenth century, the same word acquired a new meaning: backward. The myth that the newer is automatically better has seeped into contemporary educational philosophies — philosophies which, as G. K. Chesterton quipped, are younger than the children submitted to them. These philosophies reduce education to job training, chaining it to market demands and preparing young people merely to become cogs in a machine. In contrast to this civilizational regress, the foundational ideal of Western education is best reflected in Plato’s Republic, which shifted the meaning of the word sophia from skill to wisdom. Education should not only be about earning a living, but about examining life so it is worth living. The classical education movement now rising in the United States is an attempt to restore precisely this ideal.
Children have the right to hear the truth about who they are — and the surest way for them to hear it is through the classics. By this, I do not mean merely the Greco-Roman canon, but what Marulić would call the exempla sanctorum: not only canonized saints, but also the highest exemplars of humanity — those indispensable to understanding what we are.
It serves as an antidote to the epidemic of childhood mental obesity — a condition caused by books of questionable quality. To put it bluntly, children are being fed mental artificial sweeteners instead of being offered meat and potatoes for the soul. In middle school, they are given books designed to make them feel a certain way about a certain social issue, simply because it is deemed “relevant.” But this is yet another myth: no one can predict what themes will be relevant in the future. When I began teaching at Benedictine fifteen years ago, no one was speaking about artificial intelligence. In contrast, classical education remains perennially relevant because it addresses the nature of the human person.
Last year, I worked with children in a secondary school in town, reading Anna Karenina — a massive book about Saint Petersburg and Moscow in the 19th century, seemingly far removed from their lives. But is it really? It is a book about understanding what makes a happy marriage and what makes a person of integrity, and all young people dislike fakers. The conflict between appearances and reality is one of the perennial themes of classic literature that the youth easily connect with; it is only a matter of facilitating this connection. This is where the quality of a teacher shines through. A good teacher should not act as if they are the mountain that students must get past. A good teacher guides students to climb to the top of the mountain by themselves, because the vision from the summit is amazing. Needless to say, the sense of accomplishment from such an ascent is incomparable to the feeling a student gets from reading books that ooze with social sentimentalism. One can read such books, but relevant education systems cannot be built upon them.
In a certain way, the first couple of years of university in the United States serve to complete the general education that students should have received in high school. Professional majors such as engineering, architecture, or nursing gain from broad reading in the humanities, firstly because any job they get will be two promotions away from dealing mostly with people. Even if this is challenging for their schedule, it is also the only way they can find answers to the question of why they are doing what they are doing. A world where everyone asks how but never asks why is a dangerous world. Although this truth has been respected by the Catholic Church for centuries, many Catholic educational institutions today have long abandoned it, satisfying themselves with a cross on the wall and a religion class. If the entire curriculum is not permeated by a true vision of the human person and their dignity, then Catholic education is doomed. This is true even from a superficial marketing standpoint — especially where it is not subsidized by the government, as in the USA.
This idea comes from a prayer before studying by Saint Thomas Aquinas. He asks God to free him from the double darkness in which he was born: the darkness of ignorance and of sin. Thomas sees a close relationship between the two: the life of grace strengthens man’s ability to see the truth. Yet this ability cannot be sharpened without training. This includes great literature, yet books are insufficient. Great objects are needed as well, which is why at Benedictine, we have a Center for Beauty and Culture that provides this. A Catholic university must equip its students with both intellectual and spiritual tools for the good battle.
Many Catholic universities have forgone the treasure they possess, striving to become like great research universities — as if bringing the truth were not sufficiently great. Plagued by the myth of progress, they have forgotten that efficiency is a virtue only if one knows what to do with the resources saved, and diversity is a virtue only when it coalesces into a higher unity. To be Catholic means to be capable of dialogue, but dialogue should always come from a place. One can only appreciate otherness when one knows the truth about oneself well.
