
No one could tell it all
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Nestor — ἄλλα τε πόλλʼ ἐπὶ τοῖς πάθομεν κακά· τίς κεν ἐκεῖνα πάντα γε μυθήσαιτο καταθνητῶν ἀνθρώπων; οὐδʼ εἰ πεντάετές γε καὶ ἑξάετες παραμίμνων ἐξερέοις ὅσα κεῖθι πάθον κακὰ δῖοι Ἀχαιοί· πρίν κεν ἀνιηθεὶς σὴν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἵκοιο.
And many other evils besides these we suffered; who of mortal men could tell all those things? Not even if for five years and six you stayed at my side and kept asking how many evils the noble Achaeans suffered there; before that, wearied, you would reach your fatherland.
Nestor breaks off the catalogue. The sorrows of Troy were beyond counting: no mortal could tell them all, and not in five or six years of questioning would his guest learn everything the Achaeans endured — he would tire and go home first.
Nestor stops the roll and steps back: the griefs were too many for any telling. No mortal could recount them; not in five or six years of steady questioning would you learn all that the Achaeans bore — you would weary and sail home before the tale was done.
The undercurrent is the epic's knowing wink at its own vastness. The poem that could sing the whole war gives us a speaker who protests that it cannot be sung. And Nestor's “you would go home first” is also a courteous glance at his guest — a reminder, gently placed, that Telemachus has a home of his own still waiting to be reached.
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