
But if I climb to the wood
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εἰ δέ κεν ἐς κλιτὺν ἀναβὰς καὶ δάσκιον ὕλην θάμνοις ἐν πυκινοῖσι καταδράθω, εἴ με μεθείη ῥῖγος καὶ κάματος, γλυκερὸς δέ μοι ὕπνος ἐπέλθῃ, δείδω, μὴ θήρεσσιν ἕλωρ καὶ κύρμα γένωμαι.
But if I climb up to the slope and the shadowy wood, and sleep in the dense thickets, if the chill and the weariness let go of me, and sweet sleep should come upon me, I fear that I may become prey and spoil to the wild beasts.
The second option in Odysseus's self-debate: leave the river for the shelter of the wooded slope. He sees the danger there too.
The second horn. If instead he climbs to the wooded slope and sleeps in a sheltered thicket, the cold might release him and real sleep might come — but sleep in the open is its own trap: he could be torn apart by wild animals while he lies unconscious. Neither choice is safe.
This balanced 'if… but if…' is a signature of Odysseus's mind, and the poem stages it as a formal weighing of two evils. Note what he does not do: pray, despair, or freeze. He treats his own survival as a problem with terms. The very sweetness of the sleep he longs for — γλυκερὸς ὕπνος — is what makes it dangerous, and he knows it. The man's intelligence is inseparable from his exhaustion; he must think hardest exactly when he can least afford to.
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