A Mistake

I have recently published a review of a new and celebrated translation of Homer's Iliad in a small but elegant and fancy journal.  I wrote my review in some haste right after the immediate recovery from my heart surgery.  My husband read it in draft, the editor of the journal, did as well, and enthusiastically accepted it.  A short time later it was set in type and I read it again in this state, as did my husband, and I don't know who else.  I now have the published version, which is indeed very handsome to look at, which I, somewhat fixated on myself, and conscious that this piece will very likely be my last hurrah, leave out on the coffee table, not that we have that many visitors, but so that my hungry ego will be satiated on a daily basis just in the sighting.  Last night as we were leaving for the theater I received an email from a friend and I offered to send him a copy of this review.  As I was glancing over it ever so casually in yet another mental masturbatory mode my eye caught the sentence where I mention a certain conversation between Hektor and his wife Andromache as it occurs, wrote I, in the third book of the poem.  In a lightening flash it came to me that this occurred in the sixth book of the poem.  I have known that fact well oh for the past fifty or sixty years.  I never caught the error, my friends and critics did not either.  I could scarcely set off for the theater so devastated was I.  First thing this morning I consulted the Greek text, yes, there is is, for all to see: in the sixth book Homer describes Hektor speaking to Andromache.  oimoi! as the Greek tragedians would have introduced the exclamation of deep lamentation.  Too bad, Charlie, you're old, you made a mistake, you're forgetting.  The play we saw last night was the relationship between a young caregiver who is emotionally needy and an old woman keeping her at bay who is sinking into dementia.  Hard to watch at any age and for anyone, but I, as they say, really related.  I intend to spend the day whining quietly by myself. Maybe curled up in foetal position.  I will not mention my monumental error.  Thing is, they're not going to notice it.