Catullus: Complete Poems.

Whether we have this work preserved to us by the idiosyncrasies of fate, of time, or merely of human nature matters not.  They are all equally fickle, and as likely to bring us a Catullus as a Plutarch.  The former, though seemingly adored among scholars of Latin, does not by my measure seem to deserve his reputation.  Those same scholars would argue that my appreciation for his verse is limited by my native English, but in doing so they would seem to be admitting that the form of his lines is their chief, if not only, virtue.  The content of those lines simply cannot stand on its own merit, and this reader cannot shake the impression that Catullus was his day's equivalent of Logan Paul.  He offers nothing in particular of value, but does so in such an entertainingly brazen way that his audience is mesmerized.  No doubt those who appreciate Latin will point to his masterful use of the language, but I reassert that without something underneath the language to recommend it, fate need not have bothered to preserve it for us.