Copied beneath is a post-script to my reading of Book 8 of The Odyssey, which I have updated here.
[22. September 2021] Odysseus weeps and weeps some more as Demodocus sings of the mayhem and blood shed as Troy falls, but it has come to my attention, that the sorrow he exhibits, the tears he sheds, can be interpreted as an asymmetrical act to the grief of Andromache on the death of Hector and her anguish about what fate now awaits her.
Odysseus was melting into tears; his cheeks were wet with weeping, as a woman weeps, as she falls to wrap her arms around her husband, fallen fighting for his home and children. She is watching as he gasps and dies. She shrieks, a clear high wail, collapsing upon his corpse. The men are right behind. They hit her shoulders with their spears and lead her to slavery, hard labor, and a life of pain. Her face is marked with her despair. In that same desperate way, Odysseus was crying [...]
Book 8 [lines 521-532], The Odyssey, trans. Emily Wilson (pp. 237-239)
It is really quite extraordinary that it is a woman who is introduced as a simile for the state of the grieving Odysseus, and then takes on a life of her own in the verse. And that life could be, generically speaking, the widow who has lost her beloved on the battlefield and is facing an uncertain future, or it could be imagined more specifically as Andromache. Though, in the moment, Odysseus’ emotions are being stirred by his intense warrior pride and the desire to hear again tales of days of glory, perhaps I was remiss in not allowing some credence to the possibility that Odysseus’ reaction was not also a gesture of empathy for those who had suffered in Troy; after all he has come some way – and in more than nautical miles – since the Trojan war.
No longer a favourite white tee for him and her (or me), but still it caught my eye; any wonder when it so cries: “Fruits of the loom: why Greek myths are relevant for all time!” And, it continues, and gets only better: “…Classicist Charlotte Higgins explores stories that weave together the fabric of our existence“. A must read, then, on The Guardian website.
Greek Myths: A New Retelling
And having done so – read the above said article I mean – I know this to be an introduction of sorts to coincide with the publication in the UK of Charlotte Higgins’ own new book Greek Myths: A New Retelling (Jonathon Cape, 2021), and which is to be published in the US in December. I haven’t read Higgins’ previous books, but she is known to me from her excellent and varied cultural journalism at The Guardian, and her declared rational behind her “retelling” is so compelling, that this too now a must read.
Interesting, also: drawings by Chris Ofili! What a coup by whoever, or whatever circumstance, initiated his involvement.
Next week sees the publication of The Women of Troy, Pat Barker’s sequel to her critically and popularly well-received retelling of Homer’s Iliad, The Silence of the Girls; told with a woman’s gaze and one firmly focused on Briseis. (Reviewed in 2018 here in The Guardian by Emily Wilson.)
Barker has whetted the appetite for a timely read in this short piece she has written for The Guardian; she returns to her motivations in writing the first book, and it seems a classic ‘what came next’ is to be expected of her follow-up.
More generally, it was interesting to read Barker’s comments relating to the richness of opportunities at an author’s disposal to explore mythological characters, as opposed to the constraints imposed on fictions with historical figures and situations in their midst; burdened as they are with facts and evidence. It is any wonder, then, that the mythical narratives are returned to again and again by new generations of artists and writers seeking creative freedom; re-worked and re-imagined, made fit for contemporary reception.
Here’s to a girls night out with Briseis and friends (again) – grown up and grown old – or not – our fates shared through the ages (of man!).
Madeline Miller’s 2018 novel re-telling of the mythical and minor goddess Circe came to hand, and was duly read and quickly so, and was enjoyed and deserves, therefore, a few words. And, and, and…
pub. Little Brown and Company, 2018
It had occurred to me that I was perhaps not amongst the intended readership of this book, but I was not deterred, after all, as an “Old Adult” I have read Pullman and Rowling in the interests of a younger generation (near and dear), but that is not quite the same as that peculiar hybrid mix of YA and fantasy fiction to which I discovered Miller’s Circe tended. I don’t say that dismissively, rather with some regret at my own mounting years.
Written in the first person from the point of view of Circe herself, I did succumb to the spell cast by her voice – irritable to the gods, feisty to a mere mortal as I – but found myself to be at the same time mildly irritated by the substance behind it. Miller gives her goddess a cadence that is both intimate and distanced, worldly and naive, ancient and very young; too much duality can blur the edges and obscure the essence of a character. But maybe so it must be; for this Circe has a mortal core centered within an immortal world – or the other way around. The narrative that the author spins around Circe’s far flung familial connections, that has her turning up all over the place in Greek mythology, has its attractions; for my acquaintanceship with her had been previously limited to The Odyssey and Odysseus’ sojourn on her island of exile, Aiaia. Tempting the reader with her interpretation of those ancient fragmentary tales, Miller conjures for her idiosyncratic enchantress a ‘what came before’ and ‘what came next’ that has a sort of magic, and is not without appeal. Her book may lack the complexity demanded of (and by!) the gods (and the greater myth system that has them at its foundation), but it is, nevertheless, a spirited work of imaginative fiction.
This Circe deserves her release from the incessant mobbing in the mythical playground of the gods, from the abusive father, Helios – the Sun, the Son – and from all the nasties – mother, siblings, relos however many times removed, and marauding mortal men. Circe’s tribulations are a godly version of the veritable tick box of the abuse and belittlement faced by women at home and abroad – misogyny, humiliation, violence, dependency. Miller’s Circe, though, defies victim-hood and her presumed fate, proves herself to be more than a song and a refrain in The Odyssey, more than a supporting character in the myths of god and man. Cast out as a failed daughter, as a rejected and vengeful nymph, she re-invents herself, explores her talents, builds a home of her own. Seeking the company of man, she is maltreated again – understated! to say it plainly: she is raped. Be assured they got their just rewards – and not they alone, generations will pay for the sins of the fathers. But she never gives up on them; they, who she sees (unlike her Olympian tormentors!), as more than foolish mortals with foolish ways, easy fodder for the next divertissement. This Circe is a searcher, a survivor, a self-made woman. She is a lover and a mother and a forgiver – for those few who pass muster, she will risk all.
As Penelope once weaved and deceived, so Circe concocts and conceives – with purpose and with patience. In the end – can it be? – the gods! they misread the Fates, got it wrong! They underestimated, made presumptions, and a troublesome witch blew them off course. Having dared to turn a man into a god and coming to grief, they thought her fate sealed, now what will they have to say about a goddess craving mortality?
The novel, Circe, is not quite a cauldron full, not a potent witch’s brew reeking of entrails and god knows what, rather one with just a tantalizing whiff of the dark; a refreshing light draught, its ingredients drawn from fields, ancient and fertile. To extend the metaphor: an airy romp for the young and young of heart. Maybe, at least, I still retain a little of the latter; because I did appreciate this read.
A very niche blog post here on Greek accents (and why there are some things that, if you dont learn them as a child, you never will!) https://t.co/uJMvk32bIz
…unfortunately, not only niche, but abbreviated. I thought I would be granted one admittance to the TLS this month – but no such luck! But, as far as I could read, the gist is; when Professor Beard was at school, girls were taught Ancient Greek without accents – pondering the rationale (!) behind that is really interesting indeed! Mind you, it didn’t do Mary’s brilliant career much harm; or maybe it did force the direction – after all, her specialisation did become that of the Romans and Latin does not have (at least not in written text) those pesky diacritical marks of Greek. And she does say, that to this very day, she feels somehow deprived, and is adamant it is a technique that must be learnt from the git go.
Where I am concerned, the truth of course is – with or without (accents) – it remains all Greek to me!
Not wasted though was this return visit to Twitter, for I picked up mention of a very new site, called Antigone, dedicated to making Classics accessible to a greater audience. A quick browse through suggests lots of good reading, and they are even able to offer help for those (like Mary!) struggling with accents.
Tricky, niche, beset by questions of gender in education? There's lots one might say about ancient Greek accents. We at @AntigoneJournal recently shared an article summarising the main rules governing their use. Here it is! https://t.co/EAUiHOvnGG
— Antigone Journal (@AntigoneJournal) July 3, 2021
Unlike in the digital world, where an update comes from out of nowhere, or perhaps from the clouds above – overnight and undercover, or intruding unannounced in the light of day, there remain great collections of human thought and knowledge, remnants from times passed, that demand meticulous review; and under the auspices of the human brain that understands memory as more than a machine, that pays little regard to bits and bytes, and timeouts, rather dedicates its own finely wired synapses to the higher arts of scholarship – perseverance, selection, reflection, accuracy.
Such may be said of the just published Cambridge Greek Lexicon (Cambridge University Press). [On the website is a trove of information, including the history and methodology of the project, an extended video introduction and reference material and links.] Over twenty years in compilation; what was originally conceived as a revision of HG Liddell and Robert Scott’s legendary 1889 Intermediate Greek-English Lexicon, after due consideration and because of its antiquated form, had morphed into a completely new project.
Classics at Cambridge: Introducing the “The Cambridge Greek Lexicon”
This Guardian piece informs of what is in and what is not, and delights in giving us the down and dirty – or “earthy” as they call it. Some may say, well … and with a blush! To rejoin: Shame on those who go digging in ancient ground and shun at getting hands dirty! And though blushing, I quote:
…The verb χέζω (chezo), translated by Liddell and Scott as “ease oneself, do one’s need”, is defined in the new dictionary as “to defecate” and translated as “to shit”; βινέω (bineo) is no longer “inire, coire, of illicit intercourse”, but “fuck”; λαικάζω (laikazo), in the 19th-century dictionary translated as “to wench”, is now defined as “perform fellatio” and translated as “suck cocks”.
The Guardian, 27th May 2021
Whatever would the Messrs. Liddell and Scott think! Whether these new volumes will endure as long as their predecessor only time will tell but it is interesting to contemplate how language and custom may develop in the next hundred years or so (hopefully, it will still be determined by the living, breathing not an artificial intelligence!) – and in which direction! As the Guardianeditorial ends:
…Easy as it is to gently mock the sensibilities of a former age, perhaps future generations will decry early-21st-century comfort with sexually aggressive terms; when, perhaps, it will be time for another dictionary of a “dead” language.
Melvyn Bragg and his guests discuss Euripides’ “The Bacchae” in the March 18th 2021 episode of “In Our Time”.
Listened to this week, and with (Dionysian!) pleasure: Melvyn Bragg’s BBC Radio 4 program “In Our Time”, and his conversation about Euripides’ tragedy The Bacchae with Emily Wilson, Edith Hall and Rosie Wyles.
Mention of Donna Tartt’s novel The Secret History from 1992, led to some moments of reflection. A few years ago after reading The Gold Finch, and remembering the hype surrounding the publication of Tartt’s first book (I guess it became a bestseller), I read The Secret History, and whilst I would have recommended it as a good enough read, I recall my expectations for literary fiction were not really fulfilled. (By the way, similarly so, my opinion of The Gold Finch.) A likeable enough but vacillating narrator and his capricious bunch of classics cohorts at an elite college, certainly sucked one into their vortex of deceits, large and small, but I had the feeling at the end of having been chewed up and spat out – unsatisfied, left cold. That the story’s murder and mayhem was created in the pursuit of Dionysian pleasure and dabbling in bacchanalian ritual, I had all but forgotten; rather, what stayed with me was the disturbing ease in which the accoutrements of privilege could be weaponised by an amoral didactic, catapulting young lives into the abyss (in the novel: both in a real sense and an allegorical).
But back to Bragg’s program…On the website there is further information – both concerning the subject matter and the guests. The text can be found here at Perseus; not as easy reading as the above discussion is to listen to, but the theatre of life rarely is – the truth being in the performance, and the borders of pleasure and tragedy fluid.
To set the stage, so to say, and to understand the context of Ancient Greek performance, I recommend Edith Hall’s Gresham Lectures of 2018, of which the following video is part.
Reading and discussion of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (translation by Oliver Taplin)
Above, as an example, Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, which I note uses the Oliver Taplin translation that Emily Wilson spoke of here. And, Mr. Taplin is in fact a guest (approx. 22:00), and has some interesting things to say about translation and performance – in general and in respect to the Oresteia in particular.
