The Odyssey (9): Books 15 – 16

Letting the mask drop

What does it mean to finally come home? Place is one thing, but what of the heart? And should those loved remain distant, or never there? Now, that a much more complicated matter, and for each alone to decide.

The scene has been set, the rehearsals are over, but the characters – sometimes costumed, sometimes not – are ready in the wings; the time approaches to tread the boards, reveal their true selves, and see where fickle Fate may lead.

Book 15: the prince returns

pp. 350-368

Athena in her inimitable way, of deception and persuasion and prophecy, arranges that Telemachus make a quick departure from Sparta and from his host Menalaus. En route, in Pylos, he bids farewell to this new friend, Pisistratus, avoiding King Nestor who would surely demand he stay, before embarking again upon high seas – there is a time to enjoy the fruits of hospitality and a time to make haste.

Back on Ithaca another gifted story teller joins the fray. Eumaeus tells Odysseus his tale of a life robbed from him as a child through wicked circumstance and the avarice of others, and offered to the highest bidder; to be enslaved, but saved from the worst by the generosity of Odysseus’ father, Laertes, and finding favour with his mother and sister. Does Odysseus even wonder why it is that he does not know this story of his noble slave?

Book 16: Father and son

pp. 369-385

I note with interest that on his arrival at Eumaeus’ hut, Telemachus is greeted not only with delight by the loyal swineherd but with calm and familiarity by his dogs; previously, had Eumaeus not intervened, Odysseus would certainly have been mauled by them. This says something I think about time – at least one canine generation has passed since Odysseus left his home shores; these fierce (fiercly loyal) dogs know only his son to be their master’s master. Again, does Odysseus wonder? I say “again” because it sometimes occurs to me that for someone supposedly so clever, Odysseus has a way of overlooking the obvious in his midst. Does his heart swell not just a little with pride and does he not think: “My son has garnered the respect of these beasts, and that is no easy thing; he is the lord they know not I.”?

Telemachus is interested in this “stranger” that he finds in Eumaeus company, accords him courtesy and respect – a noble manner that does impress Odysseus – and when Eumaeus has departed to tell Penelope of her son’s safe return, the opportunity arises for Athena to transform Odysseus once again into some version of his younger self; least ways a version that quickly convinces Telemachus that this is indeed his father. Emotionally charged is an understatement to describe their reunion, but swiftly the mood changes into one of vengeful plotting. At the palace, the target – that pesky band of suitors – peeved at their unsuccessful efforts to date, is also making plans to have another go at ridding themselves of Telemachus (not unanimous granted – Amphinomus is a voice of dissent). Penelope confronts them with her knowledge of their wicked plans, of which they are quick to deny, and Athena must help to bring sleep to this grieving wife and mother that night.

And as if she had nothing else to do, Athena’s busy wand must transform Odysseus back to his old beggar self before Eumaeus return. But now another is privy to his disguise; for he has a co-conspirator (“But what about me?” Athena may well haughtily demand!), and what better person than one’s own flesh and blood. Father and son would surely sleep well this night.

A “Booker” update

Well, Hilary Mantel will not be winning a third Booker prize; the short list confirms that my laws of probability held true, and the closest to home-grown, so to speak, in the all but final call of the United Kingdoms’s premier book award is a Glasgow-born American – Douglas Stuart. But it is a diverse and interesting group, with some new names, and I do declare if very few seem to have much appetite for scandal in this ‘stranger than fiction’ year!

An interesting additive: here is a really nice piece in The New York Times, giving a glimpse of a socially-distanced, long-distance literary judging process in days of Corona. By the way, my attention momentarily turned to the accompanying screen shot of the jury at work, and the caption: “Emily Wilson, she/her, judge” – and a memo to myself to seriously investigate pronouns!

A pig in a poke

In a blog entry for the LRB in 2018, Emily Wilson gave a lesson in reportage gone awry – lost in translation or just plain misunderstood. Whichever, the claims circulating in the media at the time that a clay tablet discovered near Olympia, with lines from Book 14 of the Odyssey, was perhaps the oldest extract from the epic, were way off-base – for all the reasons she explains in her entry.

For my purposes, I mention this in passing only because of where I am at the moment in my epic reading, and Emily Wilson’s comments in respect to the nature of the inscription. Following is some of the passage on the tablet, and in her own translation:

His yard was high and visible for miles,
of fieldstones topped with twigs of thorny pear.
He built it in the absence of his master,
with no help from Laertes or the mistress.
Around the yard, he set a ring of stakes,
of wood with bark stripped off. Inside the yard,
he made twelve sties all next to one another, 
...

Book 14 [lines 8-14] The Odyssey, trans. Emily Wilson

Of course, we have here the beginning of Book 14, and Odysseus, in the beggar’s guise created for him by Athena, is approaching the humble yard of the swineherd, Eumaeus. It is this descriptive passage that leads Wilson to wonder at the purpose of the artefact – the subject matter is hardly the most profound; perhaps its origins were of a more mundane or utilitarian nature than cultural.

Not exactly a pig in a poke, but close. Just as it is wise to check your purchases, so it is to double check sources of information. Emily Wilson ends on a positive note anyway:

The bright side to this inaccurately reported story is that it reveals a hunger among the general public for news about the ancient world. […] Maybe this fake news story will inspire more people to investigate the ancient world for themselves, and also to realise that the stories told about the Odyssey are – like the poem’s wily, scheming, deceitful protagonist himself – not always to be taken at face value.
LRB Blog, 14 JULY 2018, “Making a Pigsty” by Emily Wilson

The Odyssey (8): Books 13 – 14

A tricky coming home

Kindred spirits, our hero and his guardian goddess. Considered in a favorable light, a case could be made that the characteristics that unite Athena and Odysseus are those of intelligence, cleverness, shrewdness and super quick with a plan for all occasions. A couple of strategists you could say! Less charitably, but equally apt, is that we have here a duplicitous pair of incorrigible schemers and tricksters! And the sympathy Athena and Odysseus share for one another is tempered by their conceits, be they godly or very human. Just who is the cleverest of us all? I am! – cries she. No, I am! – returns he. Between these two, stuff is always complicated. But before they can go toe to toe and show off their stuff, Odysseus has to get home.

And it is Odysseus’ long delayed homecoming that opens the next book of the epic. Having survived the dangers of foreign shores and treacherous seas, nostos describes the very special return of the Ancient Greek hero, one such as Odysseus, to the land of their fathers.

BOOK 13: Two tricksters

pp. 316-331

*Odysseus departs from the Land of the Phaeacians*, painting by Claude Lorrain (1646)

And the time came for Odysseus to bid farewell to the Phaecians; they who were such a willing audience to his tales of tribulations and conceits, and offered so much hospitality in return. With all honor hosts and guest feasted together for one last time, and then King Alcinious sent Odysseus on his way – and with his finest ship and crew and a trove of gifts.

Odysseus slept at last the sleep of the contented, and when he woke the crew had left him with all his abundant gifts near the Nereids’ cave on Ithaca shore; so disguised by Athena that Odysseus would not recognize it as his home (to what end? ). Not so lucky the brave crewmen who, upon their home journey, met their fate at the hands of the ever vengeful Poseidon. The Phaecians must pay highly for their Gastfreundshaft.

Athena, under the guise of a shepherd boy, tells Odysseus that he is on Ithaca, and, delighted as he may by these words that he so longed to hear, he is not convinced, and in turn does not reveal himself but spins a tale of Crete, of Troy, of murderous and heroic escapades. To which Athena is mightily impressed and unmasks herself with words as much about herself as about Odysseus:

                     "To outwit you
in all your tricks, a person or a god
would need to be an expert at deceit.
You clever rascal! So duplicitous,
so talented at lying! You love fiction
and tricks so deeply, you refuse to stop
even in your own land. Yes, both of us
are smart. No man can plan and talk like you,
and I am known among the gods for insight
and craftiness.You failed to recognize me:
I  am Athena, child of Zeus. I always
stand near you and take car of you, in all
your hardships...

"The Odyssey" Book 13 [292-303]

The ever wary Odysseus, still doubting of Athena’s rectitude, is only persuaded of the reality of his homecoming after the goddess raises the mist she has cast, and he sees there before him indeed his beloved land – and kisses the fertile ground he has so longed to have beneath his weary feet. Athena tells Odysseus of all the hardships faced by his wife and son at the mercy of the ill-intentioned suitors, and together they plan the demise of this disreputable troop of young men; and this, like most things with Athena, means undercover work – and a disguise! Our hero with a tap of the goddess’ golden wand is now a shriveled beggar, and soon the pair part ways – Athena to fetch Telemachus, still in Sparta, and Odysseus to seek information of his family and the all the goings-on from the loyal swineherd.

BOOK 14: a loyal slave

pp. 332-349

In the preposterous disguise conjured by Athena, Odysseus goes to the humble abode of the slave, Eumaeus; a simple swineherd, who has remained loyal to the memory of his master and to his family during his long absence; irrespective that he believes Odysseus to be long lost to the mortal world. Eumaeus saves Odysseus from a savage dog, welcomes him, is hospitable and generous with the little he possesses – and his generosity is certainly tested by his probing guest. He gladly feeds, clothes and lodges the stranger in his midst; listens to his story, falls for his tricks. Odysseus reiterates somewhat, and augments even more, the false history of his person that he had tried to spin to Athena (and we know how far he got with that!), all the time testing the loyalty of the swineherd. Eumaeus proves himself in every way – but that Odysseus lives he doubts still.

Lily – as the flower, so the girl

The House of Mirth – by Edith Wharton

A passage or two on a novel I hadn’t read for a long time until last week. I don’t know what brought me to pick up Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth again after so many years, but I am pleased I did. Should I have harboured some notion that a reading now would be no more than a mannered sojourn in the fabled Gilded Age of American society of yore, I was wrong.

Poster for the serialized debut of *The House of Mirth* in *Scribner’s Magazine*(1905)

Wharton’s narrative style of a formal literary realism in the tradition of (her friend) Henry James, is all the more real for springing as it does from the society to which she was born and only too acquainted with. A society alien to most (of us, and certainly me!), it is remarkable the ease in which the reader finds oneself embedded in the scenery somewhere, observing the passing parade of characters; their social ambitions and insecurities, their frivolities and pretensions, and wondering at the ease in which they justify their (bad) behaviour and moral ambiguity.

The novel tells the tale of the young, though soon to be no-longer-so-young and her days of marriageability therefore diminishing (twenty-nine! god forbid!), Lily Bart – beautiful, clever (but only up to a point), without money of her own it is true but well enough situated through kinship and acquaintance – and her travails within the fabulously wealthy New York society at the end of the 19th century; her sense of entitlement and appetites, and the appetites of rapacious husbands, and the jealousies of bored wives, the chances dangled within her grasp and the moments of hesitation under which they evaporated, her sense that there always was something missing, that there would be a next time – until there wasn’t.

In this world, where a young woman’s opportunities are dependent on her possessing two attributes – an impeccable social status and financial means – and where appearances mean everything, it was inevitable that a girl like Lily who attracted attention would also attract greater scrutiny and be the subject of gossip. Such is “society” that her fall from favour may well have been preordained, but the depth of her fall was predicated on her own shortcomings – for too long did she play her role; pursue fashion and pleasures she could not afford, endure false friends and disregard those who were true.

A cracking end

Hilary Mantel’s Booker Prize nomination prompts me to finally write some words on The Mirror & the Light – inadequate as they may be. Whilst not exactly putting it off, I just felt, like I said, inadequate – unable to find a way in and unable to cohere my many thoughts. At the time of publication in March, I linked to some various degrees of flattering reviews and there are many more to easily be found around about, so I will only add mention here, and for my own devices, Daniel Mendelsohn’s review in The New Yorker. Firstly, because I always enjoy Mendelsohn’s writing, and secondly, because it errs from the absolutely positive resonance to be found elsewhere – “…bloated and only occasionally captivating…” is less than charitable! – but it is thought provoking anyway, placing as it does this end to the Cromwell saga in the context of the two preceding novels and Mantel’s other work. Also, it does offer a good starting point for me; suggesting some interesting aspects – and doing so sometimes in respect to that which I perceive to be absent.

My copy of “The Mirror & the Light”, Fourth Estate, UK hardback ed.

The New Yorker review is from way back at the beginning of March, and there is no need to get into why that seems now like almost another time – not exactly medieval, but still…! Perhaps, because Mendelsohn’s reading and writing came before the Corona pandemic fully insinuated itself upon us (and what we read, and what we read into that which we read), he doesn’t seem affected by, or least ways lend his criticism to, the pervading atmosphere of death and impending death that at times almost overwhelmed me; be it to come at the gallows, in child-bed – or, and especially, through plague and disease. When the King’s summer tour route has to be meticulously researched and planned to avoid outbreaks of plague [p.680 Fourth Estate ed.], I could do nothing but think of the here and now and thwarted summer holidays. Trivial comparison I know.

Death also finds its extension in the ghosts of the past; omnipresent in the novel and as Cromwell’s constant company – for him, the past is never past (to use Mendelsohn’s expression), nor the dead ever put to rest. Mendelsohn, interestingly, comments more generally in regard to the supernatural in Mantel’s larger body of work – alerting me to an unfortunate gap in my reading, that will be rectified.

Also not mentioned in the review, is the role of rumour and here-say in fuelling discontent amongst the people; the speed at which news and fake-news spreads into far counties (and beyond, to France and the Empire) is startling given the primitive trains of communication, and is eerily reminiscent of the power of social media in this day and age of conspiracies, disinformation and gossip galore. For instance, during the so-called Lincolnshire Rising that anticipated the Pilgrimage of Grace, the folk firmly believe Henry to be dead, a puppet laying in his bed with crown upon its head, and that (the surely to be damned) Th. Cromwell rules in spe, and connives without restraint to demolish the churches, de-frock their clergy, increase taxes and impose draconian levies [p.297].

Booker 2020

Literary awards stop not for this mean, increasingly unpredictable virus making lives miserable – and to various degrees, dependent upon circumstance. Here, then, providing a modicum of distraction, the just announced longlist for The Booker Prize 2020:

The New Wilderness by Diane Cook (Oneworld Publications)
This Mournable Body by Tsitsi Dangarembga (Faber & Faber)
Burnt Sugar by Avni Doshi (Hamish Hamilton, Penguin Random House)
Who They Was by Gabriel Krauze (4^th Estate, HarperCollins)
The Mirror & The Light by Hilary Mantel (4^th Estate, HarperCollins)
Apeirogon by Colum McCan (Bloomsbury Publishing)
The Shadow King by Maaza Mengiste (Canongate Books)
Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid (Bloomsbury Circus, Bloomsbury Publishing)
Real Life by Brandon Taylor (Originals, Daunt Books Publishing)
Redhead by The Side of The Road by Anne Tyler (Chatto & Windus, Vintage)
Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart (Picador, Pan Macmillan)
Love and Other Thought Experiments by Sophie Ward (Corsair, Little, Brown)
How Much of These Hills is Gold by C Pam Zhang (Virago, Little, Brown)

I can only say that I have only read Mantel; and the daunting task of writing my thoughts on her remarkable work remains on my longlist (of things to do)! And, I can only say what I’ve said before, and that is: the United States has any number of major book awards (National, Pulitzer being foremost) why on earth the Brits allowed them in the Booker a few years ago I really don’t know. Well of course one does – $$$! In my opinion, it is becoming too top heavy stateside these days – no antipodean, only one resident (I think) of the African continent, none from southern Asia, or the Caribbean. In fact there are only three listed from the UK which means, the laws of probability being such as they are, one may very well end up with a shortlist without a British writer! I hear already the screams of “Scandal!” – but what would the Booker be without controversy? Rarely has there not been a loud gripe of some sort – in or out, sponsor, judge … What was it last year? Oh, I remember – against all the “unwritten” rules, it was awarded jointly to Bernadine Evaristo and Margaret Atwood.

And I will also say that I haven’t read Anne Tyler for donkey’s years, and she was a constant companion of … let me see… the third decade of my life. Can I read Tyler again without bemoaning my lost youth?

The jury is diverse which is good, and I also note with delight that Margaret Busby leads it and Emily Wilson is another of the judges. Of the latter I need say nought (see my never ending Odyssey project!), but Busby reminds me of The Daughters of Africa, which I would like to read after all these years and then their is last year’s follow up anthology.

The Booker Prize longlist July 28th 2020

Jack & Della

To tantalise and in anticipation of Marilynne Robinson’s continuation of the Gilead saga, The New Yorker has published a short story called “Jack and Della” adapted from the new novel, simply called Jack, which is due out at the end of September, and also a mini-interview with Robinson.

It is said the story is adapted, so I don’t understand it to be an extract, but what it is, is another telling of the meeting between Jack and Della in St. Louis; first related by Jack to Reverend Ames in Gilead and then again by Della to Jack’s sister Glory at the end of Home.

What is it about encounters in the rain? So often looms a sense of rescue and of chance; both redemptive and portentous at the same time. Reading “Jack & Della”, only now do I recognise a parallel between this first meeting and that of Reverend Ames and Lila – instigated too with an opening of the heavens, and opening of a door. As Della’s simple respectful “Thank you, Reverend” inspired by Jack’s funereal attire, so Lila’s “Good morning, Reverend”, are received as a promise, perhaps of salvation, and endure in both men’s memories long after. But, just who is saving whom is not plain, nor saint and sinner unambiguous – and that I suppose is the point.

More than tantalised, I positively ache to read Marilynne Robinson again. I have convinced myself that her words, the grace and wisdom she imparts with her words, make me just a little bit better a person.