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…
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.