Gasp! Scandalous!

Okay, so what do we know about this notorious lady? Not much, as it turns out. She was born around 630 bc, on the island of Lesbos, off the coast of Asia Minor. She had a husband, and at least one daughter. There was a collection of her poetry, spanning nine books, in the library of Alexandria. That’s awfully unfortunate for us, because now all that remains of her apparently huge folio is two complete poems and a bunch of fragments. She was liberally quoted in other works by the ancients, and it’s clear that she was enthusiastically loved even then. And it’s clear why – she gives us a beautiful picture of the joy and sorrow of love.

Sappho on an Attic red-figure vase by the Brygos Painter, ca. 470 BC. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

Yes, love. Now we get to the ~scandal.~ Sappho is sometimes whispered of as being a lesbian, as if there is something wrong with that. And maybe she was. She certainly lent her name to the cause – the noun “lesbian” and the adjective “sapphic” are both traced directly to Sappho. (Neither term was in use until the modern era, however.)
But let’s look at this closely. In ancient cultures, men and women were strictly separated, rarely interacting at all. Young women formed their own tightly-knit society, closer than we can probably imagine. From girlhood to marriage, these friendships were the most important part of their lives. But when it came time for marriage, their lives would be dominated by home, husband, and children. This intense friendship and dependence and camaraderie, and the subsequent parting, was an incredibly deep experience. Maybe those friendships were platonic, and maybe they were more – we may never know, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. The type of relationship doesn’t dilute the depth of emotion. Sappho’s words of love and longing are poignant and relatable no matter our gender or sexual orientation. (And of course it’s entirely possible that her poems are not meant to be autobiographical at all!)

Before we get into the poems, let me pass on something from the introduction in the Norton. “The first two poems printed here were quoted in their entirety by ancient critics (although it is possible that there was another stanza at the end of the second)… Our third selection…comes from the municipal rubbish heap of the Egyptian village Oxyrhyncus.” It seems that much of our text from Sappho has been pieced together from ancient books, which can have holes and other flaws. So the translator, in this case Richmond Lattimore, has to be a bit creative and fill in the gaps with his knowledge of the poet’s subject and dialect. Apparently, we’re quite lucky, because Lattimore also managed to reproduce the metrical form of the poems – the “Sapphic stanza.”

Sappho reading to her companions on an Attic vase of c. 435 BC. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

And so, with no further stalling or introduction, here we go. First up we have a poem known as “Throned in splendor, deathless, O Aphrodite.” (It is sometimes called the Hymn to Aphrodite.) This poem is an intimate prayer to the goddess Aphrodite, who, as you probably know, represents love, as well as beauty, pleasure, and procreation. It may be telling that this prayer is addressed to the goddess of love, as opposed to, say, Artemis, the goddess of virginity and young women.
In any case, Sappho opens her prayer entreating the goddess “not with griefs and bitterness to break my spirit” – she wants to be saved from a broken heart. The second stanza of this poem is a mess, grammatically, but it all seems to be indicating that Sappho is remembering another time that Aphrodite heard and answered her prayers for help: “Swiftly then they came, and you, blessed lady, smiling on me out of immortal beauty, asked me what affliction was on me.”
Aphrodite was gentle and comforting to her supplicant:

Whom then would you have Persuasion
force to serve desire in your heart? …
Though she now escape, she soon will follow;
though she take not gifts from you, she will give them:
though she love not, yet she will surely love you
even unwilling.

It appears that while Sappho’s friend or lover was rejecting her, this would not last forever – the relationship will be mended. (It feels very much like teenagerhood – every relationship was constantly in flux, and every change felt like a calamity.)
Sappho ends her prayer, steeped in a feeling of intimate communion with a caring goddess, by appealing that she “in such guise come even again and set me free from doubt and sorrow.” I find myself moved by the deep devotion to and identification with the goddess shown by the poet, and I also think it’s lovely that the goddess addresses her devotee by name. This poem is much more about religion than it is about love and sexuality – a private look at the inner life of a young Greek woman.

The second poem we have is called “Like the very gods in my sight is he.” The first stanza is quite easy to interpret. In no uncertain terms, Sappho tells us that a man who treats his woman with love and respect is “like the very gods” – rare and amazing. However, “it breaks my spirit… all the heart is shaken.” Why? Why does the gift of a loving husband make her despair?
“Let me only glance where you are.”
Oh. OH. In fact, let me let the poet tell you herself:

Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies.
I can say nothing.
but my lips are stricken to silence, under-
neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
muted in thunder.
And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
death has come near me.

That certainly makes it clear. She may be blessed with a lovely husband, but there is another. The mere sight of this beloved one delivers the speaker to passion – a secret, hidden, forbidden love. Caught between her desire for her lover (there doesn’t seem to be any indication of gender here) and her respect for her husband, Sappho connects to all of us who find ourselves caught between duties and desires. And yet we know that in that time, there is not a chance for her to have acted on her desires. No wonder she feels death.

Sappho’s recently discovered poem on old age, from an exhibit of the Altes Museum. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Let us move on to the final poem in our selection – “Some there are who say that the fairest thing seen.” Remember that this poem is fragmentary and may not be entirely accurate, but of course the scholars have done their best. It opens with a simply lovely bit:

Some there are who say that the fairest thing seen
on the black earth is an array of horsemen;
some, men marching; some would say ships; but I say
she whom one loves best
is the loveliest.

Sappho deliberately sets up the praise of war and battle and manliness (a common theme in poetry throughout history), and then shoots them down in favor of home and love. Clever girl, she is. There isn’t anything in this text to indicate if the love one feels for this lovely girl need be erotic. I know that Greek has a number of different words that translate to “love” in English, and they denote different kinds of love (romantic, familial, etc), but the Norton doesn’t tell us which words are used here.
Sappho invokes a reference to Helen – “not the thought of child nor beloved parents was remembered, after the Queen of Cyprus won her at first sight.” Her claim here is that love, romantic love (the Queen of Cyprus is a reference to Aphrodite), is the strongest force of motivation. She goes on to be rather insulting to her own gender, saying that “young brides have hearts that can be persuaded easily, light things, palpitant to passion.” But she doesn’t exclude herself, referring to “Anaktória who has gone from me.”
She ends the poem with a simple ode to her dearest friend:

whose lovely walk and the shining pallor
of her face I would rather see before my
eyes than Lydia’s chariots in all their glory
armored for battle.

Mirroring her first stanza, Sappho reinforces her initial assertion – she rejects the so-called “romance” of war, violence, and battle, and declares her love for domesticity, beauty, and peace. Admirable sentiments, and probably a rather brave opinion in the war-loving culture of the Greeks (not that far away from Lesbos, Sparta was growing into a dominant power of the world).

So, what have we learned? We’ve learned that not a whole lot is concretely known about our dear Sappho, despite all the rumors. We’ve only got a few of her works remaining. Two of them can certainly be interpreted to indicate homosexuality, but they can also be read in the context of simple close friends (NOT that there is anything wrong with either situation!). One of these is primarily about religion, and the other is a rejection of the glorification of war. The final poem we have is definitely sexual in nature, but gives no indication of the gender of the desired lover. I have no complaint with her reputation as a badass woman writer who may have been homosexual, but I have a quibble with the vilification she has received from socially-conservative modern critics just based on the perception of her sexuality. Let’s deal with the wider message of her works – brave messages of dissent, honest messages of inner conflict, and poignant messages of belief.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this foray into poetry, because we’re heading directly into the Greek dramas, beginning with Aeschylus, next week! Leave a comment below if you’ve got something to say!

Nausikaa returns home from the river (Homer tells us about her nurse, a slave – I love that he does this), and Odysseus follows at a careful distance. Athena causes a fog around him so nobody bothers him, and disguises herself as a small girl to give him directions to the palace. They soon arrive at the home of King Alkínoös, and the “girl” gives Odysseus a hint that Queen Arêtê is the one he needs to win over. (Homer also tells us that the King is the much-older uncle of the Queen, as well as husband. So, you know, EW.)

Odysseus enters the palace, and Homer describes it. It’s apparently awesome. When he’s seen it all, Odysseus enters the house, where they are offering a libation to Zeus, and goes straight to Arêtê, begging her for mercy and help. When he’s done speaking, he goes to the fire and sits in the ashes. (The hearth is the center of the home and a sort of consecrated ground, especially for a supplicant.)

Everyone is silent for a moment, taking in the sight of this stranger and his desperate bid for mercy. An old man, Ekhenêos, finally speaks out, saying that allowing a guest to sit in the ashes unhelped “will not pass for courtesy,” and that the king and queen must grant him aid. Immediately, Alkínoös gives Odysseus the chair of his favorite son. Food and drink is brought, followed by another libation to Zeus (patron of honorable petitioners).

Francesco Hayez’s oil painting “Odysseus am Hofe des Alkinoos” -”Odysseus at the court of Alkínoös” Image source

Alkínoös announces his plans to get Odysseus sent on his way, and the rest of the guests leave the hall. Observant Arêtê, meanwhile, has noticed that Odysseus is wearing clothes that she made, and asks how such a thing came to pass. Odysseus explains that he has been prisoner of Kalypso for 8 years, and after sailing for 17 days, was shipwrecked on their island, near the river, where Nausikaa had found him that morning. With plans brewing for the next day, they all go to bed.

Book VIII opens the next morning, as Odysseus and Alkínoös arise and go to the town’s assembly ground. Athena, disguising herself as a crier, goes about the town, summoning everyone to the assembly. Alkínoös speaks, asking that a ship be made ready to sail at evening, and a festival all day. Everyone agrees, and gets busy.

Feasting. They do an awful lot of eating, these people. Haha. The minstrel, Demódokos, sings a song of Odysseus and Akhilleus (you may know him as Achilles), which makes Odysseus cry. He hides it well, but Alkínoös notices it, and calls for some sports. The young men are apparently quite impressive. Then one of them hurts Odysseus’ feelings, and Odysseus makes a speech about it and then kicks his butt at discus. He makes another speech about it (lol) and Alkínoös suggests dancing next. Demódokos sings a story (which is now very well-known) about Hephaistos catching his wife Aphrodite and his brother Arês en flagrante.

Alkínoös and all the other lords (and the guy who insulted Odysseus earlier) decide to load Odysseus up with gifts. Odysseus takes a bath, thanks Nausikaa for her help, and praises the minstrel for his skill. In response, the minstrel sings a song of the Trojan Horse. Odysseus cries again and tries valiantly to hide it, but Alkínoös sees it again and calls for the song to end. He finally (Odysseus still hasn’t told them his name) asks his guest to tell them who he is, and why he weeps for the Akhaians at Troy.

Odysseus will answer Alkínoös’ questions next week, in Book IX!

Image from Nice Art Gallery

While Odysseus is sleeping in the underbrush, Athena goes to the city of the Phaiákians (the people who inhabit this island) to pave his way forward, so to speak. She enters the home of Alkínoös (their king) and takes the form of his daughter Nausikaa’s best friend, who is a daughter of a shipman and otherwise doesn’t appear in this book.

Athena speaks to Nausikaa, and bids her to bring her clothing to the river in the morning to wash them. She also mentions something about wedding preparations and courtship, and it’s somewhat unclear why. I think Nausikaa thinks it was a dream, and her friend that Athena was pretending to be is not one of her companions in the morning, so it’s all just slightly odd. In any case, Nausikaa does go to her father in the morning and gets permission to go to the river with her servants and companions. They all set off, with the laundry in a mule cart. Nausikaa’s mother sends a hamper of food along with them, as well as a bottle of oil to rub on their skin after they bathe in the river.

When they arrive at the river, they do the laundry, have a swim and a picnic, and then start playing a game with a ball while they wait for the clothes to dry. Soon it was time to go home, but “Athena made [Nausikaa] tarry” and they keep playing their ball game. On her turn, Nausikaa’s throw is off and lands in the stream. The girls squeal and laugh, and Odysseus awakes.

Odysseus emerges from his nest, naked and covering himself with an olive branch. Surprised and scared, all the girls run away, except Nausikaa. Here’s this naked man, who has obviously been living wild, with bulging muscles and a hungry look in his eye… and Nausikaa stands there and looks at him. She’s a flipping idiot.

Luckily for her, Odysseus is not a murderer or rapist (or, you know, isn’t planning on doing those things today anyway), and stands at a distance, debating what to do. He decides that the best thing to do is suck up as hard as he can and hope that she’ll help him. She is pleased with his compliments and offers to help him out. She summons her maids to return, berating them for fleeing (even though they clearly made the only sane decision).

Before they return to town, Odysseus obviously needs to look less wild, so he bathes and oils his skin, and dresses in some clothing the girls lay out for him. Athena exerts herself to make him seem even more attractive. It works – Nausikaa tells her girls that “he looks like one of heaven’s people. I wish my husband could be as fine as he.”

Now Odysseus eats some food and drinks some wine, while the girls fold the laundry into the cart. Finally ready to go, Nausikaa arranges for Odysseus to arrive separately from the girls, because it would look bad for a man to arrive unexpectedly with the girls, and the townspeople would talk and cause a scandal. So she goes on ahead, and Odysseus follows at some distance behind. Before arriving at the town, Odysseus offers up a prayer to Athena that he’d finally catch a break from his rotten luck and find mercy here.

Do you think Odysseus has found an end to his struggles? Will Poseidon leave him alone? And how much longer before we get to hear what he was doing for ten years? Do you think Nausikaa is insane, or is that just me? Let’s talk about this, and we’ll continue with Book VII (and maybe even VIII) next week!

We pick up, you remember, with Telémakhos arriving at the home of Meneláos at the beginning of Book Four. Meneláos is celebrating the wedding of two of his children (to two other people, not to each other, ew). As Telémakhos and Peisístratos (a son of Nestor) arrive, they are seen by Eteoneus, a friend of Meneláos. Eteoneus asks “should we greet them or tell them to move on” because of the celebration. Meneláos tells him that’s stupid, and to go out and greet the newcomers.

Homer gives us yet another of his beautiful descriptive scenes as Telémakhos settles in. Meneláos welcomes him and Peisístratos to the party (another example of how important hospitality is in Homer’s culture). Telémakhos is in absolute awe at Meneláos’ court, but Meneláos just says that while all his treasure is great (and imma let you finish) but he’d gladly trade it all if he could have his dead friends back. He mentions that he misses Odysseus most of all, and Telémakhos tears up at the mention of his father. Meneláos knows now that this must be Odysseus’ son, but he says nothing.

This is the island of Gozo, Malta, said to be the Isle of Kalypso, where Odysseus is currently being held prisoner. Image from Tertium Quid.

Helen comes up and exclaims that “this boy must be the son of Odysseus”, because he looks just like him (a common theme, here). Peisístratos confirms their suspicions, and tells them that Telémakhos is shy and modest (another commonly-remarked thing), but has come to seek advice and/or assistance for the matter of Odysseus. Meneláos is overjoyed – “His son, in my house! How I loved the man” – and everyone present weeps with grief for those who have been lost. (Yeah that doesn’t make much sense to me either.)

Helen takes this opportunity to drug the wine with a forgetfulness potion, so that people will stop weeping so much (funny, but weird). She then tells a story of something Odysseus did in Troy, during the war, and says that she really regrets ever running away with Paris. Meneláos tells a story about something Odysseus did in the hollow horse (the renowned “Trojan horse,” if you will). After this, Telémakhos asks if it can be bedtime.

In the morning, Meneláos goes to speak to Telémakhos privately, and asks him “why, precisely,” he has come. Telémakhos again tells about the suitors back home, and asks Meneláos if he knows anything about the fate of Odysseus. Meneláos, like everyone else, is angry at the suitors – “if only that Odysseus met the suitors, they’d have their consummation, a cold bed!” Then he tells Telémakhos what he heard from Proteus, “the Ancient of the Sea, who is infallible.”

While Meneláos was out lost at sea, to make a long story short, he was trapped on an island because he’d angered the gods. A daughter of Proteus helped him defeat her father so he could find out how to appease them and learn news from home. Proteus told Meneláos to offer a sacrifice, and recounted the tales of Aias and Agamemnon, and that Odysseus is a captive of Kalypso, with no means of escape. The story told, Meneláos insists that Telémakhos must stay for a while and then be sent on his way forward with gifts. Telémakhos refuses, saying he must go quickly and cannot carry gifts. So Meneláos just give him a special bowl that was made by Hephaistos.

Homer now takes us back to Ithaka. Noêmon, son of Phronios, wants his ship back, and asks Antinoös if he knows when Telémakhos will return. Antinoös is shocked, since he didn’t even know that Telémakhos had gone. They talk for a moment, and they notice that Mentor seems to have been in two places at once. Antinoös is absolutely ticked off that Telemakhos has done what they said he wasn’t able to do (lol, morons), and the suitors all decide to follow and intercept Telémakhos and murder him.

Penélopê hears what’s afoot. She’s quite snarky about the suitors, but when she learns that her son really has gone (remember he told the slaves to keep it a secret), she is terrified for him, worried that he, like his father, will never come home. Homer gives a number of absolutely gorgeous lines to describe Penélopê. I really love his treatment of women and slaves – he seems to have a great deal of poetry to spend on them. While Penélopê is upstairs praying to Athena, the moronic deluded suitors think that she’s preparing to accept one of them. Antinoös tells them to shut up and they all go get on a boat and set off in pursuit of Telémakhos.

As Book 5 opens, Athena is again petitioning the Olympians on behalf of Odysseus. Zeus tells her to be quiet, since they all know that she’s got the wheels turning for him to come home and bring great justice back to Ithaka. He sends Hermês to tell Kalypso to let Odysseus go (but not too easily).

Hermês goes, rather unwillingly, to Kalypso’s island and delivers Zeus’ order. Kalypso has a delicious rant about how the gods always get so angry when a goddess takes a lover (the implied argument is that the gods take all the lovers they want with impunity, and that double standards are really unfair). Hermês is unimpressed with her rant, and tells her to behave before Zeus chastises her.

Kalypso, with great sadness, tells Odysseus he is free to go, but must make his own raft. Odysseus is suspicious, but she swears on the river Styx that she is not playing any tricks (tryx?). They eat together, and Kalypso asks him why he still desires mortal Penélopê but not herself, a lovely and immortal goddess. “The strategist Odysseus” gives her an incredibly diplomatic answer, and they go to bed.

In the morning, Odysseus begins to build his raft. It takes him four days, and on the fifth morning he sets out. He sails for 17 days and nights, and finally, land ho!, he sees Skhería in the distance (the very land that Zeus said he’d arrive at). At this very moment, Poseidon, returning from vacation apparently, sees Odysseus. Angered, he sends a couple hurricanes at him. A nereid takes pity on the now-capsized Odysseus and gives him a magic sash that will protect him from drowning and injury. Odysseus, always suspicious, only sets out swimming when the water destroys the part of his raft that he was clinging to.

Poseidon sees him start swimming and is satisfied, thinking that Odysseus will have plenty of trouble among the Phaiákians. Athena steps in and makes the sea bring Odysseus to land. It takes him 3 days of drifting, and he’s nearly killed on sharp rocks when he arrives. He finally reaches dry land, which he kisses of course, makes a leaf-bed in a thicket, and sleeps.

Image on pottery, apparently depicting Telémakhos and Nestor

Book 2 sees Telémakhos call for an assembly of the Akhaians. Aigýptios, an old man mourning his son, calls the meeting to order. (Homer continues his pattern here of really making a connection to the background characters.) Telémakhos declares to the crowd that he is extremely displeased with this whole suitor business.

Antinoös (one of the suitors) makes a classy move and blames Penélopê. Yes, exactly like jerks do now to women who are raped. Class through the ages. Antinoös describes a trick she did with her loom (readers of Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters will recognize it – Grover made use of it). He declares that they will not leave her alone until she chooses a new husband, unless Telémakhos sends her back to her father.

Telémakhos doesn’t take the stupid bait. Zeus is watching and decides now is a good time for Death from Above, by a pair of eagles. Halithesês interprets this as a prophesy that Odysseus will return and bring doom on those plaguing his household, and reiterates a previous prophesy that said that Odysseus would return in disguise after an absence of 19 years. Eurýmakhos responds, very disrespectfully, saying that Odysseus is long dead and that Halithesês should shut up and die, too. He agrees with Antinoös – if Telémakhos wants to be rid of the suitors, he should send his mother back to her childhood home.

“Clear-headed” Telémakhos replies: “I am finished with appeals and argument” and declares his intent to sail out in search of word on his father. If he finds Odysseus is dead, he will return and give his mother in marriage.

Mentor, who was left in charge of Odysseus’ household, stands to speak. He says he’s not so much bothered by the boorish behavior of the suitors, but is definitely sickened that the community is letting them get away with it. Leókritos retorts saying that if Odysseus returns and tries to dispose of the suitors, he’d be overwhelmed and killed. He also posits that Telémakhos is incapable of sailing.

The assembly ends and Telémakhos goes to the beach, where he prays to “the god of yesterday” (Athena, of course). Athena comes, this time disguised as Mentor, and strongly encourages him to stick to his plan. She dismisses his worry about what the suitors think and tells him that s/he’ll get the ship and the sailors if he’ll go home and gather the provisions.

When Telémakhos gets home, Antinoös is there (I’m beginning to hope he’ll be killed by the end), mocking. Telémakhos shuts him down, but all the others join in. Hooray for grown men acting like junior high school bullies! Telémakhos ignores them and goes to give orders for provisions to be made ready. Eurýkleia protests, worried for his safety, but he allays her fears and asks her not to tell Penélopê.

Meanwhile, Athena, this time disguised as Telémakhos, is going through the town recruiting and borrowing a ship. She then passes through Telémakhos’ house, making all the suitors drowsy so they leave and go home. She then appears to Telémakhos, as Mentor, to tell him everything is ready to go. The crew loads the ship and they set sail for Pylos, remembering to offer the libation to the gods.

I have begun to notice that each book begins with a beautiful descriptive passage. Book 3 begins with the sunrise over the sea. They have made the short journey to Pylos, home of Nestor, a great hero of the Trojan War. They arrive to see the people of Pylos making a great offering to Poseidon.

Telémakhos is feeling shy, unused to giving speeches and speaking to great men, and worried that he’ll offend people by asking too many questions. Athena, still disguised as Mentor, encourages him again. Nestor and his sons see the ship arriving and quickly invite them all to come participate in their sacrifice and feast. They show proper respect for their elders by having Athena/Mentor, as the oldest of the crew, take precedence. This is deliberately contrasted with the shameful behavior of Eurýmakhos yesterday. Athena/Mentor offers a prayer for honor and blessings to Poseidon, which is “granted in every particular by herself.” The sacrifice is complete and the crowd feasts.

Afterwards, Nestor asks Telémakhos his errand. Athena “gave him heart” to answer, for she desires Telémakhos to achieve fame on his trip. Telémakhos introduces himself and says that he’s seeking news of his father Odysseus.

Nestor embarks on a longwinded tale. He talks of the Trojan War. He comes briefly back to the topic of Odysseus, and then wanders off on a tale about how he came to leave Troy and return home. He rambles on (very much like a kindly but talkative grandfather), and speaks about how good it is to have sons who will avenge you.

Telémakhos manages a word in edgewise and mentions his trouble with the suitors. Nestor says he’s heard of it and asks what’s up with that. He also says that if Athena still loved Odysseus, she’d do something about it and the suitors would do best to run and hide. Telémakhos avoids this observation, but Athena/Mentor steps in to say that Odysseus’ fate of wandering is much to admired compared to Agamemnon’s fate (more on that in a minute from the King of Long Tales). Telémakhos asks Athena/Mentor why he is so certain Odysseus is alive at all, and then asks Nestor to tell what happened to Agamemnon.

Nestor jumps right on that opportunity. “Well now, my son, I’ll tell you the whole story.” He certainly does. Here’s the highlights: Klytaimnêstra (Agamemnon’s wife) had a suitor in his absence – Aigísthos – whom she eventually took as a lover. When Agamemnon returned, Aigísthos killed him and ruled in his place for seven years. In the eighth year, Orestês, son of Agamemnon, killed Aigísthos and Klytemnêstra. The day of their burial, Menelaus (brother of Agamemnon, who had been lost at sea all that time) returned. Nestor drops a hint about suitors and tells Telémakhos that he should go to see Menelaus and ask if he has any news of Odysseus.

Hilariously, Homer tells us that “while Nestor talked, the sun went down in the sky.” Athena/Mentor, seeing that it is now night, suggests that they complete the offering to the gods and retire for the night. Nestor insists that they take advantage of his hospitality for the night, but Athena refuses and flies away. Nestor says, “I have no fears for you … if, at your age, the gods are your companions.” Nestor offers a prayer to Athena and promises a great sacrifice for her. They offer a libation and go to bed.

In the morning, Nestor prepares the offering he promised, while Telémakhos takes a bath and puts on fine clothes. They have another feast, and Nestor orders his men to prepare a car to take Telémakhos and his men overland to Lakedaimon to meet Menelaus.

After this meeting with Nestor, I’m eager to see what sort of man Menelaus will turn out to be. Come back next week to find out with me!

An image search for the Mediterranean Sea is a beautiful thing. I recommend it.
Image © Ed O’Keefe

First, I want to flip back a few pages and revisit the introduction Norton gives to the Homeric epics. Both of these massive works are a clear reflection of the times. Greece as a whole was undergoing gigantic changes in its culture, politics, and social structure. Remember that the Iliad and the Odyssey were always publicly performed – while they were shaped by events, they no doubt had a hand in shaping the events themselves. The Iliad clearly deals with the ideas of peace and war, but especially grapples with the question of who should have power – the ones with merit (Achilles) or the ones with position (Agamemnon)? It never answers the question, but makes a valiant effort to explore it from many angles, including that of the women and the slaves, and even from the outsiders.

The Odyssey has a central question as well – what is a community? What is a culture? Why do we do things the way that we do? Over the course of his decade of adventuring, Odysseus encounters and experiences many different kinds of cultures and the people that live in them. This is compared with the breakdown of order at home. The epic never declares any one kind of culture to be the best – the “normal” civilized life of Greece is riddled with violence and betrayal, and the others are shown to have gaping flaws as well. It just endeavors to examine them and lay them out to be seen for what they are.

It is into this complex question that we now dive. I’m only dealing with Book One today.

The poet begins, as is common in epic poetry, with the poet’s plea to the Muse to “through me tell the story.” There is a brief summary/description of Odysseus, summing up his hopeless journey across the seas. We get a couple spoilers for the story ahead. Then, “Of these adventures… tell us in our time, lift the great song again. Begin when…”

We are taken to Olympus, on a date near the end of Odysseus’ long journey, when he is a captive of Kalypso (this translator uses more Greek-looking translations of names than the Latinised ones we’re used to). Zeus is holding court, and he’s meditating on the death of Aisísthos. “My word, how mortals take the gods to task! All their afflictions come from us, we hear.” Bwahaha, Zeus, you so funny. Zeus sums up with a divine “I told you so” to Aisísthos, and then Athena takes the floor.

She’s worried about Odysseus. He’s been wandering and captive for so long, and she wants to know why he’s not been allowed to go home. Zeus informs her that it’s all Poseidon’s fault. Poseidon is mad because of something Odysseus did on his travels (spoilers!). But Zeus agrees with Athena – enough is enough. On her suggestion, Hermes is dispatched to tell Kalypso to let Odysseus go, and she herself determines to pay a visit to his long-lonely wife Penélopê and son Telémakhos.

Athena disguises herself as a family friend, a sea-captain called Mentês, and goes to Odysseus’ house at Ithaka. We meet Telémakhos as he’s sitting by himself, daydreaming of his father coming home and getting rid of all these scrubs trying to make a pass at his mom. He hasn’t given up on his father, and he’s really tired of these losers eating all his family’s food. He welcomes Athena-in-disguise and invites her to feast with him (and the other “guests”). He takes her (she’s disguised as a him, these pronouns are tricky) aside and asks if she has any news of Odysseus.

There is an interesting bit here where the poet details the actions of the serving-people as they bring in the food and serve the feast. I think the poet makes a special effort to include these kinds of people in his narrative, and I like it a lot. The people in the background are so often forgotten and marginalized, and it’s nice to see them given some recognition, especially when they’re marginalized groups like women and slaves. I think the poet did this because he was aware of his audience. He’d be performing in public squares and markets. The people who’d hear him would be more likely to be these “unimportant” people, because the important ones were off doing business or discussing politics. But by making the marginalized people part of the tale, they remember it. They take it back with them. They talk about it. The words and ideas spread. Clever man, this poet.

Now, back to Telémakhos. He confides to Athena that he really wants to get rid of these bloodsucking losers. If only his father could return… He tells his guest that he’s not hopeful for that, though, and asks her to tell about herself. She obliges quickly, and makes sure to toss in some concrete encouragement: “never in this world is Odysseus dead.” She also points out that Telémakhos resembles Odysseus greatly, and the son comments that “my mother says I am his son: I know not surely” since he’s never even met his father. This is an interesting little tidbit that tells me that Athena is deploying all her abilities to give Telémakhos courage and confidence.

Now they get even more intense. Telémakhos spills his guts about the suitors that his mother is having to hold off in hopes of the return of her husband, and how he wants to beat them all in the face before they destroy the family. Athena dispenses a great and detailed plan for Telémakhos, and then departs.

Later that night, Telémakhos, filled with a clear spirit of hope, tells off the jackals. They try to talk back, but he’s clearly more intelligent than all of them combined. He goes to bed, but doesn’t sleep because he’s plotting his course ahead.

Sorry for the extreme delay. I have several good reasons, though! I am experiencing some health issues (not problems) that are making my life unpredictable. I’m also simultaneously working on a couple other projects, along with the normal work of, you know, Life.

I’m also trying to restructure my posts here. I am hoping to add pictures to future posts (and may even go back and add them to the old posts). I’m also planning to move back and forth between volumes of the Anthology, instead of plowing straight through. If you have any suggestions for improvements, please share them!

As always, you can add this blog to your RSS reader, or simply follow my Twitter account, to be updated the moment I get back in the saddle with this. Links are to the right.

Achilles tells them in no uncertain terms that he hates Agamemnon and hates this selfish war. He will have no part of this, not for all the prizes that the king will offer. He has decided to sail for home. They all take their turns to soliloquize, but Achilles will not budge. After this wordy interlude, the Greek army girds its loins to fight on, but fail pretty miserably. Agamemnon, Diomedes, and Odysseus are all wounded, and Achilles refuses to relent.

Book Fifteen may be one of the most famous – it’s the one in which Patroclus – best friend (and maybe lover) of Achilles – dresses up in Achilles’ armor and leads the Myrmidons in battle. Again, you probably can guess how that goes… There’s a lot else going on here, of course – fighting amongst the gods and all that – but Patroclus is what you need to know about. He was killed by Hector, thus justifying the “foreshadowing” that Homer has been dropping about Hector’s impending death (because of course Achilles will Get Him For This). Hector takes the armor from Patroclus’ body, and the battle is joined again, leading to a small victory for the Greeks, but they still have to retreat to their ships.

Skipping ahead to Book Eighteen (even Norton doesn’t have the patience to read this whole thing), Achilles (who apparently didn’t sail out) is pacing around his camp, sure that disaster has struck. Antilochus arrives and informs him of the death of Patroclus. An elaborate mourning sequence takes place. Thetis tries to talk him out of it, but now, overwhelmed by guilt, he is determined to exact revenge upon Hector.

Polydamas (a Trojan soldier with the gift of prophesy) suggests rather strongly that they get the heck outta dodge (GTFO) before Achilles arrives at the battle, but Hector tells him to be quiet, we’re not retreating again (STFU). Meanwhile, on Olympus, the gods are yelling at each other again. Hephaestus forges a great shield for Achilles (and Homer spends more time describing it than it probably took to make).

Achilles finally accepts Agamemnon’s apology, and rejoins the army in full force, striking fear into the hearts of the Trojans. Soon all the Trojan army has retreated to the city, except for Hector. (You can see it coming, can’t you?)

Now we arrive at Book Twenty-Two, described as “The Death of Hector.” The gods are all playing their parts behind the scenes, and clearly Hector just isn’t the most popular one. Achilles chases him around the city three times before Hector grows some dignity and makes a stand. As we all (probably) already know, Hector is slain rather brutally by Achilles, but this does not satisfy his need for vengeance. The famous “rage of Achilles” has not been sated. Achilles ties Hector to his chariot and drags his body around the city. There is great mourning, and Andromache gets another scene, even sadder than the one before.

Patroclus is buried and the Greeks hold athletic games to celebrate him, and this brings us, at long last, to Book Twenty-Four. Apparently, whenever Achilles gets particularly sad about Patroclus’ death, he’ll take Hector out for a spin. Classy. Apollo still likes Hector, and makes it so that the corpse doesn’t decay, which must smell better, but is still really freaking creepy. Hera, Poseidon, and Athena are still pretty ticked off at Troy, and refuse to relent (the ladies are mad because of the “golden apple” thing, and who knows why Poseidon does anything). After Hector has been dead for 12 days, Apollo tries to reconcile the fight, and Zeus declares that Achilles must behave himself and give the body back, and Priam must ransom him (so that Achilles won’t get even more mad, basically). Iris tells Priam to go alone, and against counsel, he does. (It’s dangerous to go alone…) Priam seems to be an honorable and admirable man, verbally kicking some asses as he prepares to visit Achilles.

Priam is escorted by Hermes, and the two of them have quite a talk as they meander down to the Greek ships. Hermes refuses to be hosted by a mortal, though, and Priam meets Achilles alone. They speak, and weep together for all their beloved dead. Priam brings Hector back to Troy, and the women find their voices – Cassandra, Hecuba, Andromache, and even Helen lead the crowd in a vast mourning for the ravages of war. The Iliad ends with the burial of Hector, but not necessarily the ending of the war – Priam asked to be allowed to bury his son before the fighting started again, but they didn’t agree to peace.

The Odyssey picks up the story with Odysseus, at the closing of the war. These are the only real bits of the great Epic Cycle that we have. Originally, there seem to have been 8 books in the “series,” and only the ones written by Homer have survived – hence all the plot holes.

I’d be lying if I said I am eager to dig right into The Odyssey, haha. The Iliad is fascinating and beautiful, but also very difficult to read. SO – should I carry on and finish the Homeric Poems, or should we come back to this later and try something else?

After that one-off scene, the Hero appears. Hector, Prince of Troy, enters the city. He asks his mother to beg Athena for mercy, and goes to find his brother Paris and tear him a new one. At this point, Hector is on the Angry List. Hector says, several times, that he literally wants Paris to die, and thinks the world would be better off without him. He is really mad at his fool brother and I doubt that anybody blames him. Paris is a wimpy little pretty-boy, hiding in his room, even though this war is entirely his fault (well played by Orlando Bloom, I have to say). Paris waffles on about something and says he’ll come out to battle. Helen tells Hector that she regrets ever being born since she ended up with that loser, and Hector leaves.

Troy is, of course, a manocentric manocracy, but it’s been nice to see some women here. Hecuba (the Queen) doesn’t seem to have much to say for herself, but Homer does describe the womens’ sacrifices to Athena (who denies their prayers) instead of just summarizing. Helen is portrayed as a rather contemptible person, but not totally unsalvageable, and definitely worth better than the loser Paris.

Now we meet the female hero (in my opinion anyway). Andromache, Hector’s wife, is (thus far, anyway) the only woman who seems to have her own identity. We spend a great deal of time listening in on their heartfelt discussion, and she must have been the Ideal Woman, because she’s given a lot of “screen time.” She has emotions! She has thoughts and desires! She disagrees with her husband and he doesn’t beat her for it! In summary, Andromache, despite being desperately depressed (and who could blame her), is the heroine and the only whole woman in this entire epic. (Full disclosure: I’m a military wife and probably biased on this point.) Hector is certain that Troy will fall (although he later tries to be optimistic), and wants to die defending it so that he doesn’t have to see his wife be enslaved. Thanks a lot, Hector, that was very chivalrous. They have a Happy Family Kodak Moment, and Hector heads back out to war (what, no sex?).

To everyone’s surprise, Paris actually does come out to the battlefield and the book ends on this triumphant note. Books 5 through 7 are summarized, and a small excerpt of Book Eight informs us that the Trojans have rallied under the Sons of Priam (and without Achilles fighting for Greece).

I’d like to include more editorial sort of content, but there really doesn’t seem to be much to say… Come back next time for more episodes of Deadliest Warrior!

[Disclaimer: Deadliest Warrior is a show on Spike and I don't own it.]