Penelope
There have been several books published recently that retell a familiar classical story, especially some of the Ancient Greek myths. I became entranced by this genre by reading two books by Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles and Circe. Miller’s approach is very clever, if somewhat subversive of your expectations if you know the ‘original’ myths in broad outline. In both books she has taken a familiar story and ‘retold’ it. In The Song of Achilles she explores the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, illuminating the core story with a focus on the relationship between the two men, rather than dwelling on the siege of Troy. She has explained that she took a story ‘hidden in the material already’. The result is powerful and personal. Circe is a rather more dramatic retelling, as she takes Odysseus and his travels out as the centre of the story and tells about what happens through Circe’s perspective, an approach that gives us insight into her actions and interventions.
I found both books quite compelling. In both cases the events involve many characters, and there are times when you need to stop for a moment, and make sure you’ve got all the names and all the relationships reasonably clear. Fortunately, most of those retelling these famous myths often add a list of characters and relationships at the beginning, to which you can return as needed! Helpful, but it’s the mark of an excellent writer that even if you knew the broad outline of the story from a previous version as well as a fair recollection of what took place, the text still draws you in. Circe is particularly effective in this respect, as you are being invited to ‘re-see’ what happened. You know that Circe has been punished for deliberately using magic on another of the Olympian gods. She has been sent to spend eternal exile on the small island Aiaia. In the more familiar version of her place in the Greek myths, she is a side character to Odysseus, another stage in the delays in his return to his homeland. In this account she takes centre stage.
As has happened to me before, it takes just a couple of books in a new genre to get me seeking more and becoming somewhat addicted. Madeline Miller took me on to Claire North, and her trilogy retelling the story of Penelope. Claire North is a prolific novelist. Her name is actually Catherine Webb, but she uses the pen-name Kate Griffin when she writes fantasy novels for adults, and Claire North when she writes science fiction and novels based on the works of Homer., She’s written 25 novels in just over twenty years, and each of the three novels about Penelope are around 400 pages long.
The trilogy covers the twenty years of Odysseus’s travels, during which time Penelope refuses to believe, or at least refuses to accept, that her husband is dead. As a result, she has to fight of the scores of suitors who turn up in Ithaca hoping to marry her and claim the throne. The action takes place in Ithaca, and in this version of the story we happily forget about Ulysses for much of the time, and instead follow Penelope, who proves a cunning, determined and a single-minded manager of the kingdom, while also finding ways to keep her collection of suitors at arm’s length.
The narrator of the first book, Ithaca, is Zeus wife, Hera. This introduces us to another important shift in perspective. It is not just the case that the focus on Penelope, but we are going to see what takes place through the eyes of one of the goddesses. Hera was the goddess of women, marriage and childbirth, and, as we read on, was treated abominably by Zeus. In fact, it soon becomes apparent Zeus really isn’t nice guy. Well, if you’ve read many of the Greek Myths and Homer, you’ll know almost all of them turned out to be a nasty, devious and self-serving bunch. It’s an interesting way to portray the ‘gods’, who don’t so much offer a vision of the good life and how to be an ethical individual, as a Christian god might, but rather provide a series of illustrations of the worst in behaviour.
Hera helped Odysseus some of the time, and when she wasn’t getting involved in his misfortunes Penelope was one of her favourite queens. Actually, there were three queens she liked. The second was Helen, who was hailed as the most beautiful woman in the world. Yes, she’s the one who was kidnapped by Paris, which led to the start of the Trojan War. The third was Clytemnestra, who killed her husband Agamemnon, and then was killed by her son to avenge his father’s murder. Let’s face it, these were ‘interesting times’!
Claire North explains that part of the challenge in these times was that any intervention by the gods in the lives of humans had to be done with care. Subtlety was the key, as Zeus was in charge, and would get angry – and behave viciously – as he didn’t like any interference (by anyone else) taking place. As a result, most of the time the gods are more like bystanders, just occasionally making contributions to the events taking place. Hera is keeping an eye on the star of the story, Penelope, who proves to be remarkably cunning and smart. She might be a hostess and a queen, a woman of little importance in formal terms, but she weaves various plots and schemes to hold the suitors at bay, while also protecting the women and old men of Ithaca, while all the other men are off fighting at Troy.
You don’t have to read far into the book to realise how quickly many suitors underestimate Penelope. As Claire North explains Penelope “should perhaps be weaving at the square loom she is often seen with in public – but no – this is a private place, for serious business, so instead she sits with her hands in her lap, chin turned up, a little away from the men around the table, listening with an intensity that would frighten Ajax”. That weaving isn’t incidental, as Penelope keeps the suitors away by telling them that before she contemplates marrying anyone, she must first weave a funeral shroud for her father-in-law, (who is still very much alive, incidentally). She weaves all day, while listening, and then undoes her work every night, thereby continually dragging out the process. Perhaps more to the point, out of sight and pursuing her estate duties, Penelope has the women of Ithaca trained in fighting, as well as in managing the farms. It’s a feminist retelling of Ulysses and his adventures.
The House of Odysseus is the second book in the trilogy. It continues the events at Ithaca, addressing what follows from Clytemnestra’s death: various key players are losing their cool, and in particular Orestes is being driven to madness, watched over by the vengeful Furies, and Electra is seeking Penelope’s support as Menelaus tries to turn the precarious situation in Argos and the Western Isles to his advantage.
There is a new observer, too, and so the perspective is Aphrodite’s. Aphrodite is, well, she’s a bit naughty. She’s funny, she’s witty, and she’s something of a pervert, making comments about every single and eligible person in sight, let alone scrutinising any exposed bit of flesh she spots in her travels. To be clear, her focus isn’t always on various sexual adventures or romantic love, however. Early on we learn about the Judgement of Paris, a competition which is actually a humiliating contest set up by Zeus. It’s another insight into his awful character, happy to seize on an opportunity to humiliate Hera and Athena: Aphrodite has to work hard to help her two sisters through the event.
Anyway, Ithaca is getting crowded with guests, many of whom are suitors for Penelope. One of the most interesting turns out to be Helen. Yes, she is both delightful and beautiful, but we learn that she has a whole mountain of accessories to help her as she ages – she has an extraordinary mirror, piles of gowns and dozens of makeup lotions, potions and ointments scattered across her dressing table. If I had been a bit smarter, I might have realised a little earlier in the story that this is all a deliberate trick, and the simpering and apparently rather vacuous Helen is putting an act, even more impressive than the face she put on each morning. We also learn about Penelope’s ‘council’ of women in the wilds of Kephalonia, and there is a quite moving scene between Penelope and Orestes, addressing love and forgiveness. It is quite a step away from the way this part of Ulysses story is told in the more conventional versions of the myth.
While all this is going, there are the suitors. One of them, an Egyptian, Kenamon, seems to be the only person callable of breaking through Penelope’s reserve. Will they go beyond almost flirting? I guess we know they won’t, but the tension builds up. Odysseus must be getting closer, and we are wondering if this increasingly complicated – and tense – situation is going to explode. No, we’re not, we are wondering about the consequences of this inevitable explosion. Naturally enough, it is at this point that the second book ends, just as Odysseus wakes up on shores of Ithaca, a little way away from the palace. If that wasn’t a cliff-hanger (a shore lingerer?), it was also the case that the third book hadn’t been published when I finished the second!
In the final book, The Last Song of Penelope, we find ourselves with yet another goddess as our commentator and observer. This time it is Athena. Athena is the goddess of war and wisdom, and she can foresee the gods of Greece will someday become obsolete. We learn she is determined to be timeless, even if the other gods are not, and the only kind of immortality she can acquire is by being part of a really good story. She isn’t the star of The Last Song; however, she has been a guide to Odysseus behind the scenes for the twenty years of his travels. When he returns, she’s just around the corner as the increasingly dramatic events take place, and as it seems both Ithaca and Penelope will come to a nasty end.
Claire North turns Odysseus’ triumphant return into tragedy, an angry man smashing and destroying much of what his wife has managed and grown over the years. It’s a very clever retelling, transforming a person who has been described as a hero for the ages, respected wise and clever, a man who always thinks ahead, into an out-of-control destroyer. As the wreckage piles up, we are on tenterhooks. Is there any way he and his furious, devastated wife can survive the mayhem he’s created, and even take some steps to repair the carnage and destruction. Or, at least, find a way how to live through it.
The process is wonderfully described. We see how Odysseus eventually calms down, gets a grip and begins to think again. Through Penelope’s interventions and anger, we see how he tries to correct his mistakes and starts to build empathy. We understand, perhaps better than he does to begin with, that he really loves Penelope. He has to change and unlearn what most of the leaders in Ancient Greece thought was the ‘right way’. In part he is driven by his own innate confidence, but as the story continues, he begins to see himself and those around him – especially the women – differently, more clearly. He changes. He learns. He grows. It’s a wonderful conclusion to an outstanding trilogy, a ‘retelling’ that recasts the story and offers a much richer view of love, relationships and failures. In case I haven’t made it clear, please do read this trilogy!
Stepping back from the details of the three books, there is an obvious question about stories like these. Why do we find them so engrossing? Perhaps a better question is why, in our increasingly prosaic and mundane world, do we continue to tell and retell adventures like those of Odysseus? Somehow, even in the 21st Century, a part of us is still in thrall to myths and legends, let alone the complicated worlds that underpin various religions.
Is this escapism? A quick check of the top ten movies of all time (based on income) shows that they are dominated by fantasy, and in particular by the interaction between human and other worlds (Avengers, Avatar, Black Panther, Spiderman and Star Wars). The only one stuck on our present world was Titanic! Escapism certainly allows our imaginations to run riot, but more importantly, it is way to imagine achieving the truly important things in life, achievements that are simply impossible in the real world around us.
It might be helpful to distinguish between legends and myths.
A legend is often described as a variety of folk tale, consisting of a series of events involving human actions, believed to have taken place in human history. Stories in this genre may demonstrate some important human values, positive or negative, almost like cautionary tales. Legends are generally never being entirely believed, but nor are they entirely doubted. They are usually distinguished from myths in that they concern human beings as the main characters, they do not necessarily have any supernatural origins, and sometimes they can include some kind of historical basis, whereas myths generally do not. Timothy R. Tangherlini in Western Folklore 49 (October 1990) suggested: A ‘Legend, typically, is a short (mono-) episodic, traditional … narrative performed in a conversational mode, reflecting on a psychological level a symbolic representation of folk belief and collective experiences and serving as a reaffirmation of commonly held values of the group to whose tradition it belongs.’
In contrast I would suggest you can think of a myth as folklore that plays a fundamental role in explaining the nature of society. Myths are often endorsed by secular and religious authorities. Many societies group myths, legends, and history together, with myths and legends seen as factual accounts of the remote past, explaining customs, institutions and often comprise narratives about the past that symbolize the nation’s values. The myth of Odysseus is a foundational story for Greece, its history, and its pre-eminence in the ancient world.
Given this, what does it mean to ‘retell’ a myth. Obviously, it is a way to reframe and even change traditional views about customs, practices and institutions. Claire North has made it clear that she is telling Penelope’s story to re-present it in feminist terms. However, in so doing, she is speaking to contemporary perceptions about gender roles, relationships and values. We don’t enjoy her trilogy just because it is a good story, although it is that, of course. It’s impact and significance are wide than that. It offers a way to help us see relationships today. It ‘explains away’ some of the undesirable aspects of our past, and it offers us new perceptions of some key figures in our imagined past.
Finally, we don’t need to rely on ‘classical’ myths of course. There are many wonderful new stories with the same ability to help us think and rethink. In recent years The Lord of the Rings trilogy has been a compelling and powerful reflection on destiny, war, heroism and death. That story also made a successful translation into film, and by that means captured the imagination and thinking of so many more people than if it had remained a series of (large) books. The same can be said about the first Star Wars films, but there, sadly, a desire to keep adding to the core story has led us into a bewilderingly complex body of films. I don’t mean to imply the newer films aren’t well-executed, but rather that the success of myths rests partly on their clarity. Perhaps it is evidence I like my foundational stories kept relatively simple!
