”The arsonist intent on burning down the village is likely motivated by a slight to him or his family profound enough to have the weight of history be”The arsonist intent on burning down the village is likely motivated by a slight to him or his family profound enough to have the weight of history behind it. Only eternal guilt demanded such fierce justice, or so Nick conjectured as he descended the spiral steps into the City Hall’s archives. Otherwise, why not just slash someone’s tires for revenge, or poison his dog? No, in the arsonist’s mind, the whole village was guilty of something.”
The Greek-American, Nick Damigos, has arrived on the sun-drenched shores of the Greek Island of Santorini to visit the quiet village of Vourvoulos. He is seeking serenity so that he can focus on writing his book, or so he says.
”’Nick is a writer.’
‘Published?’ someone asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Another one,’ a man grumped.”
I have to laugh at this exchange. When is a writer a writer? The village has obviously seen many other “writers” come and go over the years. Young men and women brimming with plots and characters seeking the right place to have those words spill out onto the page. The languid pace of this village might very well indeed allow the writer the peace of mind to finally write his masterpiece. In the case of Nick Damigos, he really isn’t a writer; he’s a special agent for the FBI... undercover.
There have been a series of seemingly random fires on the island. There have been no clues to the identity of the arsonist, but it is obviously someone harboring a dark grudge who seems so out of place in such an idyllic setting. It must be someone with a mind so twisted by animosity and bitterness that even the sun, the food, the ouzo, the beaches, and the brilliant blue water can not soothe his deep seated rancor.
There are numerous suspects. There is a lecherous priest with an agenda to save his crumbling church. There is an Albanian waiter with a mysterious past. There is a “dead” Turkish immigrant who fits the profile for a vengeful crusader. His primary suspect though is Takis, who has become his lover, much to the chagrin of Takis’s voluptuous sister Vassoula, who finds Nick’s physique much to her liking. Everyone has secrets, and everyone has a past, and as Nick discovers what people don’t want known, he starts to narrow his suspect list. Nick must find out who it is before he strikes again!
The plot of this novel is set against the backdrop of the refugee crisis in Greece that continues today. Desperate people are seeing Greece as the entry point into the rest of Europe. There are over 50,000 refugees in Greece presently, and the strain on the economy of Greece has been troublesome. We see it affecting this small village as boats of refugees flow onto their island continuously. The rest of Europe has shown little interest in these refugees, so Greece is faced with a crisis of how best to absorb these people into their economy when the natives are finding it so difficult to find jobs and sustain their own families. This adds additional stress to a village already under siege from a vengeful arsonist.
The population exchange between Turkey and Greece back in 1923 is also part of the background of the novel. This involved denaturalization of over 1.6 million people, who were forced to become refugees by returning to a homeland they did not know. It blows the mind to think about how a few signatures on a piece of paper in Lausanne, Switzerland, by the governments of Turkey and Greece could result in so much upheaval in the lives of so many people. It is a terrifying thought to be thrown out of your country and sent somewhere you no longer have any ties to, except for a portion of the blood that flows through your veins.
Timothy Jay Smith also talks about the implications of being gay, or really anything other than heterosexual, in a small town. The homophobia is palpable and crushing and drives away those who identify with a different orientation to live in places better disposed to be accepting.
Despite the heavy overtones of the current affairs, sexual politics, and the historical catastrophes that still loom over the island, they are really more what I would call undertones that create a vibe without weighing down the plot. This is more like a mystery that any of us might find ourselves caught up in on vacation, a diversion to add spice to a beautiful backdrop of vineyards, meadows, and shores. Timothy Jay Smith is a lyrical writer who can describe the murmurs of the locals at the bar or a moonlit serenade and make you believe you are there. One might think this is a plot worthy of a meaty red Agiorgitiko, but really, this sun-drenched plot is better suited to a spritely glass of Assyrtiko.
This will prove to be one of those perfect summer reads that will allow you to escape to another place during a time when it isn’t prudent to travel abroad. Let Smith be your guide this summer, and see Greece through the eyes of a writer who has been seduced by the wonderful nuances of Greece.
”’Timothy is a writer.’
‘Published?’ someone asked.
‘Yes he is.’
‘Vassoula, bring this man an ouzo...no a brandy,’ one of the men says with enthusiasm. He motions Timothy over to his table and pushes out the chair across from him with his foot.
‘So Timothy, does your book have intrigue?’
‘Yes.’
The man leans across the table with a grin. ‘Romance?’ he asks.
Timothy laughs softly and winks at the man.
The man guffaws loudly and slaps the table top hard enough to make the glasses rattle and shake. ‘Well then, I’ll just have to read it. Drink up, Timothy. The night is young and we must celebrate your novel.’ He raised his glass and clinked it against Timothy’s hard enough to make the liquid leap out on their hands. ‘Stin ygeiá sas,’ he thundered.”
”It was true what Hermes said. Every moment mortals died, by shipwreck and sword, by wild beasts and wild men, by illness, neglect, and age. It was th”It was true what Hermes said. Every moment mortals died, by shipwreck and sword, by wild beasts and wild men, by illness, neglect, and age. It was their fate, as Prometheus had told me, the story that they all shared. No matter how vivid they were in life, no matter how brilliant, no matter the wonders they made, they came to dust and smoke. Meanwhile every petty and useless god would go on sucking down the bright air until the stars went dark.”
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Sculpture by Nicolas-Sébastien Adam in the Louvre.
Meeting Prometheus in chains, very briefly, before he was taken to the mountain side to begin his punishment had a profound impact on Circe. He had given man fire, and in the process had angered the Gods. He was condemned by Zeus to have an eagle rip his liver from his body each day and eat it over and over again for all eternity. Mortals paid attention to the Gods more when they experienced more suffering. Fire reduced their offerings to the Gods. One might say that fire made them need the Gods less.
Gods are fickle, childish creatures in need of constant reassurance.
Circe was a daughter of Helios. ”At my father’s feet, the whole world was made of gold. The light came from everywhere at once, his yellow skin, his lambent eyes, the bronze flashing of his hair. His flesh was hot as a brazier, and I pressed as close as he would let me, like a lizard to noonday rocks. My aunt had said that some of the lesser gods could scarcely bear to look at him, but I was his daughter and blood, and I stared at his face so long that when I looked away it was pressed upon my vision still, glowing from the floor, the shining walls and inlaid tables, even my own skin.”
She was the oldest daughter of the nymph Perse, and she was quickly followed by three siblings. When Zeus discovered they were all witches, he ordered Helios to slake his lust elsewhere. Maybe that was when Helios started turning himself into a bull and fucking his herd of precious cows. I’m not sure if that was bestiality or if it deserved some new moniker to describe such perversity.
Circe could never win the approval of her father because she was simply not as beautiful as she should be. Her voice was too thin, like a mortals, and her chin was too sharply made. When I looked at a picture of the Roosevelt family with all those attractive features, broad shoulders, and waspish waists, Eleanor Roosevelt stood out. She was Circe amongst all that beauty. In a normal family, attractive attributes could be noticed about Eleanor, but standing in the midst of the Roosevelts she was a flower with too few petals.
Circe’s siblings and cousins made her life a godly hell. They lived forever, and spite and vindictiveness were the slings and arrows of idle hands. She was lonely and made more lonely by the fact that no God would marry her, and mortals were simply not good enough for the daughter of Helios.
She was discovering that she had powers. The very witchcraft that made the Gods shift uneasily in their thrones. She could transform an iris into a rose or a bee into a mouse. Then she met the mortal fisherman Glaucos. What she does to him confirmed all the fears that the Olympians had trembled over before. Her powers were a wellspring not yet beginning to geyser.
Oh, and she turned the bitchy Scylla into a more representative version of herself.
*Shudder*.
Circe was banished to the island of Aiaia.
*Sigh*. Perpetually misunderstood.
I liked the way Madeline Miller tied in Circe’s encounter with Prometheus, who sacrificed eternal torment for humanity, and what would turn out to be her lifetime fascination with mortals. Chicks dig scars, and Circe was no exception. After growing up with Gods whose skin, despite what hazards are encountered, remained unblemished, those scars on mortals were fascinating to her because they told the story of their lives in every livid slash and puncture. They might have worn their scars on their skin, but Circe bore hers on her soul. She wanted to help mortals, but found that usually when she tried to help, she made things worse. Not that there weren’t bobbles in her relationship with mortals. After all, she did spend many years turning them into pigs, but then she was only bringing to light the least attractive part of their inner selves.
She may have loved the mortal Odysseus the most, which brought her into conflict with: ”She struck the room, tall and straight and sudden-white, a talon of lightning in the midnight sky. Her horse-hair helmet brushed the ceiling. Her mirror armor threw off sparks. The spear in her hand was long and thin, its keen edge limned in firelight. She was burning certainty, and before her all the shuffling and strained dross of the world must shrink away. Zeus’ bright and favorite child, Athena.”
Odysseus might have been the cleverest man of his generation, but Circe would have had to be even more clever as she harnessed what power she had to outwit a God that wished to have Odysseus at all cost, but also wished to bring harm to Circe’s son, as well.
A wonderful, reimagining of an ancient tale that was deftly brought to life by the assured, clear, precise writing style of a gifted writer and researcher. Don’t tarry any longer. Experience the pleasure of epic triumph and tragedy spun in the threads of Daedalus’s loom and wrapped in the magic that only Circe could conjure.
”He was a marvel, shaft after shaft flying from him, spears that he wrenched easily from broken bodies on the ground to toss at new targets. Again and”He was a marvel, shaft after shaft flying from him, spears that he wrenched easily from broken bodies on the ground to toss at new targets. Again and again I saw his wrist twist, exposing its pale underside, those flute-like bones thrusting elegantly forward. My spear sagged forgotten to the ground as I watched. I could not even see the ugliness of the deaths anymore, the brains, the shattered bones that later I would wash from my skin and hair. All I saw was his beauty, his singing limbs, the quick flickering of his feet.”
Madeline Miller studied Latin and Ancient Greek from Brown University and even more interestingly studied at the Yale School of Drama, specializing in adapting classical tales for a modern audience. I ignored this book when it first came out because I had read The Iliad twice and plan to read it many more times if the Gods grant me enough time to do so. A reimagining of Homer’s words? There is enough debate over translations of the original source documentation without adding in additional controversy over Miller’s interpretation of events.
Or so I thought.
After all, aren’t these books designed for a “modern audience” who will never even attempt to read Homer? I am not the target audience, as there is very little modern about me. I have ancient book dust permanently lodged in my lungs. I cough, and the air is redolent with the scent of decaying leather and the intoxicating smell of the slightly hallucinatory book fungi. Miller is doing good work, though, bringing Homer to life for a new generation. Her books are not for me.
Or so I thought.
When her book Galatea came out, I barely even flinched. A mild flickering of interest, but I was up to my eyeballs in books to read so I easily dissuaded myself from giving it much thought. Deciding to read Galatea would also mean that I would need to read Song of Achilles first because I do believe that books by serious authors build upon one another. I wasn’t taking Miller serious...yet. Part of my resistance came from the fact that I’m not a big fan of Achilles. He might have been ”The Greatest Warrior of his Generation,” but I didn’t find him very heroic. Now Hector, poor doomed Hector, to me he was the hero of The Iliad. I didn’t really want to read a book glorifying Achilles and how effortless it was for him to kill a hundred Trojans in one lazy, bloody afternoon.
I fully expected Miller to fade back into the woodwork of academia, but then this year she published Circe. With one raised Nadalesque eyebrow, I thought to myself, now Circe is someone I don’t know nearly enough about. The five star reviews started raining down on me like thunderbolts from the fingers of Zeus. Cupid shot a quiver full of arrows at me, piercing me in numerous appendages until I looked like Saint Sebastian. If I could have gotten my hands on that pink tinted, chubby, precocious toddler, I’d have turned him over my knee and paddled him with his own bow. Really, I must confess that my new found love for Achilles, Patroclus, Briseis, Chiron, Odysseus, and even Madeline Miller herself could be the result of those love poison tipped arrows. Regardless, does it matter the reason why?
Even in an addled state, there is no way I would ever confuse great writing for poorly conceived writing. As I was reading through my notes and savoring favorite passages again, now that Cupid’s fog has cleared from my mind, I must say Miller is a wonderful, lyrical writer.
It all begins with a rape. The Greek Gods want to reward Peleus for being such a good subject and decide that he should be given a sea nymph named Thetis as his bride. ”It was considered their highest honor. After all, what mortal would not want to bed a goddess and sire a son from her? Divine blood purified our muddy race, bred heroes from dust and clay. And this goddess brought a greater promise still: the Fates had foretold that her son would far surpass his father. Peleus’ line would be assured. But, like all the gods’ gifts, there was an edge to it; the goddess herself was unwilling.”
The Gods whisper in his ear. Don’t even bother trying to woo her with kelp flowers, Aquaoir Ocean aged wine, or shrimp cocktail. The Greek Gods, being rampant assaulters of unsuspecting, pink cheeked, mortal maidens, have no compunction about advocating rape. Jump her on the beach, take her, and make her thine!
The Greek Islands are lousy with half Gods. You will meet many of them in the course of this story. Achilles is the greatest of them all. Greater than Hercules. His chosen companion is Patroclus, the disgraced and banished son of a king, an odd choice in many eyes as the closest friend of the greatest warrior. Patroclus is, after all, rather unremarkable at...well...everything. It doesn’t matter, though, because Achilles is good enough at everything for the both of them.
Thetis is rather annoyed at his choice. She doesn’t feel that Patroclus is good enough to spend so much time with her son. Her favorite greeting for Patroclus is: ”You will be dead soon enough.” With Patroclus being the narrator of this story, it is rather poor judgement on her part. Any quest I’ve been on I have always plied the narrator with honeyed wine and the most succulent figs in the hope that I would be rewarded in the prose and poetry of his/her telling of the tale.
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Achilles and Patroclus by Barry J.C. Purves
Homer skates around the closeness between Achilles and Patroclus, although much can be read between the lines. There is also the possibility that some homophobic Christian hundreds of years later made some deft corrections to the original, obscuring any overt reference to a homosexual relationship. Homer may have been blind, but his ears must have heard the rustling of the reed mats whether he was an “eye” witness to the Trojan War or an interpreter of events many years later. Madeline Miller wades into the sweaty bedsheet truth of the matter, and yes, the Greatest Warrior to ever live is light in his sandals.
Miller puts flesh on these ancient bones, Gods and mortals alike, and brings a freshness to one of our most venerated stories. Though I resisted, it turns out that Madeline Miller was writing these books for me. She has also given me a burning desire to read The Iliad again while her interpretation is still imprinted so deeply in my mind. I have a feeling my reading experience will be deepened and her observations will glow like phosphorus between the lines.
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