Friday Five: Another Quintet of Women of the Odyssey

I'm in the middle of rehearsals for The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood, which is a retelling of The Odyssey, focussing on Penelope, who was left behind while Odysseus went off to war and then travelled around having adventures rather than returning to her in a timely manner. I'm co-producing and directing the play which will be on at the Courtyard Studio in Canberra from 7-17 July. I have always loved mythology and the value of storytelling, so have thoroughly enjoyed providing a bit of context to some of the characters mentioned in the text. This is Part Three (See Part One and Part Two).

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli

1. Aphrodite

Aphrodite is the Greek goddess associated with love, beauty, pleasure, passion and procreation. Her major symbols include myrtles, roses, doves, sparrows and swans, and she is consistently portrayed as a nubile, infinitely desirable adult (having had no childhood as she was born fully-formed from sea foam caused by the severed genitals of Uranus - it's complicated), and usually nude. Her Roman equivalent is Venus, hence the famous Bananarama song (okay, I know it's not originally theirs), female razor products (exactly the same as the male ones but twice as expensive because, you know, pink), the fly trap (because stupid creatures will entrap themselves and die for nubile beauty) oh yes, and the above painting.

In The Odyssey, Aphrodite is married to Hephaestus (blacksmith to the gods who makes all sorts of wonderful gadgets, like Q in James Bond) not by choice but through some bargaining with Zeus - she is given to Hephaestus as a bribe (sound familiar?). Aphrodite is frequently unfaithful to her husband, and her lover include Ares, the god of war (Mars in the Roman versions). Hephaestus sets a trap for the lovers and casts a golden net in which they are caught the next time they have sex upon the marital bed. Hephaestus invites all the other gods to laugh at the adulterous pair, but many of the (male) gods have sympathy for Ares and Poseidon agrees to pay Hephaestus to release Ares. Meanwhile, Aphrodite was humiliated and returned in shame and ignominy to Cyprus where she was attended by the Charities (or Three Graces). What's that you say? Rhymes with stubble dandards?

Charybdis before she was a sea monster

2. Charybdis

Charybdis was a sea monster who dwelt in the Strait of Messina. She swallowed large amounts of water of water and then belched them out, creating large whirlpools that resulted in the destruction of passing ships. She was the offspring of Poseidon and Gaea (Water and Earth) and helped her father in his quarrel against Zeus by flooding large areas of land with water - don't you just love how all cultures have a creation and a flood myth? Zeus was angry (it seems to be his default setting - grumpy head god) and punished Charybdis by turning her into a monster that would eternally swallow sea water and create whirlpools.

Scylla, the Huntress, from Game of Heroes

3. Scylla

Scylla was a sea monster who haunted the rocks of a narrow strait opposite the whirlpool of Charybdis. Ships who sailed too close to her rocks would lose six men to her ravenous, darting heads. Homer describes Scylla as a creature with twelve dangling feet, six long necks and grisly heads lined with a row of sharp teeth. Her voice was likened to the yelping of dogs. In classical art she was depicted as a fish-tailed sea-goddess with a cluster of canine fore-parts surrounding her waist. According to late classical writers she was once a beautiful nymph loved by the sea-god Glaukos, but her jealous rival, Circe, transformed her into a monster. Older poets, however, envisaged her as simply a monster born into a monstrous family. 

Scylla and Charybdis by Emmique on DeviantArt

Being between Scylla and Charybdis is an idiom along the lines of 'between a rock and a hard place', 'between the devil and the deep blue sea', 'to choose the lesser of two evils'  or 'out of the frying pan; into the fire'. The situation implies that one must seek to chose between two equally dangerous extremes which will inevitably result in disaster. Scylla and Charybdis were regarded as maritime hazards (a rock shoal and a whirlpool respectively) located close enough to each other that they posed an inescapable threat to passing sailors; avoiding Charybdis meant passing too close to Scylla and vice versa. According to Homer's account, Circe advised Odysseus to pass by Scylla and lose only a few sailors, rather than risk the loss of his entire ship in the whirlpool.

Nausicaa by Frederic Leighton

4. Nausicaa

After leaving Calypso, Odysseus is shipwrecked on the island of Phaeacia, where he is awakened by Nausicaa (daughter of King Alcinous and Queen Arete) and her handmaidens as they wash their clothes at the seashore. He emerges from the forest, completely naked, and the servants all run away terrified. Nausicaa remains and agrees to help him, giving him some of the laundry to wear and advising him to go to her parents' house and make his case directly to her mother, Arete. She and her maids go ahead of him as she doesn't want to give rise to gossip by walking with a stranger. He does as she says, which is a good move because apparently Arete is much wiser than her husband, and when Odysseus wins her trust, she allows him stay with them as a guest. In return for their hospitality, Odysseus recounts his adventures to the court - this forms a substantial proportion of The Odyssey itself. Alcinous then generously gives Odysseus a ship to help him return to Ithaca. 

Margaret Atwood interprets all this in her inimitable fashion in The Penelopiad thus:

"After seven long years there of kissing and woo,
He escaped on a raft that was drove to and fro,
Till fair Nausicaa's maids that the laundry did do,

Found him bare on the beach - he did drip so!" 

Nausicaa is young and very pretty, and she is presented as a potential love interest. She may have had unrequited feelings for Odysseus, but he wins Arete's sympathy and she is determined to help him get home to his wife and child, rather than being tempted to dally with yet another romantic entanglement. There is a deep affection between the two of them, however - she tells him, 'Never forget me, for I gave you life' (which is oddly maternal) - and of all the women he met on his adventures, Odysseus never tells Penelope about Nausicaa. Some accounts say that Nausicaa eventually married Odysseus' son, Telemachus. Could this be a rare occurrence in classical literature of a man actually respecting a young and beautiful woman?

Ulysses and the Sirens by John William Waterhouse

5. Sirens

According to legend, sirens are beautiful seductresses who lured sailors to watery graves with their stunning singing voices. Apparently the sailors, bewitched by the voices, would steer their ships too close to the rocks and end up wrecked. In other versions (particularly Indian myth), their sweet sounds lull the sailors to sleep, and then the Sirens set upon them and tear them to pieces. 

They were believed to look like a combination of women and birds in various different forms. In early Greek art they were represented as birds with large women's heads, bird feathers and scaly feet. Later they were represented as female figures with the legs of birds, with or without wings, playing a variety of musical instruments, especially harps and lyres. Originally sirens were shown to be male or female, but the male Siren disappeared from art around the fifth century BC. Because we all know that only women can fulfil the role of evil tempter, right?

Homer tells that Odysseus wanted to hear the Sirens, and so he acted on the advice of Circe (yep, her again) getting all his sailors to plug their ears with beeswax and tie him to the mast. He ordered his men not to release him no matter how much he ranted and raved. As he passed the sirens he screamed for his men to untie him. In the words of Simon Armitage's translation he begged,

"Untie me now. Now. Untie me, you bastard scum. 

Zeus, hear me. I'll sacrifice everything in your name.

All my flocks and herds, all my lands and estates...

All my servants and slaves... these men... take them...

My son, Telemachus... my wife, Penelope...

Take them all but guide me into these voices...

Zeus, kill me afterwards, but show me their faces...

I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT KISSING THE MOUTHS OF THE SIRENS."

The extreme feelings make him pass out and when he comes to, the ship is some distance off from the Sirens and his men are standing around him. When he asks why they didn't untie him despite his curses and threats, they reply, "We couldn't hear you. Beeswax - remember." Thus Odysseus becomes the only man to have heard the Sirens and lived. Sound familiar? And yes, I do recall the 1994 film, Sirens, loosley based on the life of artists Norman Lindsay and starring Hugh Grant, Tara Fitzgerald, Sam Neill, Elle Macpherson, Pamela Rabe, Portia de Rossi, and Ben Mendelsohn, which should have been so much better than it was.

All Things Come to Those Who Wait: The Penelopiad

The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood

Canongate

Pp. 196

Margaret Atwood’s Penelopiad is part of The Myths series (other authors include Chinua Achebe, A.S. Byatt, Alexander McCall Smith, Ali Smith, and Jeanette Winterson) which offer alternate approaches to the tales we think we know. This novella is a companion piece to Homer’s Odyssey, providing a female-forward counter-narrative to the story of Odysseus’s quest with his heroic journey and the intervention of the Gods in the lives of mortals. Myths are universal and timeless stories that reflect and shape our lives, and Margaret Atwood provides sardonic asides and a contemporary characterisation of the woman left behind.

Penelope’s experience of remaining, running the estate and defending herself from suitors has always seemed the more interesting part of the story (in the way same way as it was in Cold Mountain) but the focus is usually on the male counterpart and his fantastic adventures. Penelope addresses the reader directly, with a wonderfully clear voice and deadpan delivery, as she wants to set the record straight and present us with her side of the story. She has fought hard for the right to speak, as she sets out from the striking first lines: “Now that I’m dead I know everything. This is what I wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. I know only a few factoids that I didn’t know before. Death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say.”

She begins with her birth, and the disappointment of realising that her mother, a Naiad, doesn’t really care for her, and her father, fearing a prophecy, throws her into the sea not expecting her to survive. She is understandably bitter: “It never hurts to be of semi-divine birth. Or it never hurts immediately.” She proceeds to write about her marriage to Odysseus and consequent move to his home in Ithaca. Odysseus leaves to fight a war, brought about by Paris of Troy who ‘steals’ Helen from Menelaus. Women are chattels; pawns in men’s battles. Penelope is abandoned for years without protection and with a troublesome son, Telemachus, who doesn’t seem to understand her compromised position or to offer to help her in any way. She weaves a shroud that she unravels at night, delaying her marriage decision until its completion, using the only weapons available to her; cunning and an aptitude for craft. Finally, when Odysseus returns, he and Telemachus slaughter the suitors and hang twelve of Penelope’s closest maids, who have been sleeping with them. The reason for this is never really explained, allowing Atwood free rein with her interpretation of events.

Penelope and her Suitors by John William Waterhouse

Atwood explains in the introduction, that she has recreated the hanged maids as “a chanting and singing Chorus which focuses on two questions that must pose themselves after any close reading of The Odyssey; what led to the hanging of the maids, and what was Penelope really up to?” The Chorus that the maids form provides commentary and diversion as was archetypal in Greek theatre, interpreting the action through song ranging from rap and sea shanties to light operetta and skipping rhymes, which are typically topical: “we are the maids/ the ones you killed/ the ones you failed / we danced in air/ our bare feet twitched/ it was not fair.”

If there is one thing more interesting than the story, it is in the telling of it, and here Atwood aligns with and diverges from the traditional Greek structure like a twisting river. She incorporates the gods and their intervention in human lives, but she is critical of their motives. She plays with the concept of Homeric epithets and constant repetition: hell is gloomy; death is dark; Odysseus is wily; Penelope is faithful; Helen is beautiful; everybody weeps. Penelope is also aware of the injustice of simple labels, and declares that she wants to flesh out her character, and to defend herself from the one-dimensional moral paragon which has been foisted upon her.

Penelope by Leandro Bassano

Penelope hears accounts of Odysseus’ adventures from the poems and the songs of the minstrels, who embroider the facts to please her. In the art of storytelling, there are different versions, and Odysseus fabricates as much as anyone on his return. “He was always so plausible. Many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. Even I believed him, from time to time.” As with the wonderful Life of Pi, if the outcome is the same does the ‘truth’ matter, or does it all come down to personal preference? Stories were told in the past to help explain events; they are used in the present to conceal and obfuscate.

The chorus of maids delivers an anthropology lecture at the end; a device Margaret Atwood has used in both The Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments. It makes the stories more scholarly and academic, tying together the interpretations and connections, such as the returning king motif and the overthrow of a matrilineal moon cult.

In Margaret Atwood’s version, Penelope is a suitable match for Odysseus. She knows all about his cunning and tricks. “I knew he was tricky and a liar, I just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. Hadn’t I been faithful? Hadn’t I waited, and waited, and waited despite the temptation – almost the compulsion – to do otherwise?” As Atwood explained in an interview when the book was published in 2005, “There are two ways of fending things off it you don’t want them to happen. One is by force – which is not available to her. The other is by guile. So she has to use guile. And that is also Odysseus’s big stock-in-trade. When in doubt, lie. But lie well.” As this is a reinterpretation of a myth and there is no standard truth, it is impossible to say that Margaret Atwood has lied. But she has re-invented. And she has done it very well indeed.

Penelope by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

In Homer's Shadow: Bridge of Clay

Bridge of Clay by Markus Zusak

Picador

Pp. 579

It has been highly publicised how long it took Markus Zusak to write this book, and the implication is always that it means a lot to him and is a labour of love. That is entirely understandable, but, at almost 600 pages, it reads as if he doesn’t know where to start, or finish, or even what to say.

The novel revolves around five boys growing up in a semi-rural suburb in New South Wales. Their mother, Penelope, died a long slow death from cancer and their father, Michael, abandoned them to deal with his grief alone. He returns asking for assistance to build a bridge so that he can get to and from his remote dwelling place on an island. Metaphor, much? Most of the boys refuse outright to help, but Clay offers to go with him, although he knows this will involve a severe beating at the hands or fists of his brothers when he comes home.

The oldest boy, Matthew, narrates the story, although he claims it belongs to Clay. The boys are hard to tell apart because they don’t do anything demonstrably different from each other – they all fight and drop out of school. Matthew tells us about them, rather than allowing their actions to individualise them. Thus we learn that he is the breadwinner of the family (although we are not exactly sure what he does; is he a labourer?), Rory is the biggest bruiser who likes a drink, Henry likes 80s films, and Tommy collects animals: a cat (Hector), a goldfish (Agamemnon), a pigeon (Telemachus), a cat (Hector) and a mule (Achilles).

Clay (he of the bridge building) is the quiet one. He is in training, although it is not specified for what. He runs a lot and fights. He also has a relationship with a young jockey, Carey (they live by a racetrack), which seems to involve them lying on an old mattress and him being tickled by her hair. They give each other cryptic gifts (a lighter; a broken peg; an old book) and speak in what are presumably meant to be deep aphorisms, but sound like the bits S.E. Hinton thought were too naff for one of her Young Adult novels. Incidentally, this is the first of Zusak’s novels to be promoted as general fiction rather than for young adults. The distinction appears to be length rather than content, as the general world of the teenage boys is no grittier than the setting of The Book Thief.

As the names might suggest, this is clearly meant to be an homage to Homer. The boys’ mother, Penelope Lesciuszko is a refugee from Europe, impelled by her father, Waldek, to escape the tyranny of totalitarianism. Her imagination has been formed by the 39 books Waldek owns, especially his copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey. Homeric epithets may work in epic poetry but the same descriptors (clear-eyed Cary Novak; warm-armed Claudia Kirkby), sonorous syntax and sentence length are tiresome in this novel.

Zusak plays with chronology, suggesting that nothing is straightforward, but the segments (each headed with font that looks as though it was typed on an old typewriter, as we are led to believe it was) are very short – often not more than a couple of paragraphs – and it is sometimes hard to tell where we are in the story. The Odyssey was spoken aloud and passed on to other narrators; Bridge of Clay simply has a number of unnecessary tricks which pall far too fast. Each statement is written as a new line, and the foreshadowing is overbearing.

“After all, Penelope would die.

Michael would leave.

And I, of course, would stay.

Before any of that could happen, though, he would teach me and train me for Hartnell.

This was going to be great.”

The narrative seems needlessly convoluted in structure merely to create suspense by with-holding information. One reviewer described it as ‘Bridge of Delay’, and the revelations are not worth the wait – Michael is described as The Murderer for several hundred pages before it becomes clear that his ‘crime’ was to leave the boys after his wife died. By this time I am past caring. When Matthew tells the story of Penelope and Michael (and Abbey, the woman Michael loved before he met Penelope), the novel is interesting. They met when Penelope’s piano was wrongly delivered to Michael’s house. He writes ‘Please Marry Me’ on the keys, and long after their presence has gone from the house, the faded writing on the notes reverberates as the piano remains as one of those resounding symbols Zusak so enjoys.

Clay is interested in his parents’ pre-occupations, including their obsession with Michelangelo and building. The brief chapters on the bridge-building could be interesting but they are crushed beneath the weight of their own metaphor. We learn more about how manly (stupid?) they are as they dig out earth and rocks with their bare hands and sleep under the stars in the riverbed. All too soon we are back to the rest of the family with their fighting and inarticulate relationships.

Matthew writes, “It’s a mystery, even to me sometimes, how boys and brothers love.” Despite the lengthy story presented here, it remains a mystery to me too. As annoying teenagers used to say, ‘build a bridge and get over it’. I loved The Book Thief. I shall remember Zusak as the author of that and put this down to an over-engineered folly.