It has been said that every piece of art/media ever made somehow has an ideological standpoint. If it doesn’t change your way of thinking, it could well be reinforcing certain aspects of a dominant social ideology. While reading Robinson Crusoe, that idea is what I thought about the most. After being bludgeoned over the head with the ideas of “proper” religion, “proper” expansion, and “proper” gathering of material goods, I am quite sure that, whether intentionally or not, this book is reinforcing the primary first world ideology of the time, that of the good industrious god fearing capitalist.

One of the most obvious and tiresome ideas was that of God and Providence. All of Rob’s problems apparently come from the fact that he is too forward thinking for God, and does not do what he is supposed to do, which is essentially to sit at home and do nothing. God does not approve of an adventurous mind. This is interesting and sort of goes against my theory in a way, because England was just starting to become active on the whole colonialism scene, and you’d think that the books written in that time would reflect that, instead of providing a sort of warning against it. However, I think the book goes on to deal with this by making Rob happiest in one place doing nothing. Funnily enough this place that he has built starts to look a lot like the home of an industrious, god fearing capitalist. Only once he has made his home as similar to what as “regular” as he can, and only once he starts praying and beginning to really acknowledge the glory of God, only then does he start to be really happy again.

Concerning progress and the amassing of material goods: even though Rob eschews money for it’s lack of value, there is still a tremendous focus on obtaining and hoarding things, as well as building and expanding. In fact, the way Mr. Crusoe goes about his business surviving is a very capitalist method, and I do believe that if this story were written by a Brazilian anti capitalist or something, there would not have been such a focus on making the perfect homestead and then expanding across the island and becoming lord and ruler through industry. This book is written in such a way to promote the idea of “build lot’s of stuff and you will succeed.”  I wouldn’t necessarily say that is good or bad, especially since reading it in this day and age we are already deeply indoctrinated with capitalist- consumerist ideas, he he.  But it is something to notice, in any case.

Sam

 

The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors' attempt to fill the void left by her husband's long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: "So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house" (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to "the distaff and the loom" that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power--or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host--and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: "taller, supple, young" [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: "this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!" (16:202, 206). Even after "long-enduring" Odysseus clarifies twice--"No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father" (16:209, 212)--his son continues to be skeptical. "No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!" (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: "What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?-- / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!" (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn't recognize him) was a mortal like himself: "Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot" (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: "Strangers--friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?" (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: "Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now? / Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?" (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: "Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart" (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories--discourse, narrative--are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be "only" an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he "hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies" (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about "hail[ing] from Crete's broad land" (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master's loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when "in a flash, she knew the scar" (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus's body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.

The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors' attempt to fill the void left by her husband's long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: "So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house" (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to "the distaff and the loom" that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power--or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host--and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: "taller, supple, young" [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: "this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!" (16:202, 206). Even after "long-enduring" Odysseus clarifies twice--"No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father" (16:209, 212)--his son continues to be skeptical. "No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!" (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: "What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?-- / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!" (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn't recognize him) was a mortal like himself: "Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot" (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: "Strangers--friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?" (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: "Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you're wearing now? / Didn't you say you reached us roving on the sea?" (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: "Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart" (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories--discourse, narrative--are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be "only" an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he "hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies" (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about "hail[ing] from Crete's broad land" (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master's loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when "in a flash, she knew the scar" (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus's body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.

The Odyssey is structured around repeated dramas of (mis)recognition: who is he? what is this? who am I? But no recognition scene is more crucial than the one in which Odysseus finally reveals himself to his son Telemachus. For this is always more a story about fathers and sons than it is about husbands and wives.

Penelope is at best a foil: her task is to keep a place open for the rightful head of the household, and therefore to fend off the suitors’ attempt to fill the void left by her husband’s long absence. But by the time that Odysseus returns, Telemachus finally has a claim to that spot, as is shown by his curt treatment of his mother in Book One: “So mother, / go back to your quarters. Tend to your own tasks, / the distaff and the loom [. . .] As for giving orders / me will see to that, but I most of all: / I hold the reins of power in this house” (1:409-414). The irony, of course, is that it is precisely by tending to “the distaff and the loom” that, in the long span during which Telemachus has been growing up, Penelope has in fact surreptitiously been holding the reins of power–or rather, preventing anyone else from taking them up.

But by Book Sixteen, Odysseus is back and ready (or as ready as he will ever be) to take his place and reassert order in what has become a household turned upside down, in which the guests have abused the code of hospitality by which Greek society is shown to cohere. The suitors have to be killed because they have confused the roles of host and guest. Odysseus will be the unwanted guest, the beggar at the threshold, who asserts his right to host–and to deny hospitality.

Telemachus, however, takes some persuading that his father has returned. Though Athena returns Odysseus to his former appearance (perhaps making him look still more like the younger man who originally embarked to war against Troy: “taller, supple, young” [16:197]), the son assumes that his transformation indicates divinity: “this must be some god [. . .] surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!” (16:202, 206). Even after “long-enduring” Odysseus clarifies twice–”No, I am not a god [. . .] No, I am your father” (16:209, 212)–his son continues to be skeptical. “No, you’re not Odysseus! Not my father! / Just some spirit spellbinding me now [. . .] you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!” (16:220-21, 228). It is only after our hero repeats himself once more that Telemachus finally accepts that his father has finally returned.

What then? How does one treat a man, as opposed to a god? If the poem repeatedly confuses the distinction between divinity and humanity (if a son cannot recognize his father, who can be sure who is what?), then what is the key difference?

The answer is simple: you ask a man to tell you his story.

As soon as Telemachus has it clear in his mind that he is dealing with his father rather than a god, he comes out with all sorts of questions: “What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?– / Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? / I hardly think you came back home on foot!” (16:252-54). And these questions echo the queries put to Odysseus by the loyal swineherd, who never doubted that the man before him (even if he didn’t recognize him) was a mortal like himself: “Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? / What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors / land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? / I hardly think you came this way on foot” (14:215-19). In turn, these questions also echo the myriad queries made of any guest throughout the epic. Nestor to Telemachus: “Strangers–friends, who are you? / Where did you sail from, over the running sea-lanes?” (3:79-80); the queen of the Phaeacians to Odysseus: “Who are you? Where are you from? / Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? / Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” (7:274-76). And so on and so forth.

Men tell stories. They tell stories about themselves, their ships, their crewmates, their clothes. And of course they also tell stories about their exploits, their families, their gods. This is how they reward the hospitality they receive. More importantly, this is what makes them human. And there is nothing more human, then, than the Odyssey itself: one long story about men, ships, crewmates, clothes, exploits, families, and gods.

The gods themselves do not tell stories. The appropriate reaction to a god is not to elicit narrative, but (as Telemachus makes clear) to make them promises of gifts and sacrifices: “Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, / gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart” (16:207-8). Men tell stories about gods; the gods accept sacrifices from men.

So stories–discourse, narrative–are essential to human intercourse. No wonder every guest is asked to tell his tale. And in an oral culture, he tale told is all the more important: it is the performance of narrative that assures our humanity. But at the same time, the recognition that performance can also be “only” an act, a tall tale, a means of deception, provokes great distrust and ambivalence. Odysseus, after all, tells great stories. But even after insisting to the swineherd that he “hate[s] that man like the very Gates of Death who, / ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies” (14:182-83), he goes on to tell the most elaborate of whopping falsehoods about “hail[ing] from Crete’s broad land” (14:228).

Tale-telling is what makes us human, and how we relate to each other as humans, but it is also inherently unreliable, untrustworthy.

It is no surprise then that the only two characters who recognize Odysseus on their own account are either strangers to language (the master’s loyal dog; 17: 330-31) or do so by reading some rather more material sign. The old nurse, Eurycleia, is washing her former charge down when “in a flash, she knew the scar” (19:445) left on his knee by a boar many years earlier. Eurycleia reads Odysseus’s body directly, and as such is the only human to sound out the truth before the king himself makes himself known to them.

The mark on the body, a sort of primitive writing of injury and affect, shows up the precarious humanity of the tall tale that is The Odyssey itself.

Please excuse this late post, I only finished the book today and I wanted to be able to share my ideas of the complete epic. When I told my friends and family that I would be reading the Odyssey, the majority all cringed with fear and wished me luck. This reaction made me a bit intimidated at the thought of reading this epic. Thankfully, I have found this translation fairly comprehensible. My main difficulty with this epic is mostly due to the fact that it is a book, and has been challenging me to stay awake while reading it. This is not to degrade the eloquence with which each character is portrayed, or to disregard the startling images that have been conjured in my minds eye. This epic poem has been beautifully crafted, if not a bit long winded and tiring, and I can imagine listening to a bard reciting this tale would be far more thrilling and engaging.

The tale of Odysseus brings many provoking thoughts and emotions. The role of the gods and Zeus’ statement near the beginning of the epic has made me question fate and how much power a mortal has over their destiny. In fact, this role made the book difficult because there was no suspense. Each time a god or goddess declared a prophesy, you knew exactly what was going to to happen, and that even if a Odysseus appeared to be in mortal danger, you knew he would get out alive because the gods had said so. The moment that makes me question how much power a mortal has over his fate, is when Odysseus tells the Cyclops his name. Had he left with the Cyclops thinking Odysseus’ name was “nobody”, he could have sailed home without Poseidon’s wrath and anger, thus changing his fate drastically.

One aspect of the tale I found frustrating was Penelope’s apparent lack of will to take control over her situation, and the sexist ideals of the time. However, at the end of the epic I realized that she actually does hold power in two different scenarios. The first is with her suitors, when she leads them along for three years with the promise that at the end she will wed one of them. They have no idea that Penelope is deceiving them and keeping them at bay, and has therefore taken a small amount of power over them in an incredibly subtle and cunning way. The second instance is when she convinces the suitors to each bring her a valuable gift that they all believe will win her heart. She however has no intention of marrying any of them, and is actually taking their possessions to raise her own status and worth. Through these two instances, Penelope’s own cunning mind enables her to gain some personal power.

Looking back on this post, it doesn’t appear that I have enjoyed reading this epic. The honest answer is that I am happy that I have read it, and enjoy the thoughts that have come from reading it. In this moment however, these are my thoughts.

            The Odyssey is a tale of epic proportions and recounts the journey home of a much beloved hero from the battles of Troy: Odysseus. To say he had a rough time returning home would be an understatement. Not only does Odysseus try to venture home against the wrath of Poseidon, but also nymphs at every twist and turn trap him in his journey. He even journeys to the underworld. And at the beginning I thought Agamemnon had tough luck.
            I personally really enjoyed how the beginning of The Odyssey played out. It starts off with the events at his home in preset day Ithaca and the state of his family and his estate. Telemachus has grown up without his father and goes to search for his lost father. Rather than start off the bat with the journey home, it is told as a series of flashbacks starting at the destination and current state of affairs; to which Telemachus could only do what any boy would. Find his father to rid the house of the suitors who plague their house.
            What is humorous about the role that the gods play in the Odyssey is that in the very first book of The Odyssey Zeus makes a speech that a person’s misery is more often than not is blamed to be the gods fault. Which is understandable that he would be upset about it. He did have Hermes to warn Aegisthus the consequence of his actions. That Orestes would come for vengeance. However fate plays a big role in the book, the gods more often than not meddle in the affairs of mortals. Seen as Athena goes on throughout the book attempting to help him out, while Poseidon rages on against him. Although at most times it seems he only can follow the advice given to him by gods and nymphs, I guess it could be argued that he had the choice to ignore them. Compared to when reading Beowulf, I felt as though Odysseus was lead around and spoon-fed the journey whereas Beowulf made himself and through his actions he made his fate. Granted Odysseus just wanted to be home.
            The reuniting of Odysseus and Telemachus not what I expected. I guess I half expected him to leap up at each other when they met. A man he’s only known from stories and dreams that would someday come and actually help him fight off the suitors. The growth of Telemachus, which was shown through finding his father and finding his courage and strength, is what I felt was strong. As before he just relied on the stories and was hopeless. What was strong about the gods presence with both Telemachus and Odysseus’ journeys was that they were both somewhat about hope and not losing it though all looks bleak. Persevering through. 

The Odyssey is the story of Odysseus – a man who left home in order to fight in the Trojan War and hasn’t been allowed to return home by the “deathless gods” of Olympus. The novel uses repetitive language and phrases feels as if it the kind of story that has been passed down from the ages – it is easy to imagine this being told by an old storyteller in the night. Odysseus as a character is both likable and hate-able at the same time – his strength, courage and perseverance make him kin to the heroes of old and yet his bloodthirsty-ness and ability to tell lies makes him a little frightening. You begin to wonder whether how far Odysseus is capable of going when at the end only Zeus’ lightning bolt and Athena’s words stop him from committing yet more murders. Throughout the novel women are also portrayed in mainly negative ways – with the exception of Athena, Penelope and Telemachus’ old maid – such as Calypso and Scylla. Women appear to be enchanting and wily temptresses in The Odyssey which is suprising because the people held the goddesses in revered positions and they were also women –  however after seeing how much Athena did and how her mere presence affected the people and Odysseus’ outcome it is also safe to say that even Athena, a goddess, is portrayed as a cunning character who meddles in the affairs of humans.

The novel was like a journey, you ended up traveling with Odysseus as he faced each of his challenges, the writing pulled you in and effectively made you a part of this lion’s journey home. The novel also does not end with his return home, there is more to the story, this is not just the end. The novel serves also as a beginning of another part of Odysseus’ life, of another journey which he must now undertake. Some scenes in the novel kind of shocked me and yet did not shock me at the same time. At time Odysseus appeared to have been left unharmed by his ordeal. Odysseus hacking down all of the suitors in such cold blood makes sense in one way as they plagued his helpless wife and son and yet at the same time there was such cold blooded-ness about the massacre that you realize that he has so much anger and the need for revenge inside of him that it is quite shocking. He really is like a “lion with his kill”.

First off, I’ll start by mentioning that I haven’t completed a book of this length in such a short amount of time in my life; even Harry Potter, with all it’s suspense, had me paced out over a few weeks. Second, I have a bit of knowledge about this epic coming into the course. I starred as Odysseus in a school play adaption of the Odyssey titled “The SeussOdyssey”. Yes, it pretty much explains itself as a shallow interpretation of the epic done told in a Dr. Seuss-like format. So hopefully if my impression of this comes off as a little informal, you’ll understand the biases I had coming into it…

The Odyssey tells the story of the grand hero Odysseus. Years after the Trojan War, the character Odysseus is on his way home to his palace of Ithica, where his son, Telemachus, and his beautiful wife, Penelope lie. On his way back, he gets shipwrecked, and many gods lay out a plan for his future, leading up to his arrival many years later (I think 20 by the time he makes it back to Ithica?). 

I could go into depth about many aspects of the story I enjoyed, but there is one thing that stood out to me, and it sure stood out like a sore thumb. Like a bastard at a family reunion. It could all be because I’m viewing the Odyssey with a meta ideology, but the powers of the Gods really ruined any climactic feeling to the story.

From the start of the book, Zeus promises to Athena that Odysseus will make it home safely. And, being a god, I took his word for it. And from then on, the events following Odysseus after he tells of his exploits to the people of Scheria (home of the Phaeacians) become entirely predictable. You know that Odysseus won’t die, and you reckon that the suitor problem will be taken care of.

On the subject of Odysseus telling his story, that was another aspect that kind of perturbed me. All the events could have been told in present tense and it would have made for a lot more suspense. That’s not to say that they were told badly because it was done in past tense, but the escapes from situations were predictable.

However, these are just little critiques. Despite what I said earlier, I still find The Odyssey to be an absolutely fantastic piece of literature. On top of that, my argument can be rendered invalid in a number of ways. Most notably, this piece is an epic, and not a page turning thriller. It wasn’t written to have you on the edge of your seat at all times. The conversations between the characters are supposed to tell the story. 

A good point of discussion can be brought up here too pertaining to my previous comparison; that literature can come in a variety of forms, and viewing it with certain expectations can ruin any true insight into the deeper elements of a story.

And that’s what it boils down to; Homer is a fantastic storyteller. He creates a world full of 6 headed creatures, nymph goddesses, timid characters, brave characters, gods, monsters and just sheer ecstasy.

Because of this, one could even say he channels himself through Odysseus.

This is my first time reading The Odyssey by Homer, and starting Homer’s tale was definitely a terrifying task for me. I wasn’t sure of how I would be able to handle the vast amount of Greek mythology contained in this particular book, but I actually managed to understand most of what was happening. With that being said, reading this novel was a new and surprisingly fun experience. With regards to The Odyssey itself, I gained much insight on the challenges that Odysseus was forced to endure. Throughout the course of the novel, Odysseus is required to overcome multiple challenges if he wishes to finally return to his homeland of Ithaca and reunite with his loved ones. The Odyssey reveals how the gods retain all power over the mortals, holding much power over many circumstances. Though perceived as a glorious, strong and superior king notable for his contributions during the Trojan War, Odysseus expresses the underlying pain and grief he feels, as he is constantly being tested and challenged. As his hopes of reaching his homeland becomes seemingly unreachable, the reader begins to learn of Odysseus’ vulnerability to the gods, as well as the power they have over him. At points in the novel he conveys a sense of defeat when he stays with Calypso for a prolonged amount of time; or when he grows powerless upon losing many of his shipmen during the journey home.  He grows defenseless and tiresome of the constant uphill battle he is forced to face, thus almost leading to his defeat and consequent demise. However, Athena constantly helps Odysseus on his journey, and provides him with the strength and optimism to push through his trials. Her role throughout Odysseus’ journey is of great importance, for at the end of the novel she expresses the immense power that the gods have. Athena manages to end the on-going feud in such a simple manner and restores peace between Odysseus and the others. Homer’s piece evidently explores not only the journey of a man’s life, but also that of his family. Aside from journeying with King Odysseus, we additionally grow to understand the affect that his absence has had on Telemachus, Penelope, and all those seemingly significant in his life.

Starting the Odyssey was quite a daunting task. I’ve never adventured into Greek literature of any kind, and my knowledge of Greek gods is limited at best. Yet as I read Homer’s great tale, the wide range of characters slowly began to grow on me, some which intrigued me, others which I disliked, and a select few which I liked. Ultimately it’s the characters which bring a story alive, and Homer’s tale is filled with a diverse cast of humans, gods, and other mythical creatures.

Right from the start of the book, a certain line stuck with me. It was Zeus, showing distate in the way mortals blamed and almost relied on the Gods, it starts on page 78, “Ah how shameless-the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone, they say, come all their miseries, yes, but they themselves, with their own reckless ways, compound their pains beyond their proper share”. This quote has to be my favorite of The Odyssey. It shows that while the gods are… gods, they still have very human qualities. Zeus is almost annoyed at how the humans blame him, and he looks upon them as a squabbling group of children. From this quote, I began to understand that gods weren’t just benevolent entities filled with joy and kindness, each and every god had a deeper and more intricate personality, with their own principles and tempers. And so it isn’t just Telemachus, Odysseus, and other humans who are key characters throughout the story, the gods are part of the cast which makes this book so layered.

It’s from here that I slowly began to dislike a lot of the gods. With the exception of Athena, Hermes, and a few others, most gods are pretty selfish beings. Poseidon is only disturbed when he has to take vengeance for his murderous Cyclops son, and Zeus, while he shows some interest in protecting Odysseus and Telemachus, I always felt like he could’ve done more. And that’s not even starting to talk about Calypso, Circes, and some of the other nasty gods who trifled with Odysseus’s journey back home. It ultimately seemed like most of the gods were a pretty selfish bunch, not too worried about justice, or about interfering with human problems.

While I complain about the gods, Athena does really shine bright throughout the book. Like a straight-A student, she doesn’t seem to make a wrong move as she is always there to help out Telemachus, and later on Odyssues. Furthermore, one of my favorite things about the book was the fact that Odysseus built his bed from a tree. It showed how at the very foundation of everything in his life, is the love he shares with his wife. After all the toils and hardships he had to endure, at the end of the day he could return home, and crawl back into his bed, with his adoring wife. It’s almost as if it shows what he’s been surviving and fighting for, because at the center of it all, is the love of his life, Penelope, and that will never change.