#also love how that fanfiction turns Athena (yet another significant powerful positive female character) into a bitch

[robotsdeservebetter]

All the Rape of Persephone retellings that turn the mother, who defies the patriarchal system to save her daughter, into an abusive monster just to make the rapist into a compelling love interest 👹 Feminist retelling, my ass

"Nobody gave a voice to these Greek Mythology female characters."

Euripides after writing Andromache, Andromeda, Antigone, Danaë, Electra, Hecuba, Helen, Iphigenia in Aulis, Iphigenia in Tauris, Medea, Merope, Wise Melanippe, Captive Melanippe, Peliades, The Phoenician Women, The Trojan Women etc.

[avelera]

Review: Circe by Madeline Miller

Late last night I finished “Circe” and admit I breezed through it in a couple days. It was a rare pleasure to read a book that captured my attention from beginning to end, something I’ve struggled with lately. I admire Miller a great deal, (indeed have written fanfiction in her style for my Steve/Bucky / Achilles/Patroclus reincarnation fusion fic “Sing, O Muse”) and looked forward to her take on another great figure of Greek mythology.

So, let’s get right to it:

Pros: 

The story has a lot to recommend it. Miller’s prose is well-renowned for its poetry and eloquence. She paints a vivid picture of a fantastical Ancient Greece where gods walk the earth and a witch/demi-goddess like Circe has a rich internal life. In no particular order:

- The Gods - Authors often struggle with how to include the gods in retellings of the Iliad and Odyssey. Most try to simply ignore them and chalk their involvement up to superstition. Unfortunately, that attempt usually runs into the brick wall of Thetis, who is key to the story of the rage of her son Achilles, and who shows up on the beaches of Troy, where no normal woman could. Miller has always leaned into the existence of the gods rather than run from it in her reimaginings of Greek myth, and paints a fully fleshed world where they reside side by side with mortals. Her use of language elevates their appearance and evokes a Celtic Faerie Court of powerful, capricious and otherworldly beings who are both intoxicating and deeply dangerous to mortals. Miller’s prose jumps off the page whenever one of these beings takes the spotlight and is by far one of the most creative takes I’ve seen of characterizing the Ancient Greek Gods.

- Passion - It is clear in the very DNA of this story that Miller loves Greek Mythology. There is a tenderness with which the great heroes and tragic figures of those myths like Odysseus and Prometheus are presented, almost a yearning to be able to reach out and offer them comfort in their trials that is very apparent. There is awe in how Athena is depicted, for all that she serves as an antagonist. There is wonder in the descriptions of beings like Helios and Scylla. The prose shines from within when these figures appear with a sort of joy and sadness that is infectious to the reader. The sense of love for this time and these characters is inescapable.

- Emotion - Particularly with the more melancholy emotions like sadness, resignation, and helpless anger there is a profound and powerful thread running through the story. One deeply feels the appeal of characters like Glaukos pre-transformation, Daedalus, Odysseus and Telemachus. When Circe falls in love with these men, I don’t for a second wonder why. They are presented with heartbreaking beauty and appeal. Circe’s own moments of tragedy are also evocative, she is deeply impacted by the ugliness of the world in a way that evokes understanding and sympathy. 

Cons:

I’m going to try my best in this section to not fall too much into the trap of “I would have done this differently” but... well, I’m not entirely sure I succeed. 

- Agency - The problem of character agency has plagued Miller’s two forays into Classical myth retellings, and for me personally present the most frustrating aspect of her prose. Circe, one of the most terrifying and powerful women of Ancient Greek mythology, is almost never the driver of her own destiny in this book and I found this aspect of the story baffling and at times infuriating. The moment this realization of her passivity in her own tale hit me hardest, almost enough to stop reading, was when Pasiphae, a mythological figure known almost solely for sleeping with a cow and being the mother of the Minotaur, was somehow a more terrifying and ambitious witch than Circe, one of the great villainesses of Classical literature. 

Pasiphae is presented as eagerly seeking out marriage with a powerful man, and while at first she is disappointed by her match to the mortal king Minos, she is comforted by the fact he is a son of Zeus  and will one day be one of the great judges of the Underworld. The events that take place after this are all mostly off-screen, but upon reaching the kingdom of Crete and its capital city Knossos, we learn she took the court over within, ruling with terror and poison, and that even when she was laid low by the shame of sleeping with a sacred bull, she still managed to twist this event to her own benefit and indeed even orchestrated the situation, deliberately giving birth to one of the most terrifying monsters of all time on purpose, using the opportunity for a multi-part palace coup including shaming her sister Circe by forcing her to help birth the monster and clean up the fallout, securing Pasiphae’s place in history and her dominance over the court with almost no repercussions. If she suffered at all from the fact that these events lead to the death of her daughter, Ariadne, we never see it, or any other negative consequences for her actions or opportunities for remorse, because at this point in the tale, Circe is (for no real narrative reason) no longer sleeping with Hermes and is therefore no longer privy to what is going on in the world outside her island. Even once she is free of her exile, she never follows up with the fates of her siblings.

Upon reaching this part of the book, all I could wonder was why were we not reading the tale of Pasiphae? This terrifying witch who took a weak position as the wife to a “great man” and twisted it to make herself one of the most powerful women in the world? What a fascinating subversion of the typical view of this mythological figure that would have been! 

Why Circe? Was a question I asked myself over and over. Surely if you wanted to tell the tale of such a passive character, there were plenty of other women in Greek mythology who would have been a better fit for the themes of the story that Miller eventually told? Why take Circe and make her a cringing good girl who always does what she’s told, whose one defiance in giving comfort to Prometheus as a little girl which as a flaw is basically  “being too good” and “caring too much”. Her aid of Prometheus is barely defiance at all, yet is blown into massive significance as one of the defining moments of her life when she does literally nothing purposefully bad, or even purposeful at all, for huge stretches of her life after that? Her transformation of Glaukos is cringing and secretive and almost totally accidental. Her transformation of Scylla in revenge for stealing Glaukos’s affections is more sullen than wrathful. We’re told she has a talent for transformation that exceeds the power of the gods themselves, but no sooner does she achieve these incredible feats then she apparently needs to start over and learn witchcraft from scratch and never again works such a great spell until she’s turning herself mortal so she can die at the end once she achieves her white picket fence ending. 

Where is Circe?! Where is the witch that became the subject of art and literature for millennia, one of the great female antagonists of Greek myth on par with terrifying villains like Medea? In the reimagining of this figure from her own perspective, we don’t find a great mythological figure but a tailor-made “perfect victim” - nothing bad is done by her on purpose. In fact, almost nothing she does is on purpose except to serve others in her life, like Glaukos, or Odysseus, or her son. Even her transformation of men into pigs is a result of her trying to help sailors who land on her island, only to be raped for her trouble and turn vengeful towards all other men after that. Well, until Odysseus apparently, when she gives up on transforming sailors after that, the most famous aspect of her character from mythology. Circe is given a prophecy for her fate at one point that is only that a man named Odysseus will come to her island, and that paltry prophecy turns out to be the sum total of the important events in her life as once again, she stands around in limbo until the actions of a man nudge her into actually doing something. Odysseus changes her life, not that this was hard, because she wasn’t doing anything before he came around.

Even Circe’s one great selfish act, the transformation of Scylla, brings her no joy and instead haunts her entire life like an albatross around her neck. Nothing she does is joyful, except perhaps glimmers early on as she embraces her skill with magic, and her love of the animals on her island which are presented as essentially house pets. One is left with the unshakeable sense that Circe has been re-imagined as spinster cat lady who has a couple nice little romantic flings over the years before having a kid on her own and eventually settling down with a nice husband to retire and die.

Which is fine. Perhaps it rubs me, personally, the wrong way because this is now the second iteration I’ve seen of powerful mythological women being used as modern feminist parables, only to be stripped of all their power to make these points. The other was “Penelope” by Margaret Atwood, in which Penelope is reimagined as a thinly veiled metaphor for a dissatisfied 50s housewife with a cheating husband. There’s barely any of her cleverness, her authority (for god’s sake, the woman was a queen) or her love of Odysseus, one of the great het romances of equals of ancient mythology, practically the only marriage of equals one can even point to,  and it’s torn down to make a point about not liking your husband very much when he cheats on you to feel better about himself. 

“Circe” at times feels autobiographical for the author (and of course this is speculation to a great extent), showing struggles with love and men, finding oneself, mourning beloved pets when they die, trying to escape the shadow of an emotionally abusive family, and learning to make decisions on one’s own in a patriarchal world. Which is fine, “Hamilton” by Lin Manuel Miranda is not perfectly historically accurate because at times it makes the choice to instead delve into autobiographical notes about Lin Manuel Miranda and his father, the experience of being a writer and the immigrant experience, the latter of which is hardly something the real Hamilton would have ever touted about himself but the strength of passion in telling that story elevates the text so it can be both about Alexander Hamilton and about Lin Manuel Miranda at the same time. There were moments in “Circe” where I was almost yelling at the page, just pick one! You can use the story of Circe to elevate a modern autobiography, to give certain aspects of life mythic proportions and tell the story of a woman who feels emotionally exiled eventually finding herself and finding love, but you have to go for it. To try to tell the story of Circe and tell a modern woman’s story at the same time is to do a disservice to both stories, where Circe is brought down into the dirt with other indecisive mortals, and the true pathos of a modern woman’s striving for agency in her life is outshone by the myth and wonder of Circe’s world.

My final note on agency, but “Song of Achilles” struggled with a very similar problem. Patroclus was reimagined as the passive, doting lover of Achilles. This allowed some really beautiful meditations on love and sacrifice, but it absolutely stripped Patroclus of many of his canonical qualities. The Patroclus of the Iliad did not shrink from battle or become a healer to avoid the war, he was a willing and joyous warrior as much as Achilles was. He begged Achilles for his armor in order to keep prosecuting the war and raise morale even if Achilles couldn’t fight. 

With Patroclus, as with Circe, you have two aggressive figures who are reimagined as passive perfect victims, who spend the entire book working themselves up to the courage to make a handful of active decisions for themselves. 

Going back to one of the Pros, which is the love felt on the page for these great figures like Odysseus and Prometheus, there are times when Patroclus and Circe both feel like the passive vessels for a self-insert adoration of these heroes. When Odysseus appears, I was struck by how overjoyed I was to see him. What a striking contrast Odysseus presented! Active, clever, tricky, beset by trials that he overcomes only to seek out more - contrast that with Circe who is none of those things except in glimpses. What a striking reminder of what a fantastic protagonist Odysseus is, how he is one of the greatest protagonists in almost 3,000 years of literature. Because he does things and he chooses things and he has unique qualities like his cleverness that help him overcome obstacles in fascinating ways that we still read about today. 

Similarly with Patroclus being the passive narrator of Achilles’ life, we feel the reflected glow of Achilles desire and drive, we yearn for it, because almost none of that quality is present in the protagonist and narrator of the story Patroclus! I am reminded of “Nick” in the Great Gatsby and his passive viewing of events, and I’m reminded that Nick wasn’t even supposed to be a character, he was only meant to be a narrative voice until Fitzgerald’s editor stepped in and said he needed to be characterized. At times, Patroclus and Circe both skirt the line of being so passive in their own story that on some level, they feel like little more than a narrative lens through which we glimpse the true heroes from afar.

I held off until I finished the book before making a final judgement of Circe’s passivity, because at every step I kept expecting her to finally change and take charge of her own life. Early on, I thought her comforting of Prometheus would launch her into taking control of her own destiny, which would have been a fascinating inciting incident, mirroring humanity’s gift of fire. Then I thought Glaukos would. Then Scylla. Then her exile. Then Odysseus. Then her son. And at every point, she fades into the background after and goes back to doing what she’s told. The book ends with her finally making a decision and that decision is to settle down with a kind husband and eventually die. She stands up to her father, the Sun, to make this stand and it is a beautiful, melancholy ending of the story but by god, woman, it would have been a much more satisfying retirement for a character that burns and makes decisions and does things than a character who takes hundreds of years to screw up the courage to ask for a quiet retirement on her own terms.

“Circe” is beautifully written. It is a lovely, melancholy anthology about one woman’s encounters with the great figures of mythology, lovingly told, as she seeks to find herself and what she wants out of life. I do not feel my time was wasted.

But if I were to sit down as an editor with the author and point out the three things I’d like her to work on for her next story it would be this:

- Structure - the story meanders and stays glued to the scattered known events of Circe’s life. It has no internal rising and falling action. It is a series of short stories with Circe’s life loosely tying them all together. Like JK Rowling no longer understanding how to plot a story when it isn’t built around a typical school year, I speculate that Miller struggles with building a structured story without having a pre-laid track of mythical events to hang it off of, and I’m not sure she is able to sculpt a tale into having a structure outside of “slice of life” moments in those fictional biographies, beautifully told.

- Agency - characters need to want something. They need to seek out something, they need to do something. Even if they are buffeted about by the events in their lives, they should at least have a way they wish things were going instead and take some steps to making the future they want real. Passive characters who sulk their way through the events thrust upon them by more powerful, dynamic characters, may have beautiful, languorous commentary on the world but they are essentially narrators rather than protagonists at that point.

- Telling rather than showing - I know this advice is often misunderstood and badly implemented. Telling is actually clarifying and provides structure to showing. But there are huge stretches of the book that read like just a laundry list of the narrator telling us what happened next “And then, and then, and then” without couching these moments in a scene that we could feel. There are some absolutely gorgeous scenes but they feel scattered and indeed, anthological, for the exact reason that we get a handful of strongly depicted scenes in Circe’s life, strung together by her telling us rather than showing us what happened in between. The fact that none of it really builds towards any sort of climax or true reversal of her fortunes makes those moments of telling, which I forgave at first because I felt they were in service of getting us to the good part, a greater betrayal when it became clear that the only thing those stretches were getting us too was the next mini-event in her life when she met another character more driven than herself.