There were three weeks of summer left — three final weeks to engage in leisurely reading. “So, Darien,” I asked myself, “what’ll it be?”
Suddenly, a friend texted me: “Want to go see The Odyssey?” Thus, it was decided. Homer’s The Odyssey, written around 800 B.C.E., had been sitting for months in one of several stacks of books on my bedroom floor. I’d been avoiding it, convinced it would be, quite literally, an odyssey to get through.
But I was determined to read the book before seeing the film. And so it began.
To my surprise, it wasn’t as challenging as I thought. So fear not, interested readers — you too could enjoy reading The Odyssey! Accessible as the story is, part of my own pleasure came from nerding out over the multiple translations of this three-thousand-year-old Greek epic — so bear with me as I subject you to my hyperfixation. The first version I picked up was W.H.D Rouse’s. Published in 1937, this translation has a more classic, almost Tolkien-esque feel. I devoured it in a mere three days and immediately became determined to get my hands on the more modern Emily Wilson translation.
Published in 2017, Wilson’s translation is widely considered the most accessible for inexperienced readers. It’s also written in iambic pentameter, unlike Rouse’s prose. Because the original poem was primarily transmitted through oral bardic storytelling — think campfire tales, but in verse — Wilson’s use of iambic pentameter aims to authentically capture the original format.
Wilson’s translation has been criticized by some readers as being too feminist, and therefore inauthentic. But as she explains in her introduction: “My translation is, like all translations, an entirely different text from the original poem … [The Odyssey is] a poem that is deeply invested in female fidelity and male dominance.” And I agree — her framing clarifies the stakes of translation and the biases embedded in the original. I trusted Wilson’s translation and was entranced by her thoughtful introduction, which added much-needed context and history. While I preferred Rouse’ for its classical tone, I’m extremely glad to have explored Wilson’s, and felt that the story itself remained virtually the same.
But enough dissection of form and translation — I want to tell you about my utter obsession with the tale itself.
The Odyssey put a spell on me (cue Screamin’ Jay Hawkins). Here is Odysseus: a “complicated man” (Wilson) but one who was “never at a loss” (Rouse). The poem takes us through his long journey back home to Ithaca after 20 years spent lost at sea and war. He battles witches, sea monsters, cyclopes, and unfriendly people — all in his pursuit to return to the loving arms of his loyal wife Penelope and teenage son Telemachus.
Up in Zeus’ palace — acting as the grand puppeteers — we meet the various Greek gods. As the story progresses, they argue, meddle, and throw literal tantrums while wrestling with their own actions and each other. Athena champions Odysseus’ return (and is maybe low-key in love with him?), Poseidon resents him, and Zeus deeply admires our weary traveller — but weirdly forgets him on some witch’s island for like, seven years. What fascinated me most about reading The Odyssey was discovering a theology of imperfect gods. Here we see cranky, bitter beings who make mistakes and as a result, seem more human.
Many times I had to stop reading and stare at my ceiling for a while, just to think about the history and sociology of this ancient tale, set during the era of Greek colonization. Odysseus travels to strange lands, and encounters “lawless and violent tribe(s)” (Rouse). I found this to be a poignant parallel to more recent processes of Western colonization. This is a tale that explores ancient Greek culture, politics, traditions, and morality — with a heavy focus on hospitality.
But what I most pondered after my reading was the idea of home. Odysseus doesn’t rest in the idea of home when he reaches Ithaca — nor when he is reunited with Penelope and Telemachus, nor when he goes to see his father, nor when he destroys the suitors invading his estate. It makes me wonder where home truly is for him, and for any of us. I’ve always thought of home as something you find within yourself, but I think there’s also something to be said about home being a certain place or way of life.
That’s the beauty of this story — it provokes us to ask philosophical, moral, and historical questions. It’s both a brain teaser and soother. And what an absolute trip to think that, to this day, our culture holds such deep love for a story that has travelled through centuries, civilizations, translations, and formats to speak to us now.
