A Guide to the Odyssey: A Commentary on the English Translation of Robert Fitzgerald

by Ralph J. Hexter;Robert Fitzgerald

  255 wife and children: Odysseus has not mentioned that he has either. This is probably a matter, as some believe, of little concern to Homer, who sometimes gives characters knowledge of what he has told only to the audience. However, this is not likely to be the case here, given Homer’s concern to postpone the identification of Odysseus as long as possible. Moreover, Odysseus does not have children, he has one son. It seems that Alkínoös is either fishing or making a likely assumption. A man of Odysseus’ status would take a wife if for no other reason than to cement inter-family alliances and have someone to manage his household. And he would want children to take care of him in his old age, to effect beneficial marriage alliances, and ultimately to inherit his property and carry on his line. (At 438 Seareach, following the king here, also seems certain that the still unidentified Odysseus has a wife.)

  261–63 The Phaiákians, enjoying their blessings, have a luxurious life-style that must have seemed almost fabulous to Homer’s original audience. (The Phaiákians have had a reputation as voluptuaries ever since. A generous sampling of post-Homeric Greek and Classical Latin opinions are tabulated by Hainsworth in HWH I.341.) That they pride themselves on singing, dancing, and poetry means they are cultured and fortunate. It would be anachronistic to imagine that this branded them as “aesthetes” in any negative sense: music, poetry, and dance were enjoyed by and came from the gods, and the great pan-Hellenic competitions included contests in the singing of poetry. (All the great fifth-century B.C.E. Athenian drama, both tragedy and comedy, was produced in competitions at which one of usually three competing playwright-producer teams would be given the prize. In “referees” (272) we see a trace of the competitive context of dance and music in what is to be only an “exhibition game.”) Homer, then, is giving Odysseus a highly cultivated audience for his own narrative, to begin in Book IX.

  280–392 Now to his harp the blinded minstrel sang / of Arês’ dalliance with Aphroditê: The tale of Aphroditê, Arês, and Hephaistos, has seemed shocking to some critics over the millennia, blasphemous to others. Such moralizing shafts glance off Homer. The Trojan War itself is a consequence of adultery, and the stories of Greek gods were never intended to provide moral models. The gods were in part enviable because they could enjoy pleasures only dreamt of by humans—virtually without censure. The lovely fable seems appropriate for the Phaiákians, whose existence in Skhería is virtually carefree. Demódokos has chosen the theme and shaped it to end with the composition of a quarrel with an eye to his immediate audience: having witnessed the unpleasant exchange between Seareach and Odysseus, the singer knows why Alkínoös has asked him to perform at this very moment.

  Homer, the poet behind the Phaiákian singer, chose the tale with another perspective in mind. In the economy of The Odyssey, the story of divine adultery contrasts with the story of Odysseus, Penélopê, and the suitors. On the level of significant detail, marriage beds and weaving are central to both stories. When one reads the one plot against the other, crucial differences emerge: the faithful Penélopê makes no suitor her Ares, and Odysseus is no cuckold. The net with which Hephaistos catches the lovers anticipates Odysseus’ trap of the suitors, but the hero’s punishment of the suitors is grim and final, as no punishment can be for immortal gods. Precisely because they are immortal their battles are of less moment, less is at stake; while for humans, fidelity becomes a matter of life and death. This contrast runs as a thread through all interactions between mortal and immortal Greeks. The gods inhabit a fantasy world free from death. As a consequence, their struggles are artificial and trivial, lacking the significance that human striving takes on by virtue of the fact that humans must ultimately pay with their lives.

  That the gods were such poor models for human behavior troubled Greek philosophers even before Plato, hence the impulse to allegorize Homer and make the greatest poet a spokesman for whatever ideal an individual moralist or culture might prefer. However, the song of the bard is less egregious within the context of archaic poetry than it may at first appear. In scope and tone it resembles those Homeric Hymns which tell of the pranks and even deceptions of the gods (though apparently it would be earlier than any of the extant Homeric Hymns).

  327 devastating: Hephaistos means this literally—“destructive,” “hateful,” even “damnable” (the Greek [309] probably was related by popular etymology to the word “Hades”)—not in the sense of “devastatingly good-looking.” His reference to Ares’ good looks and healthy legs (in contrast to his own) comes in the next line. (For further connotations of this epithet, see 70, above.)

  330 two gods who bred me: Zeus and Hera.

  337 Father: Zeus was not only his father but the father of the bride, Aphroditê. The “wedding gifts” reflect the custom of the bride-price—the groom must give a gift to the bride’s father or nearest male relative. The word in Homer [eedna, 318] refers half the time to bride-price, the other half to dowry. No explanation for this seemingly undecidable discrepancy has attained wide acceptance (see Introduction, p. xlv).

  338 damned pigeon: “Shameless bitch” would perhaps more accurately render Hephaistos’ harsh words. Literally, the Greek phrase is “dog-faced girl” [319], a good example of how misleading the “literal” can be. Clearly, “dog” could not refer to Aphrodite’s physical appearance. It plays off the proverbial shamelessness of the animal (see VII.232, above).

  344 The goddesses stayed home: A nice touch, but even more another example of the double standard of Greek culture projected onto the gods. The gods of poetry were fantasy figures, almost without exception projections of male fantasy. By “gods of poetry” I mean to exclude the numerous cults, practices, and legends in which women played a real part. Those were part of the real religious life, and we mustn’t imagine that Greek religious observance was limited to the Olympians, or even pursued in Homer’s time in any form like the practices his poems describe (see Introduction, p. li).

  357ff. Note the extravagant massing of traditional epithets in Apollo’s first line (357 [335]) and their only slightly less extravagant use in Hermês’ reply (361 [339]). Their formality in this very irregular context is part of the cultivated banter in which the speakers are engaged. I take their appearance and function here as important evidence that Homer could use traditional epithets not only consciously, but ironically as well.

  366 The ever-serious Poseidon will have a special resonance for Odysseus and the audience.

  409–11 Odysseus’ words are calculated to signal to one and all that Demódokos’ song and the dance have soothed his angry spirit.

  414ff. As we saw Meneláos offer Telémakhos gifts in Book IV, here Alkínoös arranges for his guest’s gifts. A great king, he can command and specify what gifts the princes or kings immediately under him, sublords in their own right, are to make.

  430–32 this broadsword of clear bronze: This is a very fine and handsome gift. For him to call it “a costly weapon” (432) is not tactless, since the point is to emphasize not his own generosity but rather the high esteem in which he holds the person to whom he is giving such a gift.

  475 Again the expectation is that Odysseus will sail home that night, but his narrative (Books IX-XII) will delay his departure.

  478, 482 Kirkê, Kalypso: With the appearance of both Kirkê and Kalypso in the space of five lines, not usual under any circumstances in the poem, it is almost as if Homer is showing how Odysseus is preparing to tell of his journey. That may seem to be casting our glance too far afield. The immediate inspiration for these reminiscences is the ministrations of Arêtê, and the reappearance of Nausikaa will soon follow (488). All these figures fit (in some cases ambiguously) under the category “female benefactor.” See EX.41–43, below (esp. ad fin.) for the rhetorical point of examples of such benefaction.

  488 Nausikaa appears for the first time since the end of Book VI to speak but two lines. Homer craftily underplays this scene.

  493 It is worth your thought seems somewhat cryptic. In the Greek Nausikaa says, “
You owe me first the reward for saving your life,” [462] leaving it open but suggesting that she will consider his remembering her in the future as satisfactory recompense.

  499 as … a goddess: When Odysseus first heard Nausikaa, he was uncertain whether he was hearing the voices of nymphs or girls, and he initially addressed her as a goddess. His words here recall these moments in Book VI, thus his promise to think of her ever after “as a goddess.” By closing the circle, as it were, this makes for a satisfying conclusion to the story of Odysseus and Nausikaa. (On this element of ring composition, see EX.41–43 and XIX.62–63, below.)

  504ff. We might well imagine why this scene survived in the tradition: generations of bards would not forget to describe the deference of the throng and above all the generosity of the hero to one of their own guild. Doing so might inspire comparable actions by any would-be heroes in their present audience. (Note especially lines 512–14, which are meant to be universal and further characterize Odysseus as a very wise man.)

  509 crisp with fat: The best portion.

  526ff. Now shift your theme, and sing …: Odysseus prepares for his recognition by asking that Demódokos sing of the wooden horse, an episode sure to redound to his credit. At 528, Odysseus mentions his own name for the first time in Skhería, although not to identify himself. Again (see VIII.81ff., above), this episode is not told in the Homeric Iliad, which ends with the death of Hektor and the return of his body to Priam, well before the sack of Troy that the ruse of the wooden horse made possible. We recall that Homer gave us another perspective on at least part of this episode in Book IV, when Meneláos told how Helen circled the horse and called to the Greeks suspected of being inside in the voices of their wives (IV.291–311).

  One critic sees “Odysseus’ choice of song evidence of his awakening heroic confidence.” He regards the “artistic purpose of the book” as being “to rehabilitate Odysseus, to infuse into him the heroic spirit” (W. Mattes summarized in HWH 1.378 [on VIII.492–93] and 344). Seareach’s challenge and his successful discus throw are stages on Odysseus’ “spiritual rehabilitation” in the way station of Skhería.

  This line of argument has its attractions but is ultimately not persuasive. In Book V Odysseus seems to me to be fully conscious of his identity and his goals, and his appearance as pitiable suppliant is nothing more (or less) than a temporary expedient, with no negative implication for his spirit or self-esteem. In fact, he will don a more wretched disguise for a longer time when he returns to Ithaka. In sum, I see nothing in Book VIII that cannot be explained as the plan of a master rhetorician (Odysseus) and a poet who has determined to postpone as long as possible the moment at which his hero’s identity is revealed.

  536 drawing away from shore: This refers to the story that, as part of the ploy to achieve the final destruction of Troy, the entire Akhaian fleet sailed away, leaving the wooden horse with troops hidden inside. The Trojans were supposed to believe that the horse was an offering to the gods left by the Greeks, who had now abandoned their siege of the city. In fact, the army had only sailed out of sight and would return according to plan under cover of darkness to join the “special forces” in the horse. The story can be almost indefinitely elaborated, and later was.

  It has also become the master metaphor in the West for destruction via disguised entry. Odysseus as the inventor of the Trojan horse may be said to be saving lives today, or at least inspiring those who can. Doctors can introduce genetically modified viruses into the body of a sick patient. The baneful viruses, deceived, interact with the modified viruses and are checked or in some cases even destroyed. The modified virus is called—what else?—a Trojan horse. Considering the frequency of its appearance in the popular media as well, the Trojan horse must be judged the single most widely recognized classical reference today.

  545 a cliff: Troy is not known to have had cliffs, although it was a fortified citadel. Hainsworth observes that this exemplifies the way “the poet’s thought is controlled by the context”—the verb “to pitch” suggests cliffs—whether or not they were there for the eye to see (HWH 1.380 [on VIII.508]).

  556 Odysseus and Meneláos make for Deïphobos’ house because there they will find Helen, who, as they know, after the death of Paris was taken by or took up with (depending on one’s view of this most undefinable of women) this one of Priam’s other sons.

  562ff. weeping the way a wife …: Demódokos had been singing of the battle in the streets of Troy. So in a way, the “lost field” (563) of this metaphor works as an additional description of the battle scene which Homer merely summarizes. And although the actual scene in the simile is not of fighting within the citadel, there is a continuity with the sack of Troy. The woman of the simile is near enough to see her husband die, as Trojan women would have done. In other words, Homer compares Odysseus’ weeping to that of a woman who could have lost her husband in battle with Odysseus himself—his own spear “prodding her back and shoulders” (567). That the simile crosses not only enemy lines but gender lines as well is also significant, but is itself in no way unusual in Homer. (For a study of precisely this feature, see Helene Foley, “‘Reverse Similes’ and Sex Roles in the Odyssey”.)

  570–74 This moment recalls a point earlier in Book VIII (99–104). From the point of view of the structure of the entire poem, what happens now could have happened then. For The Odyssey that we have (sometimes called the “monumental version”), the poet has chosen to delay the recognition one narrative round and have Alkínoös first stage the athletic contests. It is also clear that in a different context Homer, or another poet, wishing to move more quickly, could omit the games and get on with the story.

  587–626 Now by the same rule, friend: As Alkínoös says, now that the guest’s gifts are bestowed and his request (to be taken home) granted, it is his turn to reveal his identity. Alkínoös asks this with garrulity and love of platitude, and while this is in keeping with his character, Homer uses his speech to effect one more delay. After keeping his audience waiting to hear the hero reveal his identity for so long, just when it appeared inescapable, Homer stops and says, in essence, “it’s been a long session; I’ll start at this point tomorrow.” If this is “a rather unsophisticated method of heightening suspense” (West, HWH 1.54), then it is the best kind, and it is among the characteristics which The Odyssey shares with many popular narrative forms (and which has kept the poem itself popular for so many centuries).

  593 unless a mother bears him: Homer says “parents” with characteristic wordplay [tekôsi tokêes, 554]. The detail is trivial in itself, but it is worth noting that ancient Greek views of generation were very different from our own: for the Greeks, both parents “bore” or “engendered” (tiktô, the same verb applied to both father and mother), and in some accounts the argument is advanced that the father’s part is actually much more important, he being perceived as adding living form—seed—to the equation, while the mother is just (!) the ground in which the seed grows (see Aeschylus, Oresteia, Eumenides, lines 658–666). However nonsensical, counterintuitive, or offensive this appears, the scientific views of ancient (or any other) cultures are always worth studying, for their arguments indicate how differently cultures conceptualize their worlds.

  594–600 Tell me your native land …: Here the Phaiákian ships appear truly magical. Whatever the case, Alkínoös’ major point is that Odysseus won’t be able to conceal his homeland much longer, since he’s going to have tell somebody where to take him.

  604–11 An ominous foreshadowing of what will happen at least in part at the beginning of Book XIII after the Phaiákians give Odysseus passage across the sea to Ithaka. That will prove to be the trip foretold by Alkínoös’ father which will bring Poseidon’s wrath on the Phaiákians. However, this neither causes Odysseus to conceal the fact that Poseidon has good reason to be angry with him, nor do the Phaiákians have any fears about transporting Odysseus after having heard his narrative. The oracle is presented as inevitable (611) not conditional. Odys
seus can take comfort in the fact that, even according to the prophecy, the wreck will occur when the ship is “homeward bound” (608), after it has let him off (Compare IX.554, below).

  620 a song for men to come: This would be self-serving on Homer’s part (even in Alkínoös’ mouth) were it not for the deeply held conviction that memorable deeds and song are mutually dependent. Heroic deeds achieved in struggle, however vain, against the will of the gods deserve commemoration in song. This commemoration preserves heroic ideals and examples of heroic behavior to which future generations may aspire.

  BOOK IX

  New Coasts and Poseidon’s Son

  2–4 Odysseus’ reply is much brighter than our last view of him, weeping, would lead us to expect. We might imagine that he has had time to recover himself, but more is going on here than a change of mood. In general with Homer, what we would call psychologically coherent characterization is subordinated to the formal demands of the situation and above all of the poetry. The situation demands politeness, and the poetry requires a fresh start. Odysseus’ prefatory remarks adjust the standard poetic opening to this context; while not a bard like Demódokos and not pretending to sing a song, Odysseus is beginning a narration. Like a poet at the beginning of an epic, he makes a poet’s claims. Here, instead of appealing to the Muse, he praises his host’s minstrel and all singers, and the joy they give to listeners.