29 years later, I finished "The Odyssey"
A few initial impressions of Homer's epic poem.
The Odyssey, we are told, is the epic tale of a man’s journey home from war. True enough. Having not previously read the book cover-to-cover, however, I was struck during my recent reading at the extent to which The Odyssey is also the epic tale of a young man’s search for his shipwrecked father, the tale of Odysseus’ son, Telemachus.
I had heard of Telemachus but never realized the pivotal role he plays in the opening and closing books of the story. In this post I want to pursue a few initial thoughts on how The Odyssey’s narrator characterizes Telemachus and Odysseus on their quests to be reunited as father and son.
As early as Book I we learn that the budding Telemachus takes after his father, the brave Odysseus. Not even the goddess Athene can resist remarking on his resemblance when she is sent from Olympus to inform the boy of his father’s fate: “can Odysseus really have such a fine looking fellow for a son? You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes” (8).
Once on his journey to Pylos and Sparta, Telemachus continues to encounter friends of his father who also note this likeness. Nestor tells the boy that “you are going to be a great hero some day,” since the goddess Athene shows him favor, as she had shown Odysseus years prior (34).
In Sparta, Menelaus and his wife, Helen, are also struck by the boy’s physical appearance: “His hands and feet are just like Odysseus’; so is his hair, with the shape of his head and the expression of his eyes” (42). Though Telemachus doubts himself along the way, these passages suggest that his journey to find his father is also a moral quest of becoming like his father, a man capable and courageous enough to defend their house from an invasion of carnal suitors.
Meanwhile, as Telemachus struggles to become a man, Odysseus struggles to remain one, viz. a mortal. Stranded on an island with the goddess Calypso, he continually rejects her offers of immortality for the faint hope of returning to his wife, Penelope. “I want to get home,” he says, “and I can think of nothing else” (61).
After Calypso finally agrees to send him home, Odysseus reaches the shores of the Phaeacians, where King Alcinous wonders whether the mysterious man is also a god. Odysseus quickly demurs: “I have nothing of the immortal about me, neither in body nor mind, and most resemble those among you who are most afflicted” (84). Odysseus appeals to his suffering to persuade them he is not a god, because everyone knows the gods do not suffer like men.
Perhaps this explains why Athene transforms Odysseus into an “ugly old beggar” when he reaches Ithaca—to hide him from angry Poseidon. Of course, this transformation also conceals his true identity from Telemachus when they are finally united. Even once Athene has returned Odysseus to his original appearance, Telemachus is perplexed: “His son was astounded when he saw him, and turned his eyes away for fear that he might be looking upon a god” (201). Thus Odysseus finds himself once again defending his mortality: “I am no god; why should you take me for one? I am your father, on whose account you grieve and suffer so much at the hands of lawless men” (201).
I don’t know, Odysseus, why might Telemachus take you for a god? Because, in his eyes, you were as good as dead for many years. Your appearance could be nothing but miraculous.
Still, what are we to make of Odysseus’ insistence of his mortality? I’m no Homer scholar—and I’m sure much has already been written on the topic—but a couple possible interpretations spring to mind. First, Homer could be suggesting that there really is something divine about Odysseus, that people so mistake him for a god because, in his famous feats of bravery and subterfuge, he is god-like; he just doesn’t see it.
On the other hand, Homer might be making a point about mortals more generally: we don’t live forever and we’re not as good-looking as the gods, but being mortal is the only life we can imagine for ourselves, the only life suited for us. A man of sorrows, why else would Odysseus refuse Calypso’s offer of immortality? It was an unintelligible offer. “I am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so beautiful as yourself,” he told her. “She is only a woman, whereas you are an immortal. Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing else” (63). The entire narrative of The Odyssey might hinge on that one word: nevertheless.
One last note. For all this, I was struck at how The Odyssey is a surprisingly Ecclesiastean story, reminding us that mortal life under the sun—though finite and saddled with strife—brims with goodness, what Qoheleth called the gifts of God. “There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil” (Ecc. 2:24). In finding one another, Odysseus and Telemachus (and, yes, poor Penelope) finally find some enjoyment in all their toil.
Homer, The Odyssey. Translated by Samuel Butler. Roslyn, New York: Walter J. Black, Inc. 1944.