written by the Judge
I was initially bewildered: how could there be a sequel to
the Odyssey – and, just as shockingly,
how could I have known nothing about
it? How could I have never even heard of it? The concept struck me as
immediately gripping and intriguing, but the book was huge – larger than the
original by a good margin – and back then, as I was already struggling to keep
up with the reading assignments of a university freshman, I decided it was not
the right time to engage with something so hefty. So I made a mental note to
return to it at some later stage, and went back to reading Sidney and Marlowe.
I never saw that particular copy of the book again. I returned
to the same shelf, but for some reason couldn’t find it (at this point the
story is taking the traits of one of those ‘forgotten tome’ treasure quests, to the point
that you may think I’m making it up, but I’m serious). I forgot the name of
the author, but I never forgot the concept of the book, so much so that I asked
a few of my fellows and tutors at university whether they knew about it. None
ever did.
It took almost ten years before I came across it again, and
it was in New York (the story gets even more romantic!). I was there for work,
but a friend of mine took me to the enormous Strand Bookstore on Broadway,
where I intended to pick up some American poetry, and there it was – in a
beautiful hardback edition – for a risible seven dollars. The Odyssey by Nikos Kazantzakis.
Having finished the book only a few days ago, it’s a good
time to spread the word about it to everybody else, in part because after having
spent more than a year plodding through it I’m going to die if I don’t show off
a little, but mostly because I have the impression that for such an important
work of literature – and even within the canon of Kazantzakis’ work, who
otherwise has a considerable reputation in English-speaking circles – it’s
surprisingly obscure. Originally written in modern Greek, it has only been
translated into English and German. I’ve never met someone who knew about
it, though there may well be a few such people among the bookworms that read
this blog.
And yet the book is a Great Classic in capital letters, of
the kind that nobody wants to read and everybody wants to have read (Mark Twain
docet). Popular literary culture is
usually (comically) anglocentric, which is why the title of Great Classic, among 20th Century
books, tends to be reserved almost exclusively for Joyce’s Ulysses – itself a Homeric sequel of a kind. But pretty much every
major language has its own infernally long and unreadable classic from the past
century (Proust, Musil, Solzhenytsin, Pynchon, off the top of my head, and more
recently Bolaño), and that’s most certainly the category to which Kazantzakis’ Odyssey belongs. Unlike the original,
the Odyssey: A Modern Sequel (OAMS)
is not an easy read. It is three times the length of its predecessor, for an
exact total of 33,333 lines (the guy must have been insane), divided in
twenty-four books, one for every letter of the Greek alphabet. It is also a
dense, complex philosophical work, written in a style that is fascinating but not
all that accessible.
What is the book like? I’m not going to attempt a proper
essay on the text, because it’s one of those massively layered things you could
comfortably write a doctoral thesis about, but I’ll state a couple of my
personal impressions – and I’ll make sure not to add any spoilers in here, in
case you want to dive into this new adventure yourself. The story concerns, as
you might expect, the journeys of Odysseus after his return to Ithaca. It’s an
exotic, far-ranging tale. I liked the first half quite a bit, mainly because
it’s an adventure story not completely removed in spirit from the original. The
second half is decidedly slower, as the book becomes more purely philosophical
and quite episodic. The narrative becomes something like that of Dante, with
several characters appearing and standing in for other figures or ideals, and
frankly it reaches such a point of dullness that towards Book XVII I seriously
considered abandoning the book. I might have gone through with the decision had
I not already been so far into it (fortunately it gets a bit better from Book XX
or so, and the last part proceeds more smoothly). In truth, this may not be a
completely fair criticism as the original epic also reaches the end of the
journeys more or less half-way through, and the narrative of the events in
Ithaca seems a little drawn-out by comparison!
It would be unrealistic to expect such a sequel not to
modernise the story in several ways. Of course the mind-set of the characters
is no longer that of a Bronze Age culture. Kazantzakis, like virtually every
modern writer who has reformatted the Classics and told them from a modern
perspective (I think of Anouilh, Sartre or Baricco), has opted to do away with
the Olympian gods, which barely earn a mention here, never mind make an
appearance. In their stead, we find references to a strange single god that
rather comes across as a metaphor or an allegory for other things that
Kazantzakis wants to talk about (this would be consistent with his tendency to
personify – and in detail – abstract concepts such as death). Furthermore the
character of Odysseus is, at least to me, virtually unrecognizable. His
motivations and his actions are generally difficult to identify or reconcile
with the original character. Some of the things he does seem in direct
contradiction with those of the old version of himself, in particular the fact
that he is now openly, constantly, deliberately blasphemous and derisive of god
/ the gods (compare this to his submissive relation to Athena, or the episode
with the cattle of the sun in the Homeric text).
Something that is much more difficult to overlook than the
modernisation of the text (and which, in fact, is especially unforgivable on
its grounds) is the book’s androcentric register. It’s clear that Kazantzakis
was aiming for a mythical atmosphere in which larger than life characters only
act and respond according to primal impulses (not unlike Milton in Paradise Lost – a text that is even more
criminally sexist). Even so, all of the characters who are interested in
adventure, spirituality, ethics, honour, war and investment are men, while very
few of the numerous female characters show an interest in anything other than
procreation (and this they pursue with the single-minded intensity of an
existential purpose, as though losing their virginity and having a child were
their sole reason of thinking and being). This is a really annoying aspect of
the text and I wouldn’t blame many people if they were put off by this problem
alone.
The style has its moments. One defining characteristic of
OAMS is that it uses adjectives all over the place – sometimes more than one
feels is necessary. There are times when this is overbearing: you can’t really
go on reading for very long sessions when each sentence demands that you
visualise so much. But there are also some beautiful metaphors in there, all
based on the natural world and on imagery of the countryside or the sea; the
description of a tree that is bent down to the ground by a woodcutter and is
likened to the falling emerald tail of a peacock is going to be with me for a
long time.
Though this must be lost to us in translation, it’s also
worth spending a word on the lexicon of over 2,000 terms collected and employed
by Kazantzakis which come from the peasant / sailor vernacular, and which
puzzled Greek intellectuals and academics of the time as they were terms they
had never heard before. The effects that this work must have had on the Greek
language are, I expect, unquantifiable.
Ok, I get it, Judge. It’s a book that means business. But is
it worth reading? As I mentioned, it’s no easy story. The text is very dense,
and it deters casual reading (big as it is, it’s even hard to carry around!). Like
all Great Classics, it has certain passages that are very rewarding. But like
all Great Classics, the way you approach it depends on you. You can ignore it,
you can dip into it, you can read it front to back, you can plough through it
taking notes, you can just let the story flow through you. If you’re expecting
a honest sequel to that book you’ve known since forever, you’ll probably be
disappointed – this is a modern parable through and through, only loosely
connected to the original, that grows more and more distant from that tale as
the story progresses. For my own part, I am finished with it and all I need now
is some time to let my mind rest before I decide to take on another Great
Classic (there’s always one waiting…). Back to the comic books.
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