all kinds of writing

 
 
 
 
 
 
My first holiday with Jane, in the late 70s, happened also to be my first visit to Greece, to the island of Kos, so I decided to take something very special and appropriate for the setting. It was my rather battered copy of the Penguin Odyssey in the famous translation by E.V.Rieu, co-founder of Penguin Classics. Our friend Robert, who’d been there the year before, suggested we take a bus to Kardamena, find Sylvia’s bar, and ask her if she or a friend had a room. Within twenty minutes of arriving in the little fishing village we had moved into a nice sized room over-looking the port and were sitting in a cafe drinking ouzo. In our two weeks there we met possibly no more than a couple of dozen foreign sun-worshippers. (When we returned 10 years or so later, we found the place full of Sun-readers). On that first visit, we were delighted to find everyone friendly and hospitable. Sadly, things had changed second time round. Many Greeks were, indeed, pleased that I was making a serious effort to speak their language; but in one food store, when I was, in fairly slow Greek, asking about what was available, the owner snapped, in English, ‘I don’t have time to talk Greek to you!’ Fittingly, the constant theme in the Odyssey is that of hospitality, or its converse. In its most endearing form, we have the loving care given to the naked, storm-battered Odysseus by the delightful princess Nausicaa and her handmaidens, followed by the lavish and patient attentions given to the stranger by her father Alcinous, king of the Phaecians. Later, Odysseus, reunited with his wife Penelope, describes how he arrived, after a disastrous voyage, at Scherie, where the Phaeacians honoured him in their hearts like a god and sent him home by ship with generous gifts of bronze and gold and clothes. By contrast we read how the one-eyed Cyclops Polyphemus dealt with visitors to his island.  ‘”Strangers!” he cried. “And who are you? Where do you come from over the watery ways? Is yours a trading venture; or are you cruising the main on chance, like roving pirates, who risk their lives to ruin other people?” ‘Our hearts sank. The booming voice and the very sight of the monster filled us with panic. Still, I managed to find words to answer him. “We are Achaeans,” I said, “on our way back from Troy – driven astray by contrary winds across a vast expanse of sea – we’re making our way home but took the wrong way – the wrong route – as Zeus, I suppose, intended that we should.” Odysseus does his best to remind him of how a host should behave. “We find ourselves here as suppliants at your knees, in the hope that you may give us hospitality, or even give us the kind of gifts that hosts customarily give their guests. Good sir, remember your duty to the gods; we are your suppliants, and Zeus is the champion of suppliants and guests. He is the god of guests: guests are sacred to him, and he goes alongside them.” ‘That is what I said, and he answered me promptly out of his pitiless heart: “Stranger, you must be a fool, or must have come from very far afield, to order me to fear or reverence the gods. We Cyclops care nothing for Zeus with his aegis, nor for the rest of the blessed gods, since we are much stronger than they are. I would never spare you or your men for fear of incurring Zeus’ enmity, unless I felt like it. But tell me where you moored your good ship when you came. Was it somewhere along the coast, or nearby? I’d like to know.” ‘His words were designed to get the better of me, but he could not outwit someone with my knowledge of the world. I answered with plausible words: “As for my ship, it was wrecked by the Earthshaker Poseidon on the borders of your land. The wind had carried us on to a lee shore. He drove the ship up to a headland and hurled it on the rocks. But I and my friends here managed t o escape with our lives.” ‘To this the cruel brute made no reply. Instead, he jumped up, and reaching out towards my men, seized a couple and dashed their heads against the floor as though they had been puppies. Their brains ran out on the ground and soaked the earth. Limb by limb he tore them to pieces to make his meal, which he devoured like a mountain lion, leaving nothing, neither entrails nor flesh, marrow nor bones, while we, weeping, lifted up our hands to Zeus in horror at the ghastly sight. We felt completely helpless. When the Cyclops had filled his great belly with this meal of human flesh, which he washed down with unwatered milk, he stretched himself out for sleep among his flocks inside his cave. Odysseus manages to escape from the Cyclops, and eventually reaches his homeland of Ithaca, where he discovers that the suitors for the hand of his presumed widow, Penelope, have been abusing her hospitality, gorging on food and wine and making free with the maidservants. The goddess Athene, Odysseus’ patron, comes to the palace in the guise of a young man and discovers the insolent Suitors sitting in front of the door on hides of oxen they themselves had slaughtered, playing with counters; their squires and pages were busy round them, some blending wine and water in the mixing-bowls, and others carving meat in lavish portions and wiping down the tables with sponges before they set them ready. The only person who treats her with respect is Telemachus, the son of Odysseus and Penelope, who was sitting disconsolate among the Suitors, imagining how his noble father might come back out of the blue, drive the Suitors headlong from the house, and so regain his royal honours, and reign over his own once more. Full of these visions he caught sight of Athene and set off at once for the porch, ashamed that a stranger should be kept standing at the gates. He went straight up to his visitor, grasping his right hand, took his bronze spear and gave him cordial greetings. Welcome, my friend! he said. You can tell us what has brought you here when you have had some food. How Odysseus and Telemachus dealt with the suitors is something you will have to find out for yourselves. Reading it aloud on that first holiday, I managed to finish it on the final full day of the fortnight. And years later, on the island of Cephalonia, I re-read it, again aloud, but this time - from our balcony - we could see over to Ithaca itself, which made the story even more magical. It may well have been that very year that Louis de Bernieres visited Cephalonia, gathering material for his Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, another recommended read if you are staying on a Greek island. But I still think that nothing can equal the Odyssey.

Holiday reading (1): the Greek islands

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

 
 
Made on a Mac
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