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I mentioned that I've been reading a lot this year, and I've been keeping track in the back of my planner, where I wanted to record the games I officiated this past season, but ... well, you know.
I've been interested in radical retellings of ancient stories since I read The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley last year, which is the story of Beowulf told from the perspective of Grendel's mother. Grendel, you may recall, is the monster who kills the Danes in their mead-hall, Heorot, and Beowulf is the one who comes to rescue them and slay the monster (and nails his arm above the door). Mom, who never gets a name in the text, gets revenge and kills Beowulf as he kills her.
The Mere Wife reimagines it in a modern-day setting. Heorot Hall is a gated suburban community in a forested area beside a mountain. Grendel's mother is an Iraq War vet with PTSD, and she takes Grendel up to the cave where her ancestors came from, which is linked to the town through history. Beowulf is a cop.
About a month ago, Headley published a new translation of Beowulf that uses modern idiom (which would make many purists cringe) but keeps a lot of the old Germanic elements: alliteration, kennings (whale-road for sea, for example), verse form. I bought it the day it came out and truly enjoyed it (and got a friend to buy the audiobook on the strength of my recommendation).
A week or so after the publication, Headley was on a discussion about radical translations with Emily Wilson, whose translation of the Odyssey made waves a few years ago, and Madeline Miller, a classicist who writes retellings of the classics from minor characters' perspective. In this discussion, several titles were recommended.
Margaret Atwood's Penelopiad, which is probably more a novella than a novel, tells the Odyssey from Odysseus' wife's perspective, with the 12 servant girls who were hanged serving as the Greek chorus. Odysseus is not the most reliable narrator, and Atwood includes rumors that he's off at a brothel, and other things, from the bards. The part that sticks out most strongly in my memory is in one of the Chorus sections that's set up as a trial (I think it was in this part, anyway) is Iphigenia, Agamemnon's daughter, rage-crying "They told me I was going to my wedding. I was fourteen."
Miller's Song of Achilles was something I'd heard of, probably via tumblr, but never really thought about, but she was so interesting on this panel, and the attendees raved about it, so I borrowed an ebook copy from my new local library. It's the legend of Achilles, as it says on the tin, told by Patroclus, his closest companion and best beloved. Patroclus doesn't appear much in the Iliad, himself, except at the end, when Hector kills him and Achilles makes the river run red with Trojan blood and then kills Hector and drags his body around the city repeatedly.
Scholars (mostly male, of course) have traditionally interpreted this as "friendship" and "very close friends." More recently, scholars (younger, female, queer) have raised a collective eyebrow at this "just bros being pals" interpretation, because, well, you don't get super-mega revenge for your ~friend~, but you will for your lover.
So, anyway, Miller's novel focuses on the special relationship between the two boys, who grow into men, and the way she writes Patroclus and his emotions about Achilles is achingly beautiful. And knowing, as we do, how their story ends makes so many things devastatingly heartbreaking. I highly recommend it!
I've been interested in radical retellings of ancient stories since I read The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley last year, which is the story of Beowulf told from the perspective of Grendel's mother. Grendel, you may recall, is the monster who kills the Danes in their mead-hall, Heorot, and Beowulf is the one who comes to rescue them and slay the monster (and nails his arm above the door). Mom, who never gets a name in the text, gets revenge and kills Beowulf as he kills her.
The Mere Wife reimagines it in a modern-day setting. Heorot Hall is a gated suburban community in a forested area beside a mountain. Grendel's mother is an Iraq War vet with PTSD, and she takes Grendel up to the cave where her ancestors came from, which is linked to the town through history. Beowulf is a cop.
About a month ago, Headley published a new translation of Beowulf that uses modern idiom (which would make many purists cringe) but keeps a lot of the old Germanic elements: alliteration, kennings (whale-road for sea, for example), verse form. I bought it the day it came out and truly enjoyed it (and got a friend to buy the audiobook on the strength of my recommendation).
A week or so after the publication, Headley was on a discussion about radical translations with Emily Wilson, whose translation of the Odyssey made waves a few years ago, and Madeline Miller, a classicist who writes retellings of the classics from minor characters' perspective. In this discussion, several titles were recommended.
Margaret Atwood's Penelopiad, which is probably more a novella than a novel, tells the Odyssey from Odysseus' wife's perspective, with the 12 servant girls who were hanged serving as the Greek chorus. Odysseus is not the most reliable narrator, and Atwood includes rumors that he's off at a brothel, and other things, from the bards. The part that sticks out most strongly in my memory is in one of the Chorus sections that's set up as a trial (I think it was in this part, anyway) is Iphigenia, Agamemnon's daughter, rage-crying "They told me I was going to my wedding. I was fourteen."
Miller's Song of Achilles was something I'd heard of, probably via tumblr, but never really thought about, but she was so interesting on this panel, and the attendees raved about it, so I borrowed an ebook copy from my new local library. It's the legend of Achilles, as it says on the tin, told by Patroclus, his closest companion and best beloved. Patroclus doesn't appear much in the Iliad, himself, except at the end, when Hector kills him and Achilles makes the river run red with Trojan blood and then kills Hector and drags his body around the city repeatedly.
Scholars (mostly male, of course) have traditionally interpreted this as "friendship" and "very close friends." More recently, scholars (younger, female, queer) have raised a collective eyebrow at this "just bros being pals" interpretation, because, well, you don't get super-mega revenge for your ~friend~, but you will for your lover.
So, anyway, Miller's novel focuses on the special relationship between the two boys, who grow into men, and the way she writes Patroclus and his emotions about Achilles is achingly beautiful. And knowing, as we do, how their story ends makes so many things devastatingly heartbreaking. I highly recommend it!
