Not long ago, Elon Musk took a break from predicting civil war to offer his followers on X a book recommendation. “Can’t recommend the Iliad enough!” he tweeted. “Best as Penguin audiobook on 1.25 speed.” He accompanied this with a screenshot of the Penguin edition of The Odyssey. Erich Auerbach, thou shouldst be living at this hour.
Still, one way or another, Homer’s great poems have fulfilled the injunction to be news that stays news. Scholars of the original Greek, or partisans of Emily Wilson’s acclaimed recent verse translations, might roll their eyes at the injunction to speed-listen to an audiobook version. But one of the great virtues of myth is that it is robust to being reimagined: The Odyssey gives us Ulysses in one direction, and The Wind in the Willows or Watership Down in another.
And for practically as long as we’ve had the written word, we’ve had simplified retellings of the classical myths suitable for children and tech billionaires. Stephen Fry’s chatty and urbane but slyly erudite prose retellings fit right into this tradition. His Odyssey – which was preceded by Mythos, Heroes and Troy – brings a four-book sequence satisfyingly to a close.
Stylistically, Fry mostly eschews epic grandeur for the immediacy and relatability of modern idiom. The tone is spry rather than stately, and full of humour. Cassandra – wailing fruitlessly in the background all the way from Troy – is largely played for laughs; and when Agamemnon finally makes it home, the King of Men sounds for all the world like a red-trousered bon vivant back from the golf club after a bit too long at the 19th hole:
“Well, well, well! My darling, you grow ever more beautiful. The treasure ships are not far behind. The things you see! […] What’s that you say? A bath? Oh, my dear darling wife, there is only one thing I have been looking forward to more. And that can follow the bath, eh, eh?! Or maybe can be included in the bath, what?”
If he’d listened to Cassandra, he’d know what was included in the bath, but hey-ho.
Nor, though, does Fry altogether ignore the story’s pathos and poetry. There’s moving material about the easy love between father and sons – Odysseus is pierced at having missed out on Telemachus’s childhood – and here and there Fry’s default whimsy gives way to graver passages of writing. “A salt-caked, sun-burned, wind-scoured man lies face-down and naked on a beach. Sandflies skip on the scarred skin of his back.” Penelope, waiting on Ithaca, “strained her eyes towards the bar of haze that separated the blue of the empty sea from the blue of the empty sky”.
It’s not quite, or not only, a children’s book. The language gets fruity here and there – when Odysseus reveals himself to the suitors, he sounds positively Tarantinoesque: “He asked me who the hell I thought I was. I’ll tell you who I think I am. I think I am Odysseus of Ithaca, come back from the dead to revenge myself upon you. You fucking animals.” And the sexual violence is, if downplayed, not entirely absent (though perhaps to avoid muddying the moral clarity of the story for his younger readers, Fry omits Telemachus’s massacre of the maidservants).
There’s a lot of action in the footnotes, where Fry discusses lexicology or pronunciation, digresses on modern parallels, editorialises, or floats pet theories. He notes that Odysseus’s arrival on the Phaeacian coastline on a plank of his shattered raft may be “the first ever description of surfing in all literature”. He muses on why Hera is always “cow-eyed”, and notes that “cows (to us) are rarely imperious in aspect in the way Hera manifestly was, but perhaps this is a failure of observation on our part”. He argues, with reference to Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies and the name of the island Cos, that the lotus eaters are actually munching lettuce. He has Athena accusing Zeus of planning to “usher in an age without treaties, promises, honour or law”, and adds in a glum footnote: “A plan that finally has come into being in every detail it would seem … ”
This is a book with a theory, too. It completes a historic arc that has taken us from gods and titans, through demigod heroes, to the deeds of mortals in whose affairs the gods meddle freely – and it points to an era in which men, in a substantially disenchanted world, will find their own way. The trial of Orestes, in Fry’s account, is something like the thematic heart of the book. In it, Princess Erigone argues for “a new order” where “we are to reconstitute the world according to reason and sense, rather than impulse and bloodlust”, and the wise Athena “is the only god we need”. How’s that working out? Ask Elon Musk, I guess.
