This pillar of Western literature, considered by many to be the first English novel, left me ambivalent and uncomfortable. Its antiquated mores clash with modern perspective, but not just because of quaint antiquity: Defoe’s Puritanical self-assuredness and cultural ignorance (resulting in subjugation) seem ominous in light of present-day conflicts.

Is it a fun read? Sure, most of the time. Defoe’s meticulous discussions of castaway lifestyle are captivating, if telescoped (a few paragraphs often represent years of island isolation for Crusoe). But because this is a masterful work, and does carry with it a serious message, thus passages about literal survival are interrupted by multi-page religious epiphanies as Crusoe faces his eternal survival.

Crusoe’s is a colonial white man’s world. There is not a single real female character in the entire story. Anyone not European is a savage, meant for enslavement. Defoe’s proud intolerance is not uncommon for the time, but paralleled with his relatively unsmiling Puritan tenets, it can feel downright grim. What is left unanswered for me is whether Defoe was aware of this hubris, whether it’s a trick on the reader that Crusoe is so blithely superior, that I’m the fool for not understanding that he was winking the whole time.

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Tags: 18th century, Books, british, classic, fiction, literature, reading, review

Unlike Homer, to whom I can lose long nights bound by his captivating cadence, Virgil’s Aeneid took me a full season–nearly six months–to finish. The tricks of the trade that were novel when I saw them in Homer lost some of their luster in Virgil’s derived forms, though there were some passages and stories here that provide almost universal archetypes to the lineage of western literature.

The first remarkable thing is how little has changed in Mediterranean cultures’ sense of heroicism in the many hundreds of years that elapsed between the Homeric epics and Virgil’s lifetime in the first century CE. Without an academic familiarity with Imperial Roman culture, it’s hard to determine how much of the poem’s epic content is supposed to reflect ideals that are still relevant to its contemporary audience versus how much–and knowing Romans’ captivation with the-good-old-days-had-real-heroes, we-are-only-sad-imitations, I sense that this might be closer to the mark–the glories of the past and the founding of Rome are a legacy of god-like men and endeavors that cannot or even should not be emulated.

If one were to prune out the portions of the poem that are weak echoes of Homer’s mastery, those pieces that are hackneyed homages to Caesar Augustus, and perhaps pare down some of the martial descriptiveness, one would have something very close to perfect. When Virgil allows himself to be narrative–maybe at slight expense to the propagandist tack–wonderful things happen.

Pious, predictable Aeneas is no crafty Odysseus, and besides performing the prescribed role of establishing Roman history, seems to be less dimensional than some of the epic’s other notable characters. Where Homer’s women are mostly reduced to submissive pale sketches unless deities (Athena, for example, is always inspirational no matter who writes about her), Virgil gives us a couple of plausible inspirations. Dido pulls of tragic without simpering, and even in the underworld refuses to be a doormat. Camilla is nothing short of fantastic.

But in the end, there is a lot of poring over gory and repetitive battle scenes. Important to the epic genre and the symbolic completeness of the story? Likey. But to the modern reader or at least one disinterested in military history, not terrifically relevant.

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Book #56 of 2008

Tags: Books, classic, epic, poetry, reading, review, roman

What is this story? Timeless themes tangled in archaic notions that try the patience, but then wild and rhythmic passages that would hold up against any great poet of the modern age. It’s a conundrum. At times so difficult I feared I wouldn’t be able to pound through it, at other times stealing nights away until 4 a.m., full maddening fevered reading that left me nervy and with the chants of Greek names going through my dreams.

My relationship to The Iliad is far different to my late-summer, torpid tale-spinning romance with The Odyssey. It’s full of things that sit funny with me: Achilles, the anti-heroic hero, spiteful, vengeful, unmoved; Zeus, tyrant yet yielding; Athena, a mysteriously fierce female in a time of spurned and maligned women.

The span of events is peculiar. We see neither the actions and consequences that launched the Achaean onslaught of Troy, nor do we get to hear the legends of Troy’s end (i.e. Trojan Horse) or Achilles downfall (Paris’ winged arrow to the ankle). It’s assumed we already know that.

In fact, you go in already knowing everything. The weight of fate, and the way the characters–knowing full well how things are going to come out–respond is the source of the pathos. Achilles: winding tighter in rage as his days are numbered; the gods batting at Achaeans like bored housecats though they know ultimate victory goes against Troy. Yes, the petty spats of the gods echoing out in massacre of mortals and changing tides of gruesome war. Gore and detailed guts. Rhythm. Ritual. Timelessness.

As an aside: the Fagles translation is wonderful. Recommended.

***1/2 (out of *****)

Tags: classic, classical, epic, greek, poetry