I can’t recall what whim recently drew me to the shelves holding those dusty volumes accumulated long ago during my undergraduate days, or, for that matter, to my small collection of Greek classics. I recall even less my first reading of them, except that I likely skimmed through the words in a young man’s hurry to get on to the next thing. First, I pulled down The Peloponnesian War, the coining of the historical-writing method by Thucydides that traces events leading up to the fall of
Part of the reading tedium had to do with the near-constant recitation of names, generally augmented by their paterfamilias, of major and seemingly minor players in the decades-long drama between forces allied with
Homer often sings praises to the father’s exploits, even as he describes the difficulties facing a scion on the grand stage of the Trojan War. Readers come to the realization that each actor in this drama is carrying forward a heroic tradition and, by association, is expected to ext/files/storyimages/the honor of his ancestors.
Imagine for a moment what might have happened had we referred early and often to our current leader as “George, son of George the First, he of the prudent foreign policy.” What might be the result of identifying our vice president as “Dick, son of Richard H., agent for the conservation of soil”? Would her actions differ if we heard repeatedly of “Condoleeza, daughter of Angelena, teacher of schoolchildren and descended of slaves”?
This web of interconnected identity expands in The Iliad to the enemy. Spears, javelins and swords in hand, Greek and Trojan warriors call out the titles of opponents as they seek victory or vengeance in battle. The gods and goddesses, too, are lineage-traced and linked to actions of the past. It’s a war where everyone knows your name.
What we have today is a culture — and a world stage — where the players can make themselves impersonal. We’re sending faceless soldiers into
There’s something self-centered about taking the stage without regard for those who walked it before us or those who walk it with us. Free of these links, we can act seemingly anonymously and minus the burden of true consequences. We can order others into war when we would never go ourselves. We can consume high quantities of energy while ignoring our ailing planet. We can purchase products that save us money but fail to provide a living wage to those in underdeveloped countries who make them for us.
Fate plays a major role in The Iliad, but the preordained drives few decisions. Everyone is responsible for his or her actions — not years down the road when the memoirs and apologies get published, but in the moment with a speech before compatriots.
My Thucydides is such a dated paperback that pages came unglued from the binding as I turned them. The Homer is hanging together; it’s the Richmond Lattimore 1951 translation, with archaic spellings (repeated here) and timeless poetry. Now, in Book Fifteen, the Greeks are rallying, with the help of Poseidon. But a definitive battle hangs in the balance, with Hektor and the Trojans near their goal of torching their enemy’s ships and routing Agamemnon’s forces. Brilliant Achilleus sits on the sidelines, still peeved at Agamemnon for taking his captive mistress, Briseis, after the king gave up his own mistress in atonement to the god Apollo.
The fate of the Greeks rests with Achilleus, son of Peleus and of Thetis, a nymph of the sea given by the gods in marriage to Peleus.
To whom does our fate fall? Will someone’s son or daughter, in open forum, rally us to higher purposes? We await our Achilleus, but we must also move closer, become connected and listen for the words that move hearts.
