poem stresses the pictorial elements of the painting, trying to capture the scene while sneaking in the
thematic elements. Even his arrangement of the poem on the page, narrow and highly vertical, recalls
the body plummeting from the sky. Auden’s poem, on the other hand, is a meditation on the private
nature of suffering and the way in which the larger world takes no interest in our private disasters. It
is astonishing and pleasing to discover that the painting can occasion these two very different
responses. Beyond them, readers find their own messages in all this. As someone who was a teenager
in the sixties, I am reminded by the fate of Icarus of all those kids who bought muscle cars with names
like Mustang and Firebird and Charger and Barracuda. All the driver education and solid parental
advice in the world can’t overcome the allure of that kind of power, and sadly, in too many cases
those young drivers shared the fate of Icarus. My students, somewhat younger than I am, will
inevitably draw other parallels. Still, it all goes back to the myth: the boy, the wings, the unscheduled
dive.
So that’s one way classical myth can work: overt subject matter for poems and paintings and
operas and novels. What else can myth do?
Here’s a thought. Let’s say you wanted to write an epic poem about a community of poor fishermen
in the Caribbean. If this was a place you came from, and you knew these people like you know your
own family, you’d want to depict the jealousies and resentments and adventure and danger, as well as
capturing their dignity and their life in a way that conveys all that has escaped the notice of tourists
and white property owners. You could, I suppose, try being really, really earnest, portraying the
characters as very serious and sober, making them noble by virtue of their goodness. But I bet that
wouldn’t work. What you’d wind up with instead would probably be very stiff and artificial, and
artificiality is never noble. Besides, these folks aren’t saints. They make a lot of mistakes: they’re
petty, envious, lustful, occasionally greedy as well as courageous, elegant, powerful, knowledgeable,
profound. And you want noble, after all, not Tonto—there’s no Lone Ranger here. Alternatively, you
might try grafting their story onto some older story of rivalry and violence, a story where even the
victor is ultimately doomed, a story where, despite occasional personal shortcomings, the characters
have an unmistakable nobility. You could give your characters names like Helen, Philoctetes, Hector,
and Achille. At least that’s what Nobel Prize winner Derek Walcott does in his Omeros (1990).
Those names are drawn, of course, from The Iliad, although Walcott uses elements—parallels,
persons, and situations—of both it and The Odyssey in his epic.
The question we will inevitably ask is, Why?
Why should someone in the late twentieth century draw on a story that was passed along orally
from the twelfth through the eighth century
b
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c
. and not written down until maybe two or three hundred
years later? Why should someone try to compare modern fishermen with these legendary heroes,
many of whom were descended from gods? Well for starters, Homer’s legendary heroes were farmers
and fishermen. Besides, aren’t we all descended from gods? Walcott reminds us by this parallel of
the potential for greatness that resides in all of us, no matter how humble our worldly circumstances.
That’s one answer. The other is that the situations match up more closely than we might expect. The
plot of The Iliad is not particularly divine or global. Those who have never read it assume mistakenly
that it is the story of the Trojan War. It is not. It is the story of a single, rather lengthy action: the wrath
of Achilles (a mere fifty-three days out of ten years). Achilles becomes angry with his leader,
Agamemnon, withdraws his support from the Greeks, only rejoining the battle when the consequences
of his action have destroyed his best friend, Patroclus. At this point he turns his wrath against the
Trojans and in particular their greatest hero, Hector, whom he eventually kills. His reason for such
anger? Agamemnon has taken his war prize. Trivial? It gets worse. The prize is a woman.
Agamemnon, forced by divine order and by public sentiment to return his concubine to her father,
retaliates against the person who most publicly sided against him, Achilles, by taking his concubine,
Briseis. Is that petty enough? Is that noble? No Helen, no judgment of Paris, no Trojan horse. At its
core, it’s the story of a man who goes berserk because his stolen war bride is confiscated, acted out
against a background of wholesale slaughter, the whole of which is taking place because another man,
Menelaus (brother of Agamemnon) has had his wife stolen by Paris, half brother of Hector. That’s
how Hector winds up having to carry the hopes for salvation of all Troy on his shoulders.
And yet somehow, through the centuries, this story dominated by the theft of two women has come
to epitomize ideals of heroism and loyalty, sacrifice and loss. Hector is more stubbornly heroic in his
doomed enterprise than anyone you’ve ever seen. Achilles’ grief at the loss of his beloved friend is
truly heartbreaking. The big duels—between Hector and Ajax, between Diomedes and Paris, between
Hector and Patroclus, between Hector and Achilles—are genuinely exciting and suspenseful, their
outcomes sources of grand celebration and dismay. No wonder so many modern writers have often
borrowed from and emulated Homer.
And when did that begin?
Almost immediately. Virgil, who died in 19
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., patterned his Aeneas on the Homeric heroes. If
Achilles did it or Odysseus went there, so does Aeneas. Why? It’s what heroes do. Aeneas goes to
the underworld. Why? Odysseus went there. He kills a giant from the enemy camp in a final climactic
battle. Why? Achilles did. And so on. The whole thing is less derivative than it sounds and not
without humor and irony. Aeneas and his followers are survivors of Troy, so here we have this
Trojan hero acting out the patterns set down by his enemies. Moreover, when these Trojans sail past
Ithaca, home to Odysseus, they jeer and curse the agent of their destruction. On the whole, though,
Virgil has him undertake these actions because Homer had already defined what it means to be a hero.
Back to Walcott. Almost exactly two thousand years after Virgil, Walcott has his heroes perform
actions that we can recognize as symbolic reenactments of those in Homer. Sometimes it’s a bit of a
stretch, since we can’t have a lot of battlefield duels out in the fishing boats. Nor can he call his
Helen “the face that launched a thousand dinghies.” Lacks grandeur, that phrase. What he can do,
though, is place them in situations where their nobility and their courage are put to the test, while
reminding us that they are acting out some of the most basic, most primal patterns known to humans,
exactly as Homer did all those centuries before. The need to protect one’s family: Hector. The need
to maintain one’s dignity: Achilles. The determination to remain faithful and to have faith: Penelope.
The struggle to return home: Odysseus. Homer gives us four great struggles of the human being: with
nature, with the divine, with other humans, and with ourselves. What is there, after all, against which
we need to prove ourselves but those four things?
In our modern world, of course, parallels may be ironized, that is, turned on their head for
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