Odyscenes: The Twelve Best Bits of the Odyssey

Edmund Stewart

Why watch a film adaptation when you can read the original poem? If the appearance of Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey has led you back to Homer, here’s an anthology of the twelve best bits that really should be in any self-respecting film.

1) Calypso’s Island (5.55–75)

Homer’s brilliance in the Odyssey is shown in particular through his descriptions of beautiful places that make any reader long to be transported there. In this passage the god Hermes takes in the wonders of Calypso’s far-flung island and, even though a god, feels delight in all he sees:^[1]All translations are taken from Robert Fagles’s version (Viking, London, 1996).

But once he gained that island worlds apart,

up from the deep-blue sea he climbed to dry land

and strode on till he reached the spacious cave

where the nymph with lovely braids had made her home,

and he found her there inside …

A great fire

blazed on the hearth and the smell of cedar

cleanly split and sweetwood burning bright

wafted a cloud of fragrance down the island.

Deep inside she sang, the goddess Calypso, lifting

her breathtaking voice as she glided back and forth

before her loom, her golden shuttle weaving.

Thick, luxuriant woods grew round the cave,

alders and black poplars, pungent cypress too,

and there birds roosted, folding their long wings,

owls and hawks and the spread-beaked ravens of the sea,

black skimmers who make their living off the waves.

And round the mouth of the cavern trailed a vine

laden with clusters, bursting with ripe grapes.

Four springs in a row, bubbling clear and cold,

running side-by-side, took channels left and right.

Soft meadows spreading round were starred with violets,

lush with beds of parsley. Why, even a deathless god

who came upon that place would gaze in wonder,

heart entranced with pleasure. Hermes the guide,

the mighty giant-killer, stood there, spellbound …

 

ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ τὴν νῆσον ἀφίκετο τηλόθ’ ἐοῦσαν,

ἔνθ’ ἐκ πόντου βὰς ἰοειδέος ἤπειρόνδε

ἤϊεν, ὄφρα μέγα σπέος ἵκετο, τῷ ἔνι νύμφη

ναῖεν ἐϋπλόκαμος· τὴν δ’ ἔνδοθι τέτμεν ἐοῦσαν.

πῦρ μὲν ἐπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν μέγα καίετο, τηλόσε δ’ ὀδμὴ

κέδρου τ’ εὐκεάτοιο θύου τ’ ἀνὰ νῆσον ὀδώδει

δαιομένων· ἡ δ’ ἔνδον ἀοιδιάουσ’ ὀπὶ καλῇ

ἱστὸν ἐποιχομένη χρυσείῃ κερκίδ’ ὕφαινεν.

ὕλη δὲ σπέος ἀμφὶ πεφύκει τηλεθόωσα,

κλήθρη τ’ αἴγειρός τε καὶ εὐώδης κυπάρισσος.

ἔνθα δέ τ’ ὄρνιθες τανυσίπτεροι εὐνάζοντο,

σκῶπές τ’ ἴρηκές τε τανύγλωσσοί τε κορῶναι

εἰνάλιαι, τῇσίν τε θαλάσσια ἔργα μέμηλεν.

ἡ δ’ αὐτοῦ τετάνυστο περὶ σπείους γλαφυροῖο

ἡμερὶς ἡβώωσα, τεθήλει δὲ σταφυλῇσι.

κρῆναι δ’ ἑξείης πίσυρες ῥέον ὕδατι λευκῷ,

πλησίαι ἀλλήλων τετραμμέναι ἄλλυδις ἄλλη.

ἀμφὶ δὲ λειμῶνες μαλακοὶ ἴου ἠδὲ σελίνου

θήλεον. ἔνθα κ’ ἔπειτα καὶ ἀθάνατός περ ἐπελθὼν

θηήσαιτο ἰδὼν καὶ τερφθείη φρεσὶν ᾗσιν.

2) Nausicaa stands firm before Odysseus (6.135–41)

The island of the Phaeacians is (like that of Calypso) a haven of peace and beauty at the far edge of the world, but (unlike Calypso’s island) it is not a trap or a prison. Odysseus has just been shipwrecked, but the play of the princess Nausicaa and her maidens awakens him. His terrifying and wild appearance is masterfully contrasted with the previously carefree life of these young girls. He desperately needs help, yet frightens off the very people who might help him. In a moment of drama, Nausicaa shows exceptional courage (with the aid of Athena) in standing her ground and responding to Odysseus’ call for help:

So Odysseus moved out …

about to mingle with all those lovely girls,

naked now as he was, for the need drove him on,

a terrible sight, all crusted, caked with brine—

they scattered in panic down the jutting beaches.

Only Alcinous’ daughter held fast, for Athena planted

courage within her heart, dissolved the trembling in her limbs,

and she firmly stood her ground and faced Odysseus.

           

ὣς Ὀδυσεὺς κούρῃσιν ἐϋπλοκάμοισιν ἔμελλε 

μείξεσθαι, γυμνός περ ἐών· χρειὼ γὰρ ἵκανε.

σμερδαλέος δ’ αὐτῇσι φάνη κεκακωμένος ἅλμῃ,

τρέσσαν δ’ ἄλλυδις ἄλλη ἐπ’ ἠϊόνας προὐχούσας.

οἴη δ’ Ἀλκινόου θυγάτηρ μένε· τῇ γὰρ Ἀθήνη

θάρσος ἐνὶ φρεσὶ θῆκε καὶ ἐκ δέος εἵλετο γυίων.  

στῆ δ’ ἄντα σχομένη.

(Neither Nausicaa nor any Phaeacian appears in Nolan’s Odyssey.)

3) Odysseus wins the contest (8.186–200)

As a wily and careful hero, Odyssey generally hides his true nature (with or without disguises). But some of the most exciting parts of the epic come when he reveals himself and shows his concealed power. Here the taunting of the rude youth Euryalus stings him into joining in the games of the Phaeacians – and he wins. Though he does not know it, Athena (also in disguise) is secretly cheering him on:

Up he sprang, cloak and all, and seized a discus,

huge and heavy, more weighty by far than those

the Phaeacians used to hurl and test each other.

Wheeling round, he let loose with his great hand

and the stone whirred on—and down to ground they went,

those lords of the long oars and master mariners cringing

under the rock’s onrush, soaring lightly out of his grip,

flying away past all the other marks, and Queen Athena,

built like a man, staked out the spot and cried

with a voice of triumph, “Even a blind man,

friend, could find your mark by groping round—

it’s not mixed up in the crowd, it’s far in front!

There’s nothing to fear in this event—

no one can touch you, much less beat your distance!”

At that the heart of the long-suffering hero laughed,

so glad to find a ready friend in the crowd.

 

ἦ ῥα, καὶ αὐτῷ φάρει ἀναΐξας λάβε δίσκον

μείζονα καὶ πάχετον, στιβαρώτερον οὐκ ὀλίγον περ

ἢ οἵῳ Φαίηκες ἐδίσκεον ἀλλήλοισι.

τόν ῥα περιστρέψας ἧκε στιβαρῆς ἀπὸ χειρός·

βόμβησεν δὲ λίθος· κατὰ δ’ ἔπτηξαν ποτὶ γαίῃ

Φαίηκες δολιχήρετμοι, ναυσικλυτοὶ ἄνδρες,

λᾶος ὑπὸ ῥιπῆς· ὁ δ’ ὑπέρπτατο σήματα πάντων,

ῥίμφα θέων ἀπὸ χειρός· ἔθηκε δὲ τέρματ’ Ἀθήνη

ἀνδρὶ δέμας εἰκυῖα, ἔπος τ’ ἔφατ’ ἔκ τ’ ὀνόμαζε·

“καί κ’ ἀλαός τοι, ξεῖνε, διακρίνειε τὸ σῆμα

ἀμφαφόων, ἐπεὶ οὔ τι μεμιγμένον ἐστὶν ὁμίλῳ,

ἀλλὰ πολὺ πρῶτον. σὺ δὲ θάρσει τόνδε γ’ ἄεθλον·

οὔ τις Φαιήκων τόν γ’ ἵξεται οὐδ’ ὑπερήσει.”

ὣς φάτο, γήθησεν δὲ πολύτλας δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς,

χαίρων οὕνεχ’ ἑταῖρον ἐνηέα λεῦσσ’ ἐν ἀγῶνι.

4) Nausicaa meets Odysseus again (8.457–62)

The relationship between Odysseus and Nausicaa is exceptionally tender. Odysseus is no longer the wild man she first met on the beach. She knows, and perhaps hopes, that this handsome stranger might stay in Scheria and marry her; in fact, this outcome might seem the perfect end to Odysseus’ wayward wanderings. But her hope proves vain, as Odysseus remains set on reaching home:

And there stood Nausicaa as he passed. Beside a column

that propped the sturdy roof she paused, endowed

by the gods with all her beauty, gazing at

Odysseus right before her eyes. Wonderstruck,

she hailed her guest with a winning flight of words:

“Farewell, my friend! And when you are at home,

home in your own land, remember me at times.

Mainly to me you owe the gift of life.”

 

Ναυσικάα δὲ θεῶν ἄπο κάλλος ἔχουσα

στῆ ῥα παρὰ σταθμὸν τέγεος πύκα ποιητοῖο,

θαύμαζεν δ’ Ὀδυσῆα ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶσα

καί μιν φωνήσασ’ ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·

“χαῖρε, ξεῖν’, ἵνα καί ποτ’ ἐὼν ἐν πατρίδι γαίῃ

μνήσῃ ἐμεῖ’, ὅτι μοι πρώτῃ ζωάγρι’ ὀφέλλεις.”

5) Odysseus and the Cyclops (9.360–74)

The adventure with the Cyclops is undoubtedly one of the most exciting parts of the epic. Here the Cyclops Polyphemus is drinking the wine that will soon make him lose his senses. In return, he offers a guest gift in return for this present: he will eat Odysseus last!

I poured him another fiery bowl—

three bowls I brimmed and three he drank to the last drop,

the fool, and then, when the wine was swirling round his brain,

I approached my host with a cordial, winning word:

“So, you ask me the name I’m known by, Cyclops?

I will tell you. But you must give me a guest-gift

as you’ve promised. Nobody—that’s my name. Nobody—

so my mother and father call me, all my friends.”

But he boomed back at me from his ruthless heart,

“Nobody? I’ll eat Nobody last of all his friends—

I’ll eat the others first! That’s my gift to you!”

With that

he toppled over, sprawled full-length, flat on his back

and lay there, his massive neck slumping to one side,

and sleep that conquers all overwhelmed him now

as wine came spurting, flooding up from his gullet

with chunks of human flesh—he vomited, blind drunk.

 

αὐτάρ οἱ αὖτις ἐγὼ πόρον αἴθοπα οἶνον·

τρὶς μὲν ἔδωκα φέρων, τρὶς δ’ ἔκπιεν ἀφραδίῃσιν.

αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ Κύκλωπα περὶ φρένας ἤλυθεν οἶνος,

καὶ τότε δή μιν ἔπεσσι προσηύδων μειλιχίοισι·

“Κύκλωψ, εἰρωτᾷς μ’ ὄνομα κλυτόν; αὐτὰρ ἐγώ τοι

ἐξερέω· σὺ δέ μοι δὸς ξείνιον, ὥς περ ὑπέστης.

Οὖτις ἐμοί γ’ ὄνομα· Οὖτιν δέ με κικλήσκουσι

μήτηρ ἠδὲ πατὴρ ἠδ’ ἄλλοι πάντες ἑταῖροι.”

ὣς ἐφάμην, ὁ δέ μ’ αὐτίκ’ ἀμείβετο νηλέϊ θυμῷ·

“Οὖτιν ἐγὼ πύματον ἔδομαι μετὰ οἷσ’ ἑτάροισι,

τοὺς δ’ ἄλλους πρόσθεν· τὸ δέ τοι ξεινήϊον ἔσται.”

ἦ, καὶ ἀνακλινθεὶς πέσεν ὕπτιος, αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα

κεῖτ’ ἀποδοχμώσας παχὺν αὐχένα, κὰδ δέ μιν ὕπνος

ᾕρει πανδαμάτωρ· φάρυγος δ’ ἐξέσσυτο οἶνος

ψωμοί τ’ ἀνδρόμεοι· ὁ δ’ ἐρεύγετο οἰνοβαρείων.

6) The blinding of the Cyclops (9.382–94)

This amazing Homeric simile speaks for itself. The violence entailed in gouging out the monster’s single great eye is evoked in brilliant and unforgettable terms:

Hoisting high that olive stake with its stabbing point,

straight into the monster’s eye they rammed it hard—

I drove my weight on it from above and bored it home

as a shipwright bores his beam with a shipwright’s drill

that men below, whipping the strap back and forth, whirl

and the drill keeps twisting faster, never stopping—

So we seized our stake with its fiery tip

and bored it round and round in the giant’s eye

till blood came boiling up around that smoking shaft

and the hot blast singed his brow and eyelids round the core

and the broiling eyeball burst—

its crackling roots blazed

and hissed—

as a blacksmith plunges a glowing ax or adze

in an ice-cold bath and the metal screeches steam

and its temper hardens—that’s the iron’s strength—

so the eye of the Cyclops sizzled round that stake!

 

οἱ μὲν μοχλὸν ἑλόντες ἐλάϊνον, ὀξὺν ἐπ’ ἄκρῳ,

ὀφθαλμῷ ἐνέρεισαν· ἐγὼ δ’ ἐφύπερθεν ἐρεισθεὶς

δίνεον, ὡς ὅτε τις τρυπᾷ δόρυ νήϊον ἀνὴρ

τρυπάνῳ, οἱ δέ τ’ ἔνερθεν ὑποσσείουσιν ἱμάντι

ἁψάμενοι ἑκάτερθε, τὸ δὲ τρέχει ἐμμενὲς αἰεί·

ὣς τοῦ ἐν ὀφθαλμῷ πυριήκεα μοχλὸν ἑλόντες

δινέομεν, τὸν δ’ αἷμα περίρρεε θερμὸν ἐόντα.

πάντα δέ οἱ βλέφαρ’ ἀμφὶ καὶ ὀφρύας εὗσεν ἀϋτμὴ

γλήνης καιομένης· σφαραγεῦντο δέ οἱ πυρὶ ῥίζαι.

ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἀνὴρ χαλκεὺς πέλεκυν μέγαν ἠὲ σκέπαρνον

εἰν ὕδατι ψυχρῷ βάπτῃ μεγάλα ἰάχοντα

φαρμάσσων· τὸ γὰρ αὖτε σιδήρου γε κράτος ἐστίν·

ὣς τοῦ σίζ’ ὀφθαλμὸς ἐλαϊνέῳ περὶ μοχλῷ.

7) Odysseus confronts Circe (10.310–22)

Equally thrilling is Odysseus’ run in with the enchantress Circe, who has transformed Odysseus’ companions into pigs. Here she is not so successful, thanks to a prior intervention by the god Hermes:

I stood and shouted to her there. She heard my voice,

she opened the gleaming doors at once and stepped forth,

inviting me in, and in I went, all anguish now …

She led me in to sit on a silver-studded chair,

ornately carved, with a stool to rest my feet.

In a golden bowl she mixed a potion for me to drink,

stirring her poison in, her heart aswirl with evil.

And then she passed it on, I drank it down

but it never worked its spell—

she struck with her wand and “Now,” she cried,

“off to your sty, you swine, and wallow with your friends!”

But I, I drew my sharp sword sheathed at my hip

and rushed her fast as if to run her through—

 

ἔστην δ’ εἰνὶ θύρῃσι θεᾶς καλλιπλοκάμοιο·

ἔνθα στὰς ἐβόησα, θεὰ δέ μευ ἔκλυεν αὐδῆς.

ἡ δ’ αἶψ’ ἐξελθοῦσα θύρας ὤϊξε φαεινὰς

καὶ κάλει· αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ἑπόμην ἀκαχήμενος ἦτορ.

εἷσε δέ μ’ εἰσαγαγοῦσα ἐπὶ θρόνου ἀργυροήλου,

[καλοῦ δαιδαλέου· ὑπὸ δὲ θρῆνυς ποσὶν ἦεν·]

τεῦχε δέ μοι κυκεῶ χρυσέῳ δέπᾳ, ὄφρα πίοιμι,

ἐν δέ τε φάρμακον ἧκε, κακὰ φρονέουσ’ ἐνὶ θυμῷ.

αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δῶκέν τε καὶ ἔκπιον οὐδέ μ’ ἔθελξε,

ῥάβδῳ πεπληγυῖα ἔπος τ’ ἔφατ’ ἔκ τ’ ὀνόμαζεν·

“ἔρχεο νῦν συφεόνδε, μετ’ ἄλλων λέξο ἑταίρων.”

ὣς φάτ’, ἐγὼ δ’ ἄορ ὀξὺ ἐρυσσάμενος παρὰ μηροῦ

Κίρκῃ ἐπήϊξα ὥς τε κτάμεναι μενεαίνων.

8) Only his dog, Argos, recognises the returning Odysseus (17.296–304)

This is the ultimate scene for dog-lovers. Odysseus has finally returned home to Ithaca in disguise; no-one knows him, his house is overrun with enemies and he has to hide and skulk as a beggar. But his neglected old hound picks up a familiar scent:

But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway,

on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting

out before the gates till Odysseus’ serving-men

could cart it off to manure the king’s estates.

Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect,

here lay the hound, old Argos.

But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by

he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped,

though he had no strength to drag himself an inch

toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side

and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus …

 

δὴ τότε κεῖτ’ ἀπόθεστος ἀποιχομένοιο ἄνακτος

ἐν πολλῇ κόπρῳ, ἥ οἱ προπάροιθε θυράων

ἡμιόνων τε βοῶν τε ἅλις κέχυτ’, ὄφρ’ ἂν ἄγοιεν

δμῶες Ὀδυσσῆος τέμενος μέγα κοπρίσσοντες·

ἔνθα κύων κεῖτ’ Ἄργος ἐνίπλειος κυνοραιστέων.

δὴ τότε γ’, ὡς ἐνόησεν Ὀδυσσέα ἐγγὺς ἐόντα,

οὐρῇ μέν ῥ’ ὅ γ’ ἔσηνε καὶ οὔατα κάββαλεν ἄμφω,

ἄσσον δ’ οὐκέτ’ ἔπειτα δυνήσατο οἷο ἄνακτος

ἐλθέμεν· αὐτὰρ ὁ νόσφιν ἰδὼν ἀπομόρξατο δάκρυ.

9) The revealing scar of Odysseus (19.386–93)

This is another wonderful scene where Odysseus’ identity is suddenly and exepectedly revealed, here to the old nurse Eurycleia, who is one of the few people to know the scar from a wild boar that her master has carried from his youth:

The old woman took up a burnished basin

she used for washing feet and poured in bowls

of fresh cold water before she stirred in hot.

Odysseus, sitting full in the firelight, suddenly

swerved round to the dark, gripped by a quick misgiving—

soon as she touched him she might spot the scar!

The truth would all come out.

Bending closer

she started to bathe her master … then,

in a flash, she knew the scar—

 

                 γρηῢς δὲ λέβηθ’ ἕλε παμφανόωντα,

τῷ πόδας ἐξαπένιζεν, ὕδωρ δ’ ἐνεχεύατο πολλόν,

ψυχρόν, ἔπειτα δὲ θερμὸν ἐπήφυσεν. αὐτὰρ Ὀδυσσεὺς

ἷζεν ἀπ’ ἐσχαρόφιν, ποτὶ δὲ σκότον ἐτράπετ’ αἶψα·

αὐτίκα γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ὀΐσατο, μή ἑ λαβοῦσα

οὐλὴν ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο.

νίζε δ’ ἄρ’ ἄσσον ἰοῦσα ἄναχθ’ ἑόν· αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω

οὐλήν.

10) Odysseus strings the bow and fires (22.1–8)

Part of the appeal of the Odyssey comes from how the suitors – a crowd of really nasty, arrogant and obnoxious individuals – get what’s coming to them. Odysseus has had to endure their taunts for a good five books. But here he reveals himself – and punches an arrow through Antinous’ gullet:

Now stripping back his rags Odysseus master of craft and battle

vaulted onto the great threshold, gripping his bow and quiver

bristling arrows, and poured his flashing shafts before him,

loose at his feet, and thundered out to all the suitors:

“Look—your crucial test is finished, now, at last!

But another target’s left that no one’s hit before—

we’ll see if I can hit it—Apollo give me glory!”

With that he trained a stabbing arrow on Antinous …

 

Αὐτὰρ ὁ γυμνώθη ῥακέων πολύμητις Ὀδυσσεύς,

ἆλτο δ’ ἐπὶ μέγαν οὐδὸν ἔχων βιὸν ἠδὲ φαρέτρην

ἰῶν ἐμπλείην, ταχέας δ’ ἐκχεύατ’ ὀϊστοὺς

αὐτοῦ πρόσθε ποδῶν, μετὰ δὲ μνηστῆρσιν ἔειπεν·

“οὗτος μὲν δὴ ἄεθλος ἀάατος ἐκτετέλεσται·  

νῦν αὖτε σκοπὸν ἄλλον, ὃν οὔ πώ τις βάλεν ἀνήρ,

εἴσομαι, αἴ κε τύχωμι, πόρῃ δέ μοι εὖχος Ἀπόλλων.”

ἦ, καὶ ἐπ’ Ἀντινόῳ ἰθύνετο πικρὸν ὀϊστόν.

11) Penelope is at last reunited with her husband (23.205–17)

The suitors are dead, but Homer will not yet Odysseus rest just yet. In this scene Penelope proves herself as wily as her husband and tests Odysseus to make sure of his identity. With this final test past, the exhausted couple can joyfully embrace each other once again after twenty seemingly unending years of separation:

Living proof—

Penelope felt her knees go slack, her heart surrender,

recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered.

She dissolved in tears, rushed to Odysseus, flung her arms

around his neck and kissed his head and cried out,

“Odysseus—don’t flare up at me now, not you,

always the most understanding man alive!

The gods, it was the gods who sent us sorrow—

they grudged us both a life in each other’s arms

from the heady zest of youth to the stoop of old age.

But don’t fault me, angry with me now because I failed,

at the first glimpse, to greet you, hold you, so…”

 

τῆς δ’ αὐτοῦ λύτο γούνατα καὶ φίλον ἦτορ,

σήματ’ ἀναγνούσῃ, τά οἱ ἔμπεδα πέφραδ’ Ὀδυσσεύς·

δακρύσασα δ’ ἔπειτ’ ἰθὺς κίεν, ἀμφὶ δὲ χεῖρας

δειρῇ βάλλ’ Ὀδυσῆϊ, κάρη δ’ ἔκυσ’ ἠδὲ προσηύδα·

“μή μοι, Ὀδυσσεῦ, σκύζευ, ἐπεὶ τά περ ἄλλα μάλιστα

ἀνθρώπων πέπνυσο· θεοὶ δ’ ὤπαζον ὀϊζύν,

οἳ νῶϊν ἀγάσαντο παρ’ ἀλλήλοισι μένοντε

ἥβης ταρπῆναι καὶ γήραος οὐδὸν ἱκέσθαι.

αὐτὰρ μὴ νῦν μοι τόδε χώεο μηδὲ νεμέσσα,

οὕνεκά σ’ οὐ τὸ πρῶτον, ἐπεὶ ἴδον, ὧδ’ ἀγάπησα.

12) The suitors travel to the Underworld (24.1–14)

Another striking image of the revenge of Odysseus comes in the poem’s final book. Hermes gathers the bat-like souls of the suitors and draws them to Hades.

Now Cyllenian Hermes called away the suitors’ ghosts,

holding firm in his hand the wand of fine pure gold

that enchants the eyes of men whenever Hermes wants

or wakes us up from sleep.

With a wave of this he stirred and led them on

and the ghosts trailed after with high thin cries

as bats cry in the depths of a dark haunted cavern,

shrilling, flittering, wild when one drops from the chain—

slipped from the rock face, while the rest cling tight …

So with their high thin cries the ghosts flocked now

and Hermes the Healer led them on, and down the dank

moldering paths and past the Ocean’s streams they went

and past the White Rock and the Sun’s Western Gates and past

the Land of Dreams, and they soon reached the fields of asphodel

where the dead, the burnt-out wraiths of mortals, make their home.

 

Ἑρμῆς δὲ ψυχὰς Κυλλήνιος ἐξεκαλεῖτο

ἀνδρῶν μνηστήρων· ἔχε δὲ ῥάβδον μετὰ χερσὶ

καλὴν χρυσείην, τῇ τ’ ἀνδρῶν ὄμματα θέλγει,

ὧν ἐθέλει, τοὺς δ’ αὖτε καὶ ὑπνώοντας ἐγείρει·

τῇ ῥ’ ἄγε κινήσας, ταὶ δὲ τρίζουσαι ἕποντο.

ὡς δ’ ὅτε νυκτερίδες μυχῷ ἄντρου θεσπεσίοιο

τρίζουσαι ποτέονται, ἐπεί κέ τις ἀποπέσῃσιν

ὁρμαθοῦ ἐκ πέτρης, ἀνά τ’ ἀλλήλῃσιν ἔχονται,

ὣς αἱ τετριγυῖαι ἅμ’ ἤϊσαν· ἦρχε δ’ ἄρα σφιν

Ἑρμείας ἀκάκητα κατ’ εὐρώεντα κέλευθα. 

πὰρ δ’ ἴσαν Ὠκεανοῦ τε ῥοὰς καὶ Λευκάδα πέτρην,

ἠδὲ παρ’ Ἠελίοιο πύλας καὶ δῆμον Ὀνείρων

ἤϊσαν· αἶψα δ’ ἵκοντο κατ’ ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα,

ἔνθα τε ναίουσι ψυχαί, εἴδωλα καμόντων.

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If these short passages whet your appetite, there is good news: Homer’s whole work lies ready and waiting for your return. Tolle, lege!

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Edmund Stewart is Assistant Professor in Ancient Greek History at the University of Nottingham. He has previously written for Antigone on how to build a Greek temple, and his various other essays can be found via our writers page.