Sappho the Lesbian

One of the few things we know about the poet Sappho is that she was a Lesbian.

Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene 
by Simeon Solomon (at the Tate)

 Uhm...that is...she lived on Lesbos, a Greek island off the coast of what is now Turkey. 

Of course, what most of us grew up hearing is that she was a lesbian Lesbian--but on that lower-case adjective, we're a lot less certain.  Certainly the way Sappho's sexuality has been portrayed over the centuries gives us a much more complex picture.  She has been portrayed as a sex-crazed heterosexual prostitute, a suicide that leaped to her death because her love for a specific man was unrequited, a school marm, a cult leader, and a virgin.  Take your pick.

Sappho was probably married, although some scholars suggest that the name for her husband implies her marriage was all a big joke.  (Could she really be married to someone named "Dick All-Cock from the Isle of Man," as one scholar questions?)  Her poems indicate she had a daughter, although some scholars suggest that her references are in fact to a young lover.

And some of her poems are about heterosexual love, as is this one, translated by Mary Barnard:

12. It's no use

Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite

soft as she is

she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy.

--translated by Mary Barnard

I love the sweet freshness of this poem.  It conveys the emotions of a first crush so beautifully.  But just because Sappho says she is talking about a boy doesn't mean she was in love with a real boy.  Just as Hesiod might have been creating a fictitious narrator, Sappho could have been assuming a different persona.  Since it is believed that many of her poems might have been performed at weddings, this interpretation seems quite feasible.  We just can't know what a love poem means about the feelings of its author.

Many of Sappho's poems are about a particular group of women.  And interestingly, many of these poems are much more erotic--about both bodily pleasure and bodily desire.  Look at this example, translated in that late 1950s by the incomparable William Carlos Williams:

Peer of the gods is that man, who
face to face, sits listening
to your sweet speech and lovely
          laughter.

It is this that rouses a tumult
in my breast.  At mere sight of you
my voice falters, my tongue
          is broken.

Straightway, a delicate fire runs in
my limbs; my eyes
are blinded and my ears
          thunder.

Sweat pours out: a trembling hunts
me down.  I grow paler
than dry grass and lack little
          of dying.

Certainly, the intensity of this poem (or any of the others like it in the collection) does not prove that Sappho loved women any more than the first example proves that she engaged in relationships with men.  And even if it did prove she had female lovers, that would not make her a lesbian (or bisexual) since those are constructions of sexuality that arose more than two thousand years after her death.

Nevertheless, I think it is hard to deny that Sappho's poems saw that women were sexual beings, full of beauty and passion and longing.  She imagined that both emotional and physical desires could be fulfilled in a variety of ways without censure or disapproval.  What a modern--and yet eternal--vision!

Perhaps it is exactly that idea that women can have desires that really sets the poems of Sappho apart from those of most of the men writing in the ancient world.  The poet-narrative feels great desire--and expresses it in her poems as love for other women.  Although this seems to be very clear evidence that Sappho was (at least in a loose ahistorical way) a lesbian Lesbian, I can also imagine that it might have been less threatening to see a woman being an active lover of other women than a woman being an active lover of men.  Whatever the choices that Sappho made, and however we interpret the choices her narrator made, the poems that we have of Sappho's give strength and a sense of eternal tradition to women who love women today.

*  *  *

For more about Sappho's life and her changing reputation over time, see these fascinating books:
The Sappho Companion (a fascinating compendium of writings about Sappho over time)
Sappho Is Burning (a difficult read but a thoughtful and very scholarly book)
Sappho's Immortal Daughters (an erudite and highly readable study)

IS THAT A DAGGER I SEE BEFORE ME...

or are you just happy to see me?

Yep--yesterday was Sigmund Freud's birthday.  What a perfect time to discover an essay in Stephen Marche's How Shakespeare Changed Everything detailing how Shakespeare influenced Freud.  "From Shakespeare through Freud came the idea that a healthy sex life is an unrepressed sex life," writes Marche.  "Was there a more powerful, a more vital, a more influential idea in the whole of the twentieth century?"

Marche goes on to explain that the "humanistic, unembarrassed approach to desire" was ahead of his time--and perhaps ahead of our time--in his open ideas about sexuality.  The most successful part of the essay, I think, is Marche's discussion of the complications of gender identity in the bard's plays.  Because of the theatrical tradition of boy actors playing female characters, "transvestitism is always in the background" of the plays.  But Shakespeare plays around with that convention until we get dizzy.  "How can you play Twelfth Night, with a woman dressed as a man (who is really a man dressed as a woman) and a woman falling in love with a woman who is dressed as a man (who is really a man), without taking into account the charged effects of its role-bending sexuality?"

Or as I wrote about in the post TransShakespeare a while back (when talking about As You Like It), "you have a male actor playing a female character (Rosalind), playing a male (Ganymede), playing a female (mock-Rosalind).  And when Phoebe falls in love with Ganymede, it was actually a male actor showing love to a male actor, even though on stage it was a female character showing love to a female character."

Does this kind of twisting gender play lead to Freud, or just leave the staid psychoanalyst baffled?

What Marche is referring to most directly when he links Shakespeare and Freud is how the Oedipus story gets reworked in Hamlet.  According to Marche, the original Greek telling of Oedipus has the desire to kill one's father and sleep with one's mother expressed openly.  In Hamlet, Shakespeare has that desire "hidden, repressed."  Our repressed desires "return to haunt us like the Ghost that haunts Elsinore."  Hamlet, in short, "is the original neurotic."

My ideas about this book have not changed after reading these additional essays: The book isn't particularly scholarly and Marche absolutely overreaches in his arguments--and yet I have not had such good nerdy fun reading a book in a long time.  See if your library has a copy!

Troy Wars

I recently watched the movie version of Homer's Iliad, Troy.  I think I normally would have hated the movie's intense violence, over-the-top special effects, and mediocre acting.  As it was, while Troy was certainly not my favorite movie of all time, I found it quite a bit more interesting to see immediately after reading Homer's epic.

By far the greatest strength of the movie is the gorgeous visuals.  The scenes where we see a thousand ships filling the sea on their way to Troy is beautiful and terrifying.  The enormous cast that fills out battle scenes adds to the larger-than life feel of the movie, as does the historically inaccurate enormity of the castles and city walls.  And then there is the beauty that is Brad Pitt--that is, if you look at his body and not his acting.  Or you might interpret his look as "a creepy yoga teacher at an overpriced Californian spa," as Alex von Tunzelmann does:

This film definitely puts us in mind of an epic.  Unfortunately, "epic" here does not refer to the old Homeric kind with dactylic hexameter, but the Hollywood box-office hit kind of epic.

There are many changes from Homer's story to Troy's screenplay.  Some are deliberate changes or additions, while others are codified interpretations of open questions.  Although they are not accurate as true translations of Homer, some are quite interesting and make certain themes from the book perhaps more relevant to a modern audience.  Others are just annoying.

Perhaps the most obvious change is the removal of the gods from the action at Troy.  While some of the Trojans talk about temples and the gods, Hector routinely laughs at the idea of believing in omens.  (In contrast, Homer has the gods determining everyday events as their whims dictate.)  At first, I found this to be a relief.  The idea that characters might believe gods control human destinies works well for me, but I struggle when authors explain the actual events that way.  But as the movie went on, I realized that by removing the gods, the film overplays the roles of individuals.  Homer, I think, means the characters to be both heroic and weak--that is, immortal in name but mortal in body, distinguished hero but also a diminished everyman.  The lack of gods leaves Achilles seeming like the most powerful one in the story.

Achilles in the film states that the gods are jealous of humans precisely because humans can die: "Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed."  Of course, it is death that creates human immortality, as he acknowledges when he urges his troops to fight the bloody battles that will make their names last throughout history.  This theme certainly echoes one of the main Homeric ideas.

Some of the other changes from book to film were in an effort to unify the story.  One that especially bothered me was the the movie portrays the war from beginning to end--all happening quickly and with great excitement.  There is none of the drawn-out boredom and exhaustion of a long war that Homer allows us to see.

I love the "in medias rex" style that Homer uses, beginning and ending his story in the middle.  The central story of the film is the story of the war as a whole.  In Homer, Achilles's changing rage and emotional growth is the central story, a story that takes place in the setting of the great war.  And this smaller story allows character analysis that seems erased by the film.  In other words, since Homer wasn't thinking that "epic" meant telling a big story about a big thing, we could get a deeper story about an individual's transformation.

The filmmakers create parallel characters throughout the story.  Some are hinted at in Homer where others are totally new.  I found many of them to be fascinating riffs on the story--sometimes bringing out themes which would otherwise be missing (many of which were absent in the original epic).

Images of Hector getting dressed for battle are alternated with images of Achilles getting dressed for battle, while Achilles' lover and Hector's wife are each distraught.  But the contrast between the two men is even more obvious that the parallel: Achilles fights for pride and fame, while Hector fights out of duty and love of family.

Another parallel--completely invented in the film--is the relationships among cousins.  Although Homer tells a different story, in the movie we are told that Patroclus is Achilles' cousin, and Briseis is Hector's cousin.  Achilles grieves when his cousin dies at the hands of Hector, and Briseis grieves when her cousin dies at the hands of Achilles.

Although the cousin echo emphasizes the humanity of both sides (a theme Homer also presents), I was annoyed that this move allowed the filmmakers to placate anti-gay activists and remove all the questions about the intense relationship between Achilles and Patroclus.

In sum, I wasn't too keen on the movie, but I found it fascinating to consider why the filmmakers made particular decisions and interpretations.  I was reminded how much I like the character of Hector--who was very well played by Eric Bana.  Definitely one of the best performances of the film.

Least favorite change in the movie: the way Agamemnon dies.  What?!  Change of fortune in the house of Atreus!

Favorite moment in the movie: King Priam, played by Peter O'Toole and looking for all the world like Obi-Wan Kenobi in his robes, solemnly intones, "May the Gods be with you."

On Love and Friendship

Achilles bandages Patroclus (picture courtesy of Oedipusphinx)

The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is by far the most emotional connection we see among the Greeks in The Iliad.  It is hard for us as modern readers to make sense of exactly what this meant to the characters or to Homer.  Are they friends?  Are they lovers?  Does it make a difference?

There are some people who reject the idea that Achilles and Patroclus were lovers.  They argue that such a claim is just part of a political agenda by modern gay activists.  But the idea is not just a modern one: both Aeschylus and Plato believed the two men had a sexual relationship.  And Shakespeare agreed. 

Arguing that such a relationship meant that the two men were gay is a much trickier business.  Among the Greeks, such a relationship seems to have been fairly common--and not one that would define the men as "gay" or "homosexual" or anything else.  Those words are not only labels but entire categories created in a later era. 

There are some indications that Homer might have been playing off the man-boy pederastic relationships common at a slighty later period of ancient Greek culture.  I find this argument fairly unconvincing since Achilles and Patroclus are more or less equals (with each being dominant in some categories and subordinate in others).

Although many readers since those ancient days have believed that Homer portrays a sexual relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, it is not stated directly in the text.  Perhaps Homer was working under a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. 

What is clear from the text, however, is that the two men loved each other deeply, and that they had been close since they were young.  Before Patroclus is killed, Achilles says to him (in the Lombardo translation):

   Once you have made some daylight for the ships,
   You come back where you belong.
   The others can fight it out on the plain.
   Oh, Patroclus, I wish to Father Zeus
   And to Athena and Apollo
   That all of them, Greeks and Trojans alike,
   Every last man on Troy's dusty plain,
   Were dead, and only you and I were left
   To rip Ilion down, stone by sacred stone.

Achilles sees Patroclus as more than just a loved one.  He is almost a part of himself.  His friend's death leaves him grieving and guilty.  "My friend is dead, Patroclus, my dearest friend of all.  I loved him, and I killed him."  He continues, "I no longer have the will to remain alive among men."  As he talks with his mother and tells her of his pain, he comes to a decision: "I'm going now to find the man who destroyed my beloved."  He will kill Hector, the man who drove his sword into Patroclus.

After his discussion with his mother, Achilles returned to camp and "began the incessant lamentation," as Homer said.  His grief took a physical form,

   Laying his man-slaying hands on Patroclus' chest
   And groaning over and over like a bearded lion.

The next morning, the mother of Achilles came to see him at the camp--here quoted from the Fagles translation.

   She found her beloved son lying facedown.
   embracing Patroclus' body, sobbing, wailing.

He is unwilling to leave the side of his beloved, unwilling to let Patroclus be buried until Achilles has brought Troy to its knees from his vengeance. 

I'll talk in coming posts about how he begins to emerge from this deep grief into both a new heroic stance and, eventually, a newly human one.

*  *  *

I was shocked at how significant I found the parallels between Gilgamesh's relationship with Enkidu and Achilles' relationship with Patroclus.  In both cases, one heroic man (who is both cases is part god) loves another man, someone who is in many ways a mirror-self, whom he watches die.  The death causes the hero great pain, but through his grief, the hero is eventually able to accept his own mortality--and rejoin the life of the community in a more profound way.

Do you see this theme in other literature?  It seems to me that is the inspiration for so much, even for the "buddy movies" of late twentieth century Hollywood.

Gilgamesh: The Art of Becoming Civilized

The epic of Gilgamesh begins with a scene describing the wonder that is the city of Uruk.

Climb the stone staircase, more ancient than the mind can imagine,
...walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course
around the city, inspect its mighty foundations,
examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built,
observe the land it encloses: the palm trees, the gardens, 
the orchards, the glorious palaces and temples, the shops
and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares.

Then the reader is told to take out a copper box, unlock it and open its lid, and remove the tablet of lapis lazuli to reveal the story of the great king Gilgamesh.

Our hero is one-part human and two parts god.  (Did the creators of this story know more than we do about the mysteries of the gods, or less than we do about genetics?)  This makes him a glorious hero, large in stature and shining with powerfulness--"surpassing all kings, powerful and tall beyond all others, violent, splendid, a wild bull of a man, unvanquished leader."  As the text says, "Who is like Gilgamesh?  What other king has inspired such awe?"

At the beginning of the epic, Gilgamesh is a tyrannical ruler who sees himself as superior to everyone around him.  He abuses his subjects by being the first to have sex with young brides, etc.  The people of Uruk cry out to heaven for relief from their king--and the gods answer the call by creating a friend for Gilgamesh--a "double" or "second self" for Gilgamesh, as Stephen Mitchell says in his translation.  That friend, Enkidu, is designed to distract Gilgamesh from his abusive ways. 

When we meet him, Enkidu is a wild man, covered in hair and living with the animals in the woods.  Gilgamesh decides it is essential for the safety of his monarchy to civilize the wild man, so he sets forth a plan to turn Enkidu into a human man.

How do people become civilized?  I think we imagine inviting the hairy beast to tea, reading him Shakespeare and playing CDs of Bach, perhaps teaching him to read the Bible.  But Bach and the Bard were not yet around.  Gilgamesh even predates the Bible by at least a thousand years.

So how does Gilgamesh plan to civilize Enkidu?

He sends a temple prostitute deep into the woods to have sex with Enkidu.  Mitchell's translation says that Shamhat "use[s] her love-arts" shows Enkidu "what a woman is"--and they lie together for seven days (constantly).  After they are finished (or rather, when "he had had enough") Enkidu can no longer bound after his animal friends.  He does not have the energy, and they no longer see him as one of them.

But the civilization process is not yet over.  Not only must he have sex but he must get drunk.  After Enkidu "drank seven pitchers of beer, his heart grew light, his face glowed, and he sang out with joy."

And with that he has become fully human.  He gets his hair cut and he bathes: "Shining, he looked handsome as a bridegroom."

I won't go into all the details, but during the civilizing process Enkidu goes from living with animals in the wild and eating off the land, to controlling animals on the pasture, to the city.  His journey replicates the progression of human civilization.

Simhat brings Enkidu to Gilgamesh and each knows that the other will become the true "companion of [his] heart."  They will love each other with an intensity that will outstrip the men's relationships with women.  While it is not completely clear that the love between the men is erotic and sexual, the implications are high.  For a further discussion of their relationship, check out Trisha's excellent post on Eclectic / Eccentric.

Of course, in a totally testosterone-laden scene, their deep friendship begins with a brutal fight.  Gilgamesh eventually wins, but the two acknowledge each other as peers worthy of one another.

The two men leave Uruk to have adventures together.  First on the list is killing Humbaba, a "monster" who is isn't threatening anything but merely protecting the cedar forests.  Then the goddess Ishtar makes advances on Gilgamesh--and he rejects her.  Her rage at the rejection--and possibly the gods' anger about the slaughter of Humbaba--leads her to send down the Bull of Heaven.  Without divine assistance, Gilgamesh and Enkidu slay the Bull.

Enkidu has a series of dreams filled with what he assumes are bad omens.  Eventually he realizes that the gods have decided that one of the two men must die for killing the Bull.  Enkidu knows that he is the one who will be sacrificed.  His health declines over the course of the next few days, and eventually he takes his last breath.

Gilgamesh, the man who started the book as a selfish tyrant, mourns deeply for Enkidu.  He tears his hair and clothes, cries out to nature to mourn with him, and considers his own mortality.  He wanders in the wilderness, weeping because of the loss of his friend.  Be sure you don't miss Jenny's beautiful post at Shelf Love which highlights the power of the portrayal of grief.

Gilgamesh is alone now and goes alone into the great empty, on a dangerous quest for eternal life--which he comes to realize he cannot have.  I'll talk more about the human desire for immortality and the acceptance of mortality in my next post.

Eventually, Gilgamesh returns home alone to Uruk.  The loss of his friend has stripped the inhumane from him.  He has passed through the lands of solitary grief to emerge more fully human, more civilized through a process very different from Enkidu's.  Because of his own experience of pain and loss, he is now capable of great compassion.

He gazes upon the gates of his city Uruk, seeing through new eyes.  Earlier, the sight of the gates fed his own self-centered hubris.  Now, however, Gilgamesh feels both pride and responsibility for his community.  He knows that while he will not live forever, his name and memory can live on whenever people remember him as a good king.

The words from the beginning repeat exactly, this time carrying all the weight of his growth.  Amazed, I cried when I hit the final lines.  Nothing has changed, except everything is now different.

Climb the stone staircase, more ancient than the mind can imagine,
...walk on the wall of Uruk, follow its course
around the city, inspect its mighty foundations,
examine its brickwork, how masterfully it is built,
observe the land it encloses: the palm trees, the gardens, 
the orchards, the glorious palaces and temples, the shops
and marketplaces, the houses, the public squares.