Chapter 4
This week, we turn our attention to one of the foundational works of world literature: The Odyssey by Homer. As the second of Homer’s great epics, The Odyssey picks up where The Iliad leaves off—not on the battlefield, but on the open sea, following the long and winding journey of Odysseus, a Greek warrior trying to return home after the Trojan War.
But Professors Martin Puchner and David Damrosch invite us to look beyond the surface of this epic. They explore not only The Odyssey, but also The Iliad, and even the legacy of Alexander the Great, whose cultural influence helped spread Greek ideas far beyond the Aegean. Together, these threads weave a rich tapestry of storytelling, history, and cultural power.
Rediscovering Troy
Troy, the city at the heart of The Iliad, was long thought to be a myth—until the 19th century, when Heinrich Schliemann, a businessman and amateur archaeologist, uncovered its ruins in modern-day Turkey. Though his methods were crude and destructive, Schliemann’s discovery confirmed that Troy was real. Visitors today can walk among its foundations and imagine the epic siege that Homer immortalized.
It’s astonishing to think that this relatively small city could have withstood a decade-long assault by 1,000 Greek ships. And yet, according to Homer, it nearly did—until Odysseus devised the cunning trick of the Trojan Horse.
The Iliad is a poem of war, beginning with the word menin—rage. It’s the rage of Achilles, the greatest Greek warrior, who withdraws from battle in fury, leaving his comrades to suffer. Homer’s portrayal of Achilles is larger than life, and the epic captures the brutal realities of war already in its tenth year.
Yet The Iliad is not one-sided. Homer gives voice to the Trojans, preserving scenes of tenderness and tragedy from inside the besieged city. Thanks to Schliemann’s excavation, we can now place these scenes within the real geography of Troy—inside its walls, and in the Greek encampment beyond.
In contrast, The Odyssey begins with the word andra—man. This epic is not about armies and rage, but about the trials of a single man. Odysseus is no ordinary hero. He is polytropon—a man of many turns, both in travel and in speech.
To Greek ears, polytropon echoes topos, meaning “phrases.” Odysseus is a master of language, a cunning speaker who survives through wit and persuasion. His journey is shaped not just by physical detours, but by rhetorical ones. Poseidon drives him off course, and Odysseus must navigate a world of monsters, nymphs, and gods using his words as weapons.
A tale of Travel and transformation
The Odyssey is a travel epic, but not a voluntary one. Odysseus is forced to wander, encountering strange lands and cultures. His journey reflects the Greek struggle to understand and define their place among other civilizations—some admired, like Egypt, and others dismissed as “barbaros,” a term for those who didn’t speak Greek.
Odysseus’s cunning and adaptability make him a survivor, but also raise ethical questions. Is he a hero—or a con man? Nietzsche called him the greatest liar of antiquity. Yet his lies are strategic, his diplomacy unmatched. He even outmaneuvers divine figures like Calypso, where Gilgamesh, in contrast, provokes the wrath of Ishtar.
Ultimately, The Odyssey is a comedy of restoration. It begins in Ithaca, a kingdom in crisis, and ends with Odysseus reclaiming his throne. Whether he returns as a better ruler is uncertain—but he is undeniably changed. His wife Penelope tests him, his dog Argos dies upon recognizing him, and his old nurse identifies a hidden scar. These moments of recognition are deeply novelistic, filled with emotional depth and dramatic tension.
The power of oral tradition
While Gilgamesh emerged from centuries of written tradition, Homer’s epics came from a purely oral one—a fact that only became clear in the 20th century thanks to linguist Milman Parry. In the 1930s, Parry studied oral storytelling in Bosnia and Albania, where literacy rates were low but oral poetry thrived.
Parry discovered that oral poets could memorize and perform incredibly long texts—far longer than anyone thought possible without writing. The Odyssey, much longer than Gilgamesh, was likely composed and transmitted using these oral techniques.
These poets used formulaic phrases—short and long building blocks—to construct and remember their stories. In Homer, we see this clearly:
- “Rosy-fingered dawn”
- “Swift-footed Achilles”
These epithets weren’t just poetic—they were mnemonic tools, flexible enough to fit different rhythmic needs and help the poet recall the next line.
Oral storytelling is inherently performative. Poets could adapt their delivery based on audience reaction, skip episodes, or extend scenes. It was dynamic, like jazz—structured yet improvisational. Scholar David Damrosch once saw a papyrus fragment of Homer with lines that differed from the canonical version, reinforcing this idea of flexible performance.
Another powerful tool was the Homeric simile—long, vivid comparisons that evoked emotion and imagery. These similes were memorized and deployed as needed, adding depth and drama to the performance.
Homeric poetry wasn’t just spoken—it was sung or chanted, likely accompanied by instruments like the lyre. Though we know little about the exact music, the tradition was closer to opera than modern recitation. In fact, opera itself was an attempt to revive the classical Greek performance style.
Harvard’s Milman Parry Collection continues to preserve this legacy, with audio recordings of oral performances now being digitized and shared—a treasure trove for anyone interested in the roots of epic storytelling.
The alphabet that brought homer to life
We take the alphabet for granted. It’s so familiar, so embedded in our daily lives, that it’s easy to forget what a revolutionary invention it was. But the alphabet wasn’t just a tool—it was a breakthrough that transformed how humans communicate, learn, and create. And it played a pivotal role in bringing one of the greatest literary traditions into the world: Homeric poetry.
Before the alphabet, writing systems like cuneiform and hieroglyphics used hundreds of symbols to represent words or ideas. These systems were deeply tied to meaning—each symbol carried semantic weight. But the alphabet did something radical: it severed writing from meaning and focused purely on sound.
This abstraction was a mental leap. Instead of representing objects or concepts, alphabetic writing captured the phonetic building blocks of speech. Just two dozen letters could represent any word in a language. It was simple, elegant, and powerful—and it made literacy accessible to far more people.
The journey toward the alphabet began in ancient Mesopotamia around 3100 BCE. Sumerian scribes used wedge-shaped symbols to represent words, and over time, they began applying the rebus principle—using symbols for their sounds rather than meanings.
In Ugarit, we see early alphabetic cuneiform with just a few dozen signs. Ancient Egypt followed a similar path: from hundreds of hieroglyphs to a streamlined set of symbols that functioned as letters. A snake became “F,” a hand became “D”—a shift from image to sound.
The Phoenicians took this further, creating an alphabet that focused on consonants. But when the Greeks adopted it, they added something crucial: vowels. This adaptation wasn’t just linguistic—it was poetic.
Greek poetry, especially Homeric verse, relied on rhythm and meter. The Homeric hexameter—a pattern of long and short syllables—depended heavily on vowel sounds. For example, the opening of the Odyssey follows a rhythmic pattern like:
Long, short-short | Long, short-short | Long, short
Long, short-short | Long, short-short | Long, short
This rhythm would be nearly impossible to capture in a consonant-only script like ancient Hebrew. Without vowels, you wouldn’t know to begin with “AH”—as in andra, the first word of the Odyssey. The Greek alphabet, with its vowel symbols, was perfectly suited to preserve and perform these epic poems.
The story of the alphabet shows how deeply literature is bound to the technologies that make it possible. Just as the Epic of Gilgamesh was shaped by cuneiform tablets, Homer’s epics were shaped by the Greek alphabet. The writing system didn’t just record the poems—it enabled their rhythm, their structure, and their survival.
Why homer still captivates us?
What makes Homer so enduringly attractive? It may be the oral quality of his storytelling—an element that’s not just stylistic, but embedded in the very structure of the epics themselves.
Take The Odyssey, for example. Many of its most iconic episodes—encounters with the Sirens, Circe, Scylla and Charybdis—aren’t narrated by Homer directly. They’re told by Odysseus himself, making him the first great reciter of world literature. If Gilgamesh is the first hero and writer, Odysseus is the first singer—the voice through which epic storytelling comes alive.
The Homeric epics depict a world where writing doesn’t yet exist. Instead, it’s a world of oral performance, where stories are shared, shaped, and retold. Homer masterfully constructs scenes in which Odysseus recounts his own adventures, turning the hero into a storyteller and the narrative into a layered performance.
Unlike Gilgamesh, which unfolds chronologically, The Odyssey employs a sophisticated narrative technique: flashback storytelling. This aligns with the Russian formalist distinction between:
- Fabula: The chronological sequence of events as they actually happened.
- Syuzhet: The order in which the poet presents those events.
In The Odyssey, Homer manipulates the plot to create effects of mystery, suspense, and emotional depth. The story loops and meanders, reflecting Odysseus’s own disorientation as he struggles to return home. His journey becomes a labyrinth—both geographically and narratively.
Odysseus’s path from Troy to Ithaca should be straightforward. But Poseidon’s wrath sends him spiraling across the Mediterranean, lost and wandering. Homer mirrors this chaos in the storytelling itself: the narrative twists, turns, and doubles back, creating a sense of confusion and longing. It’s not just a tale of travel—it’s a meditation on memory, identity, and the struggle to find one’s way.
Odysseus and the art of persuasion
From the very beginning of The Odyssey, we know one thing for sure: Odysseus has a way with words. He’s not just a warrior or a wanderer—he’s a master of language. The Greek epithet polytropon, often translated as “cunning,” literally means “of many turns.” It captures his physical journey across the Mediterranean and his mental agility in navigating complex social situations.
Odysseus is a storyteller, a flatterer, and—yes—a liar. Nietzsche even called him “the most famous liar of antiquity.” But his lies aren’t reckless; they’re strategic. When he arrives at the court of the Phaeacians, he knows his survival depends on their goodwill. He charms Princess Nausicaa with compliments, throws himself at her mercy, and earns her help. Later, he wins over the entire court with his tale of adventures, positioning himself as both victim and hero.
Odysseus is almost a con man—but one we root for. His words are his weapons, and he uses them to navigate danger, build alliances, and ultimately find his way home.
Is Odysseus the first anti-hero? He’s certainly more morally complex than Achilles. In The Iliad, Achilles withdraws from battle out of wounded pride, letting his comrades suffer. Yet he remains the archetypal hero—brave, strong, and ultimately noble.
Odysseus, by contrast, is sly. He’s the architect of the Trojan Horse, the trick that ended the war. He’s always operating on the edge—between truth and deception, heroism and manipulation. His strength lies not just in combat, but in cunning. He’s a man of many moves, many masks.
Mapping the mythic journey
Trying to map Odysseus’s journey is like trying to chart a dream. We know where it begins—Troy, thanks to Heinrich Schliemann’s archaeological discoveries—and we know where it ends: Ithaca, Odysseus’s rugged island home. But everything in between? That’s where the real mystery begins.
Between Troy and Ithaca lies a sea of wonders: the island of the Cyclopes, Circe’s enchanted isle, the land of the Lotus-Eaters, the Sirens’ rocky shore, and Calypso’s hidden paradise. These aren’t places you’ll find on any map. They belong to a mythic geography—a dreamscape where monsters, magic, and gods shape the tides.
This narrative arc—from the real to the fantastical and back again—mirrors a psychological and cultural journey. Odysseus doesn’t just travel through space; he travels through the Greek imagination, encountering the unknown and returning home transformed.
The Odyssey also reflects how the Greeks viewed other cultures. While they revered Egypt as a land of ancient wisdom (even naming its mysterious script “hieroglyphics”), they were far less generous toward most others. The term barbaros—from which we get “barbarian”—was coined to mock the unintelligible speech of foreigners, which to Greek ears sounded like “bar-bar-bar.”
Ironically, many of these so-called “barbarians,” like the Persians, had civilizations far older and more sophisticated than Greece. But they didn’t speak Greek. They didn’t use the elegant, vowel-rich alphabet that the Greeks so prized. And so, they were cast as outsiders—alien, uncivilized, and often dangerous.
Odysseus’s encounters with strange peoples and creatures can be read as a metaphor for this cultural tension. His frequent lack of respect for those he meets—his trickery, his theft, his violence—mirrors the Greek ambivalence toward the foreign. He’s a hero, yes, but also a symbol of Greek superiority and suspicion.
Even the gods recognize Odysseus’s slipperiness. In one memorable scene, Athena, his divine patron, tells him, “I can never trust you—and that’s what I like about you.” Odysseus is a chameleon, able to adapt, deceive, and survive. But he’s still a Greek chameleon. His transformations have limits. He may wander through foreign lands, but he always returns to his roots.
The odyssey as a proto-novel
Among ancient epics, The Odyssey stands out for its strikingly modern feel. Compared to The Iliad, which carries a more archaic tone and a tighter narrative structure, The Odyssey unfolds like a novel—layered, expansive, and emotionally resonant.
Rather than beginning with its hero, The Odyssey opens in Ithaca, the destination Odysseus longs to reach. We meet his son Telemachus and his wife Penelope, both caught in a political crisis: the kingdom is leaderless, and suitors are devouring its wealth. This bracketing structure—starting and ending in Ithaca—creates a circular narrative that mirrors Odysseus’s own meandering journey.
Telemachus, whose name means “fighter from afar,” never reaches Troy, yet he becomes the first focal point of the story. Homer introduces minor characters before the protagonist, a technique common in modern novels to build tension and context.
The epic’s emotional climax hinges on recognition. Odysseus returns home disguised, needing to reclaim his palace and prove his identity. The drama unfolds through vivid, intimate details:
- His old nurse recognizes a scar.
- His dog, Argos, dies upon seeing him.
- Penelope tests him with a secret about their bed—only Odysseus would know it.
This scene isn’t just about identity—it’s about transformation. Odysseus has changed. Twenty years of war and wandering have reshaped him, and Homer captures this passage of time with a depth rarely seen in ancient drama. Unlike Greek tragedy, which often compresses events into a single day, The Odyssey spans decades, echoing the temporal sweep of a novel.
While Gilgamesh searches for timeless truths and immortality, The Odyssey feels grounded in the present. Though written down around 800 BCE—centuries after the fall of Troy—it reflects a dynamic oral tradition. These stories were performed live, adapted to audiences, and only became fixed when transcribed.
Telemachus’s journey to learn from Nestor, the wise elder, becomes a metaphor for revisiting the past. And the descent into the underworld (the Nekyia) is another loop—Odysseus travels from Circe to the dead and back again. In the underworld, he meets fallen heroes like Agamemnon and Achilles, offering a window into parallel epics and shared trauma.
Achilles, in a haunting moment, tells Odysseus he wishes he were in The Odyssey instead of The Iliad. He longs for life, not glory. This echoes a scene in Gilgamesh, where Enkidu dreams of the underworld and sees Etana, a hero who once soared to heaven, now silent among the dead. Homer takes that silent image and gives it voice.
The muse and the Gods - Divine voices and poetic power
One of the most striking features of Homer’s epics is the presence of gods—not as distant, omnipotent beings, but as flawed, emotional, and often meddling characters. Unlike the gods of monotheistic traditions, Homeric deities have rivalries, favorites, and personal agendas. They are powerful, yes, but also deeply human.
In The Iliad, the war between Greeks and Trojans is mirrored by a divine conflict. Some gods side with Troy, others with Greece. This celestial split continues into The Odyssey, where Poseidon’s wrath against Odysseus drives much of the plot. The gods know more and can do more, but they are not all-knowing or all-good. They intervene, assist, punish, and provoke—often to serve their own whims.
Sometimes, they act as narrative devices, giving Odysseus the tools or knowledge he needs to face his next challenge. They move the story forward, but they also reflect the unpredictability of fate and the fragility of human plans.
The Odyssey begins not with a god, but with a muse—the daughter of the gods, invoked by the poet to sing the tale. The prologue ends with a remarkable line: “Start anywhere you want, daughter of the gods, and sing to us.”
This invitation gives the muse—and by extension, the poet—narrative freedom. The story can begin in the middle, loop backward, or leap forward. It’s a declaration of artistic control, a signal that this epic will not follow a simple chronological path.
The muse’s presence also lends a numinous, semi-divine quality to the bard. The poet becomes a vessel for divine inspiration, able to see the whole picture while characters like Odysseus are caught in the chaos of events.
As Martin Puchner notes, the singer controls the story. The poet is not just a passive recorder of events, but an active shaper of meaning. Through invocation, structure, and style, Homer—or the bard behind the name—guides us through a world of gods and men, monsters and memories.
The muse authorizes the journey. The gods complicate it. And the poet makes it unforgettable.
Penelope and the feminist legacy of the odyssey
While Odysseus is the hero of The Odyssey, it is Penelope who quietly commands the heart of the epic. Her presence is striking—not just as a loyal wife waiting for her husband’s return, but as a cunning, strategic, and emotionally complex character in her own right.
From the opening scenes, Penelope is shown playing for time. Surrounded by suitors who are devouring her household, she refuses to remarry. Instead, she weaves a shroud by day and unravels it by night—a brilliant act of resistance. Like Odysseus, she is polytropic—a woman of many turns, skilled in deception and survival.
She is not passive. She is steadfast, yes, but also manipulative in the best sense: using her intelligence and emotional insight to navigate a world that offers her little power. In a time of uncertainty, she becomes the stabilizing force of Ithaca.
Penelope’s strength has inspired modern writers to reclaim and reimagine her voice. In Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad, Penelope narrates her own story from the underworld, offering a sharp, ironic, and deeply feminist perspective on the events of The Odyssey. She questions the myths, the double standards, and the silencing of women—especially the twelve maids hanged upon Odysseus’s return.
This feminist re-reading is powerful because it reveals how Homer’s Penelope already contains the seeds of complexity. Unlike later epics—such as Virgil’s Aeneid, where female characters like Creusa are barely present—Homer gives Penelope space, agency, and ambiguity.
Penelope’s influence echoes through modern literature. In James Joyce’s Ulysses, the final and most famous section is devoted to Molly Bloom, a modern Penelope. Her soliloquy—stream-of-consciousness, sensual, and defiant—reclaims the female voice in a text that had long centered male experience.
This literary lineage underscores Penelope’s enduring appeal. She is not just a mythic wife. She is a symbol of resilience, intellect, and emotional depth—a woman navigating a world of uncertainty with grace and grit.
The ethics of survival - politics of the polis
Odysseus doesn’t follow a clear moral code. He lies, cheats, trespasses—and is often punished for it. Yet he survives. And in a world of shipwrecks, monsters, and political instability, survival itself may be the highest ethical achievement.
Odysseus operates in a world that feels, as Nietzsche might say, beyond good and evil. His ethics are pragmatic: loyalty, cunning, rhetorical skill, and adaptability. These are the traits that keep him afloat in a turbulent Mediterranean, where small city-states like Ithaca are vulnerable to collapse.
Unlike Gilgamesh, which explores how to hold an empire together, The Odyssey is about how to navigate chaos. It opens with misrule—an absent king, a palace overrun by suitors—and ends with restoration. Odysseus returns, reclaims his throne, and reestablishes order. Whether he becomes a better ruler is uncertain, but he is undeniably changed.
Odysseus’s encounters with gods reveal another layer of his ethical complexity. When Calypso tries to keep him captive, he responds with tact and diplomacy. Contrast this with Gilgamesh, who lashes out when Ishtar makes advances, triggering divine wrath and tragedy.
Odysseus is a master negotiator. He knows when to flatter, when to plead, and when to deceive. His survival depends not just on strength, but on strategic humility—a skill Gilgamesh sorely lacks.
If Gilgamesh positions humanity between animals and gods, The Odyssey places us between wastelands and empires. Odysseus’s journey is a search for a middle ground—a place where human community can thrive without becoming monstrous or imperial.
The Cyclopes represent lawless wilderness. The Phaeacians offer fleeting hospitality. The gods are powerful but unpredictable. Odysseus must carve out a space for the polis—a small, self-governed city-state—amid these extremes.
In the end, The Odyssey is a comedy of restoration. The kingdom is broken, the hero is lost, and the people are in crisis. But through cunning, endurance, and transformation, Odysseus returns. He reclaims his place—not just as a king, but as a symbol of resilience.
He is hard to recognize. Even his wife, Penelope, demands proof. But that’s the point: he’s changed. Twenty years of war and wandering have reshaped him. And perhaps that change is the ethical heart of the epic—not moral purity, but the capacity to endure, adapt, and rebuild.
Alexander the great and the global spread of greek culture
Alexander the Great was a brilliant military strategist whose empire stretched from Egypt to India. But Alexander wasn’t just a conqueror—he was a cultural visionary. His legacy includes not only battlefields and borders, but libraries, theaters, and literary traditions that reshaped the ancient world. But, he understood that empires need more than armies—they need identity. Therefore, Alexander wielded Greek culture as a tool of cohesion and influence.
Greek culture had already flourished in the centuries before Alexander, thanks in part to a powerful innovation: the alphabet. Though borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Greeks perfected it into a phonetic system that made literacy more accessible. This surge in literacy fueled an explosion of philosophy, drama, and historical writing—cultural treasures that Alexander would carry across continents.
Written texts endure only when preserved. Alexander’s empire saw the rise of monumental libraries that safeguarded Greek knowledge:
- Library of Alexandria: Founded after Alexander’s conquest of Egypt, it became the most famous library of the ancient world.
- Library of Pergamon: Located in Asia Minor, it rivaled Alexandria and played a key role in copying, interpreting, and teaching Greek texts.
These libraries helped elevate figures like Homer into pan-imperial icons, shaping literature and education from the Mediterranean to the Indus.
Pergamon’s librarians faced a challenge: papyrus, the standard writing material, came from Egypt and was costly to import. Their solution? Parchment, or purgamentum, made from sheepskin. Though expensive, it was more durable and flexible than papyrus. This innovation gave Pergamon cultural independence and helped preserve Greek texts for generations.
Alexander’s cultural vision extended to the dramatic arts. Greek drama, with its elaborate scripts and open-air performances, became a cornerstone of his soft power strategy.
- Theater of Ephesus: One of the largest theaters of the ancient world, it could seat over 25,000 people and was built during the Hellenistic period.
- Cultural Export: Alexander promoted theater across Asia Minor, turning Greek drama into a shared experience for diverse populations.
These theaters weren’t just entertainment venues—they were instruments of cultural unity.
Alexander’s empire may have fractured after his death, but the cultural foundations he laid endured. Greek libraries, literature, and drama continued to shape societies across the ancient world. His use of soft power—through education, art, and storytelling—was as transformative as his military campaigns
Conclusion
In a single word—polytropon—Homer encodes the essence of The Odyssey: a tale of travel, cunning, and survival. It’s a story that spans decades, cultures, and genres. And thanks to generations of scholars, archaeologists, and storytellers, it continues to resonate as one of the greatest masterpieces of world literature.
The alphabet made Homer writable. Oral tradition made him memorable. Together, they forged epics that have endured for millennia. From the rhythm of hexameter to the resonance of similes, Homer’s work is a fusion of technology and tradition—a reminder that literature is not just written, but performed, remembered, and reinvented.
The alphabet wasn’t merely a tool—it was a cultural catalyst. It expanded literacy and gave rise to new forms of expression. And in Homer’s hands, it helped immortalize stories that still inspire us today.
Homer’s genius lies not only in his poetic language but in his narrative architecture. By blending oral artistry with literary innovation, he created epics that feel both timeless and immediate. Whether through Odysseus’s voice, vivid similes, or the divine invocation of the muse, Homer invites us into a world where storytelling is survival—and where every tale is a journey home.
Odysseus shows us that heroism isn’t always about brute strength. Sometimes, it’s about knowing what to say, when to say it, and how to shape a story to endure. His legacy isn’t just in battles won—but in tales told, hearts swayed, and minds moved.
The Odyssey is a map of cultural consciousness. It charts the boundaries between the known and the unknown, the self and the other, the real and the imagined. Odysseus’s journey is as much about navigating identity as it is about navigating the sea. And perhaps that’s why it still resonates—because in every journey, mythic or modern, we’re all trying to find our way home.
It’s also a meditation on time, memory, and identity. Its layered structure and emotional nuance anticipate the novel form centuries before novels existed. Homer doesn’t just tell a story—he builds a world, loops through its history, and lets his characters evolve. In doing so, he crafts a tale of homecoming, recognition, and change—told with the complexity and humanity of a true literary masterpiece.
And let’s not forget Penelope. She may not sail the seas or battle monsters, but her journey is no less heroic. She holds her kingdom together, outwits her enemies, and ultimately tests her returning husband with the same cunning he used to survive. In a world dominated by male heroes, Penelope stands as a rare and resonant female figure—one whose voice continues to inspire writers, readers, and feminists across the centuries.
