One of the most shocking things I notice when I read through mythology, is how much barbarism is casually weaved into the story. When Odysseus tells of his journey home, with twelve ships of fighting men, he speaks of an encounter with the Cicones people. He and his men decide to slaughter the men, rape the women and sack the city. Odysseus’ men then choose to get drunk against his wishes and then the survivors from the raid come back with their neighboring cities' army and ravage Odysseus’ troops. In his telling of the story, Odysseus bemoans his sin, and what might that be? It’s that his men got drunk after the slaughter of an entire town of men.
Do you think the people who were listening to this story were scandalized? Did any of the gods of Olympus come down and show displeasure at this terrible act? No, they did not. This was not deemed a sin, or a crime, and I’m not sure why. Why is the author and countless audiences throughout history not more scandalized by this casual cruelty? This is all too common when reading mythology. A Greek god attempts to rape a maiden in the name of love while authors wax poetic with flowery language, and the reader just sits back in wonder at the myopia of these storytellers.
I think I find this particularly galvanizing because I’m aware of so many of the timeless truths of these myths, and therefore when I see the blind spots in the author I feel wronged. It’s these moments when I face the truth that while many of the messages of myth are indeed timeless and useful, many things have changed. As listeners we are more sensitive and discerning. We are not so infatuated with the hero worship of Odysseus that we can excuse his slaughter of innocents. We are a less violent species than the era of these stories told more than two thousand years ago, and we need more maturity in our heroes. This phenomena is consistent even with stories and movies of ten years ago, which at the time may have seemed mature, and now lands with audiences as facile and insensitive.
My moments of disillusionment with these great narrators remind me of their limitations, and they make me think about my own. For I am the narrator of the stories I tell myself, and I am the protagonist of my stories. My inner narrator may tell me a tale of heroism where violence took place. And conversely, my narrator is capable of telling me a story of my terrible sins when I have not committed any. And so I must learn to reflect on my inner narration, to check its veracity. What stories are we telling about ourselves? Are we being overly harsh? Or too forgiving? These insights are crucial in order to keep our own stories in line with reality, and with our true values. When we believe unrealistically forgiving stories about ourselves, we have a tendency to gaslight other people when they tell us we hurt them. When we are overly harsh with ourselves, we lock up in a spiral of shame and distance ourselves from others.
This humbling lens allows me to enjoy the epics for the timeless lessons they provide, while also maintaining my critical lens on their values. I apply this same principle to my inner narrative, working to avoid being so harsh that I shut myself down, and so forgiving that I can’t improve. We should be suspicious of our narrators if they never push us, just as we should be suspicious of a narrator who tells us mean spirited and shaming stories about ourselves. The mature audience can’t enjoy a protagonist who doesn’t have flaws, and similarly for a protagonist who has tossed away their humanity. Let this dictum inform our own narrators to guide us into challenging and meaningful adventures in life.
Comments