Book Report: Circe

18. Madeline Miller, Circe (2018) (4/2/21)

Perhaps because I am shockingly unfamiliar with Greek mythology (or virtually any mythology except Norse), I found this reformulation of aspects of the ancient stories—the rivalry between the Titans and the Olympians, the hierarchies of the gods, Odysseus's journey home from the Trojan wars—just splendid. I have of course encountered the names, and this book gave me more of a framework into which to fit them. 

At its center is the minor goddess Circe, an immortal, daughter of Helios and the nymph Perse, granddaughter of Oceanus. When she dares to push her powers by transforming a fisherman she has fallen in love with into a god, and a nymph whom she sees as a rival into a six-headed monster, she is banished, forever, to a remote island. But she is not totally isolated: the mischievous god Hermes pays her visits (and keeps her apprised of goings-on in the greater world); bad-girl nymphs are sent to her isle for punishment and become her helpers; and seafarers sometimes sail into her bays. Including Odysseus about halfway through the book, when the plot really picks up its pace. 

Circe is also, like her mother and her siblings, a witch, and as she settles into her life apart, she comes to master skills—potions and spells—that she had but stumbled onto before. Transformation is her special gift, as when she makes pigs of sailors who get unruly. She has this to say about being a witch:

Let me say what sorcery is not: it is not divine power, which comes with a thought and a blink. It must be made and worked, planned and searched out, dug up, dried, chopped and ground, cooked, spoken over, and sung. Even after all that, it can fail, as gods do not. If my herbs are not fresh enough, if my attention falters, if my will is weak, the draughts go stale and rancid in my hands.
     By rights, I should never have come to witchcraft. Gods hate all toil, it is their nature. The closest we come is weaving or smithing, but these things are skills, and there is no drudgery to them since all the parts that might be unpleasant are taken away with power. The wool is dyed not with stinking vats and stirring spoons, but with a snap. There is no tedious mining, the ores leap willing from the mountain. No fingers are ever chafed, no muscles strained. 
     Witchcraft is nothing but such drudgery. Each herb must be found in its den, harvested at its time, grubbed up from the dirt, culled and stripped, washed and prepared. It must be handled this way, then that, to find out where its power lies. Day upon patient day, you must throw out your errors and begin again. So why did I not mind? Why did none of us mind?
     I cannot speak for my brothers and sister, but my answer is easy. For a hundred generations, I had walked the world drowsy and dull, idle and at my ease. I left no prints, I did no deeds. Even those who had loved me a little did not care to stay.
     Then I learned that I could bend the world to my will, as a bow is bent for an arrow. I would have done that toil a thousand times to keep such power in my hands. I thought: this is how Zeus felt when he first lifted the thunderbolt.

I enjoyed thinking about the different lots of immortals and mortals, which play out in very real ways in this story. I enjoyed the range of affects and motivations, from cruelty to kindness, hope to resignation, selfishness to compassion. The Fates are a constant thread.

I enjoyed the language of the book too, which has a dignified presence befitting a goddess. It is slightly formal, yet always vivid in terms of detail and emotion. 

Circe isn't about plot per se, but about what moves us and drives us forward, whether we're a mortal soon to die or a god destined to be around for centuries. In many ways, we're not so different.