“Sorcery cannot be taught. You find it yourself, or you do not.” ― Madeline Miller, Circe
Madeline Miller’s Circe is a book that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I read it in January last year. Generally, I am someone who is over-enthusiastic about things to the point where I should be banned from topics altogether, but now that a year's passed, I can honestly look back and say that my enthusiasm for this book was not unmerited, and this has been echoed by everyone I know who has also read it. Greek mythology has always been completely absorbing to me, and for this reason the recent revival in mythical retellings and feminist revisionism (where religion, myth, fairy or folktales are revisited from a critical feminist perspective) has been incredible to watch unfold.
Circe [kírkɛ] is the first witch in ‘Western’ literature - meaning that she is said to have invented witchcraft herself. Circe’s sorcery is a type of cultivated magic that is generated through her focused work with potions, herbs and chants. In the Odyssey, Circe is written as a sorceress who turns the hero Odysseus's men into pigs, only to then turn them back, heal them and host them in her home. Circe's intentions and power are never justified nor explained, and Miller describes her as 'a cameo in the male hero's story.' When discussing what moved her to write about the character, Miller felt that she was drawn to Circe’s mysteries and complexities, ‘I wanted to discover how she came to the power, and what it was like for her to wield it in a world that is so hostile to her independence.’
After being banished to the uninhabited island of Aiaia as a punishment for practicing malevolent magic, Circe is free to nurture her craft alone and without judgement. Miller sees Circe as an artist, and this is an image that is conjured beautifully throughout the novel. Describing Circe's first attempts at working with herbs and flowers, Miller writes: ‘One rose would give up its secrets if it were ground, another must be pressed, a third steeped. Each spell was a mountain to be climbed anew.’ As Circe arrives at the island of Aiaia, Miller writes that ‘I stepped into those woods and my life began’. To me, Circe reads as a love letter to the power of solitude; her banishment to Aiaia marks the beginning of her independence, self-discovery and cultivation of power.
Stories that centre upon the inner and untold lives of women have always captured me. Exploring a woman's inner monologue gifts her the narrative identity that she isn't granted when a male character narrates on her behalf, and this so often reveals a much vaster, more compelling perspective than anyone else could offer. Miller herself has said that in mythology, too often women's internal lives are considered only in relation to men, and with regard to her intentions with Circe, she writes that ‘I wanted to give Circe a full epic scope. I wanted to give her the epic scope that women are usually denied.'
For those who might feel deterred from reading the novel because they’re not interested in feminist retellings or mythology, the writing alone is enough of a reason to read Circe. Miller’s prose often reads like poetry, which truly makes for one of the most atmospheric and immersive novels that I’ve ever read. After hearing about the death of a former lover, Circe remembers their time together in one of my favourite passages: “I had no right to claim him, I know it. But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.”
Miller writes the full scope of Circe's life as an immortal, and on occasions we're reminded that hundreds of years have gone by, as she is forced to watch lovers and friends age, and then die. As a historian and teacher of Latin and Ancient Greek, Miller is able to touch upon some of the ‘highlights’ of the Greek canon such as the Minotaur, Icarus, Odysseus and Jason and Medea, in a way that feels delicate, and yet somehow still wholly comprehensive.
Despite its mythic origins, in many ways I read Circe as a novel about what it means to be human. In a podcast interview with Vox, Miller stated that what compels her about the Greek myths is that even though society continues to evolve, the things that human beings struggle with, love and fear are the same - and therefore these ancient stories remain vibrant. Throughout the novel Circe is shunned by her community, rejected by lovers, and callously cast aside by family. She struggles with the despair and paranoia of motherhood, and suffers brutality at the hands of men. Although she possesses immortality, time and time again we witness her suffer in ways that are entirely human, forced to rebuild and heal after each new misfortune. At the novel’s end, Circe reflects upon the consoling words of her lover, and finds solace in a quiet acceptance of what life will bring.
‘He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.’
Despite being born into a world that tries to break her, Circe continues to weave new life for herself. In recounting, and then so nimbly recreating Circe’s story, I think that Miller gives the character the scope that she has always deserved, whilst also writing a beautiful ode to the strength of the individual and the renewing power of hope and resistance.
