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�The world is an ugly place. We must live in it.�

�Who gets to be the subject is an immensely political question,� writer and activist Rebecca Solnit says in her collection Whose Story is This?. The perspective of a story directs the understanding of its elements and, as Solnit postulates, �one of the rights that the powerful often assume is the power to dictate reality.� For centuries, the power to tell a story resided only with men, who made men their focus and men their heroes and sidelined women to supporting roles at best--where providing emotional support at one’s own expense was the only avenue for heroics. Madeline Miller’s Circe upends Greek mythology by redirecting the focus to the witch Circe, allowing us to witness familiar tales from her perspective and see how notable characters and events can be transformed simply by listening to a new voice. Offering a critical look at the gods and famous heroes alike, Circe’s retelling casts a fresh light on the cruel and patriarchal landscape of Greek mythology. Miller allows the women of these stories to have their tales writ large. Meanwhile, the flaws of traditional heroes are examined to remind us how other versions gloss over or enable their many misgivings, especially in translation. Ultimately, this is a highly engaging and entertaining retelling that works for both newcomers and those well-versed in Greek mythology. It is constructed through an empowering story of self-actualization in the wild and is a chastisement to those who hold and abuse power.

Retellings of Greek mythology have seen quite a boom in recent years and stand as a testament to the importance of myths in storytelling, which may also shape society. In her book Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of the Ancient Myths, classics scholar Dr. notes that �Greek and Roman myths have become embedded in, and an influential part of, our culture.� These stories are so well known, having been retold for centuries, that they’ve become a common compass that can be easily understood by many, which makes them great platforms for retellings. This is what Ralph Ellison referred to as enlargement, combining modern with classical myths to enlarge our understanding through the interplay. For example, Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie works because it shows how revolutionary Antigone was through a modern recasting of jihadists and anti-immigration politicians, enlarging our understanding of modern conflicts by bestowing upon them mythological attributes and demonstrating through a modern viewpoint just how radical Antigone’s actions were in the traditional tale.

This enlargement is at the heart of Miller’s Circe, as we go into this retelling in an era where a push for listening to marginalized voices has finally helped it become normalized--though not without violent pushback--and the #MeToo era has begun to expose how patriarchal norms and toxic masculinity are systemic problems. �Beyond the smooth, familiar face of things is another that waits to tear the world in two,� Circe muses, much like how this retelling from her perspective reshapes our understanding of the myths. Although once Odysseus was left off the hook for his behavior and praised for being cunning, when seen through Circe’s eyes with her emotional struggles with letting him go and being left alone to raise his child, we can clearly realize he is garbage (especially because a few days later he decides to stay with Calypso and have sex with her instead for seven years). There is also the enlargement of how the patriarchal structure of the gods is problematic and how they use it to enact horrific abuses of power. Beyond Zeus constantly raping mortals with no consequences, an early scene has Circe’s father Helios taking comedic joy out of bringing the sun up late because the rulers will execute their astronomers for being wrong about sunrise times. This leads Circe to reflect on how out of place she is amongst the gods, being outcast even by her own siblings. �All my life had been murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it.�

�They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. The only thing that makes them listen is power.�

A major theme in Circe is the attitudes of the gods toward the mortals. To the gods, humans are mere playthings, and we see how immortality leads to immorality and lack of consequences leads to instances of abuse. This is not unlike the wealthy of our own time, whose extreme privilege allows them to look at others as pawns and conduct acts of violence and oppression for personal gain. Circe has her first stirrings of an awakening when Prometheus is punished for aiding the mortals. He knowingly heads to eternal punishment to help those who are thought of as too beneath the gods to be worthy of anything. �All those creatures Prometheus had given his eternity for. Mortals,� Circe thinks, and begins to consider whether there could be a purpose for life beyond lustful power and leisure. As the story progresses, she finds the mortals� limited timeline to offer an avenue for purpose in life; unlimited life and power, on the other hand, can make life a bland game where only grudges �as deathless as their flesh� seem to keep them going:

�This was how mortals found fame, I thought. Through practice and diligence, tending their skills like gardens until they glowed beneath the sun. But gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. So they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. It leaves only ash behind.�

From this passage, we can see Circe slowly but surely beginning to pity humans and this trajectory leads toward the novel’s satisfying conclusion. Mortals have purpose because their actions have consequences and there is beauty in the ephemeral because their lives �are like constellations that only touch the earth for a season�. When Circe grants Glaucus immortality through her herbs, his nature changes to cruelty because of his newfound status, affirming the old maxim on the inherent corruption of absolute power.

For granting Glaucus this power, Circe is exiled onto an island. �What worse punishment could there be, my family thought, than to be deprived of their divine presence?� Exile, she finds, however, can be a blessing of its own. �I stepped into those woods and my life began,� Circe says, entering her own mythological bildungsroman as she perfects her witchcraft despite the constant assailment of rape and various intereferences of a world that seems to frequently impose itself upon her exile. When reading The Odyssey, the account of Circe turning the men into pigs seems abrupt and aggressive, but through her eyes we can see how it has become a natural defence against the frequent violations of various visitors. Even the story of Odysseus winning Circe over is seen as traditionally being a misogynist wet dream of conquest when recast here.

�Witches are not so delicate.�

Much of her time on the island plays into archetypes of the ‘wild woman,� as described by Clarissa Pinkola Estés in her book Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. � If you don't go out in the woods,� writes Estés, �nothing will ever happen and your life will never begin.� Although it is common in certain myth theories, such as the one by Joseph Campbell, for the hero to enter the wilderness on a quest of sorts and return with lessons to pass on, as Estés writes, and Circe demonstrates, in an oppressive society, true freedom stems from learning lessons of self-realization and acceptance and living true to them. �Sorcery cannot be taught,� Circe realizes, �you find it yourself, or you do not,� and much of the novel is her journey into the wilderness of society and self in order to come to terms with her outcast status as a mark of pride against a system that had no place for her to begin with. Estés states that:

�There is in many women a 'hungry' one inside. But rather than hungry to be a certain size, shape, or height, rather than hungry to fit the stereotype; women are hungry for basic regard from the culture surrounding them. The 'hungry' one inside is longing to be treated respectfully, to be accepted and in the very least, to be met without stereotyping.�

This hunger exists in Circe. She wants to rise above the gods, her family especially, and be proud of who she is as a witch. �What could make a god afraid?� she asks, to which the answer is �a power greater than their own.� On her own, she will subvert them and overcome them.

However, there is also grace to be had within Circe. Although the book may make you yearn for a dramatic conclusion where Circe punishes all the gods for their wickedness, this would be uncharacteristic of her. Circe knows that power is not something to be craved, as she has only seen how it can corrupt. To live a life as she sees fit is the true revenge, or as put by Estés:

�To be strong does not mean to sprout muscles and flex. It means meeting one's own numinosity without fleeing, actively living with the wild nature in one's own way. It means to be able to learn, to be able to stand what we know. It means to stand and live.�

Ultimately, Circe must choose to live a life that she sees as the best fit for her convictions. Having played a part in many major and familiar stories from the Minotaur and his labyrinth to Scylla the sea monster (being the one who cursed the nymph in the latter case), Circe has witnessed firsthand the fickle and cruel ways of the gods compared with the hunger and beauty of fleeting mortals, and if standing up to authority is needed to benefit mortals like Telemachus, then she has learned that is exactly what she must do.

�Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter,� says Solnit, paraphrasing an African proverb. Circe joins a brilliant chorus of retellings that attempt to subvert the hunter and bestow a more humane and nuanced take on traditional stories. Circe was once a minor role in a man’s epic, a mere trial to overcome and a sexual escapade on his journey, but in this account we follow her life and loves, her struggles, her journey through motherhood, and her quest towards self-actualization as a powerful witch. Miller’s retelling is a breath of fresh air and while perhaps the language is a bit uneven (the modern dialect sprinkled with attempts at recreating a classical tone is occasionally jarring), it is, on the whole, gorgeously written. This is a seriously fun voyage through Greek mythology that reshapes the familiar with fresh and modern perspectives and understanding to create something far greater than a mere retelling. Circe is a textbook achievement of Ellison’s enlargement theory and a harrowing reminder to listen to marginalized voices.

4.25/5

�Beneath my feet were the bones of a thousand years. I thought: I cannot bear this world a moment longer.

Then, child, make another.�