The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde’s only novel is a dark little tale of excess and debauchery in the upper echelons of Victorian life. It concerns a handsome young man named Dorian Gray, and his chance meeting with the devious and witty old cynic Lord Henry through their mutual friend, the painter Basil Hallward. Dorian is absolutely empty-headed, modelling for the painter without a care in the world, until Lord Henry strikes up a firm friendship with him and tells him all about the wonders and pleasures of the world available to someone as young and drop-dead gorgeous as Mr Dorian Gray; if only until old age and ugliness sets in. After he finishes sitting for the latest portrait, Dorian suddenly has a tantrum over the fact that this likeness of him will continue to remain young forever, while he himself will only ever get older and uglier until the day he dies – foolishly saying that he would give his soul if only it were the other way round. After being gifted with the painting, Dorian Gray suffers a traumatic relationship with an actress and realises, to his horror, that the image in the picture has begun to change – reflecting the inner corruption of his soul, the Dorian Gray in the portrait begins to age and develop outward signs of a corrupt lifestyle. With this undeniable proof that his hasty wish has been granted, he sets out on a personal journey of discovery to see what depths of pleasure and depravity he can reach, heedless of the damage he does to his acquaintances or his soul as he is assured that he will retain his youth and good looks despite whatever foul deeds he commits. The painting will pay the price.

          Overall it’s quite a good book – a very simple concept at its heart allowing Oscar Wilde to tell a rather unique and engrossing story. The writing is excellent, packed with a certain amount of literary skill that often fails to be boring, whilst displaying those characteristic Wilde witticisms that makes one wonder if the man was really like this. Most notably this is seen in the character of Lord Henry, a dark and captivating figure with a sharp tongue and a whole catalogue of sexist remarks; one is inclined to want to punch him every time he enters the room. He’s wonderful. Of the plot, it progresses quite naturally, at a steady and deliberate pace, hitting some superb high points as it rolls inexorably towards its grim conclusion. It’s a sick little book, and for the most part I enjoyed it.

          Of the author, what more needs to be said? A few years after The Picture of Dorian Gray was published, Oscar Wilde – once the most celebrated man in the British Isles – was marked by brutal misfortune as a result of the harsh anti-homosexuality laws and attitudes of the era. Oscar Wilde was a talented writer – a fact that he was all too aware of – and that his literary career was cut short like this is a shame and a tragedy. The preface at the beginning of the book outlines a bewildering ethical and aesthetic standpoint that the man seemingly hoped to convey through his writing, and while this more than anything else makes him seem a tad pretentious, it’s difficult to deny that he had style and intelligence to back it up – and this book goes some of the way to proving it. While I can’t help but think he was a bit a conceited old bastard, nobody, least of all this man, deserved the fate in store for him.

          So yes; a damn good book. Dark, and at times horrific, the plot is fresh and original, the writing impeccable, style and poignancy combined to create a book worthy of one of the most famous names of the Victorian era. Go ahead and read it; you’ll certainly remember it at the very least.

Biblioture

Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Penguin: Reading. (1994 [First Published 1891])

Discworld Books 5 to 8, by Terry Pratchett

Since reviewing the first four Discworld books in September last year, I’ve been aching to get my teeth into the next chunk of Terry Pratchett’s flagship series. Amongst the next four books, reviewed in chronological order, are Sourcery, Wyrd Sisters, Pyramids, and Guards! Guards!

5: Sourcery

This book is the first since The Light Fantastic to feature Rincewind, the inept and unqualified wizard, and his Luggage, and we now find him working as an assistant in the Unseen University Library, alongside everybody’s favourite Orangutan Librarian. The Wizards are still a bickering bunch of old men whose main ambitions are to assassinate their way up the university hierarchy, and it appears that yet another Archchancellor needs to be appointed to that once again vacant position. The arrival of a ten year old boy with more magical power than all the oldest and highest-level wizards at the University put together plunges the whole place into chaos, and Rincewind, following the mass exodus of all the other vermin in the place, decides to run for his life. As the Sourcerer – so called because he is a source of magic (hence the pun on the word) – expands his control beyond the University and consequently begins to unravel the fabric of the universe, Rincewind once again is thrust unwillingly along a path to try and save the world.

          Altogether, this is probably one of the worst books in the series. A bit of a come-down after Mort, I know, but unfortunately Sourcery is one of the most unashamed ‘cod-comic-fantasy’ works in the entire Discworld canon – it has little to say, the characters aren’t especially interesting, and the plot is a tad wishy-washy. It’s essentially the same story as The Light Fantastic, consisting of Rincewind doing his utmost to avoid having to do anything dangerous or heroic, only without Twoflower being dragged along for the ride; instead he has as companions Conina, a barbarian who would rather be a hairdresser, and Nijel the Destroyer, a skinny middle-class teenager who would rather be a barbarian. Without any definite ideas to poke fun at or decent characters to keep it romping along, the main problem with this book is that its humour is lacking and not especially well-refined. Even the Luggage fails to perform to its previous standard, with too many attempts to grant it a personality reducing it almost to the level of a cheap gag rather than the great icon of the series it once was.

          Feel free to miss this book. There are better in store.

6: Wyrd Sisters

Granny Weatherwax, the witch of Lancre who previously featured in Equal Rites, is joined by Nanny Ogg, the elderly mother and grandmother of half the kingdom’s inhabitants, and Magrat, the young and naïve New Age witch. When King Verence of the tiny kingdom of Lancre is murdered by the scheming Duke Felmet and his wife, the recently-formed witches’ coven end up holding the late king’s infant son. Shakespeare and the entire fairy-tale canon are parodied, joked-about and critiqued in the course of this sixth Discworld book, and to superb effect.

           Wyrd Sisters is a very good Pratchett work, easily one of his best. Although one might be inclined to dismiss this as a mere parody of Macbeth – one of the most apparent rip-offs on display here – there are many more facets of this book that go up to make it uniquely Discworld; the subject matter being rather more ‘about’ the theatre than simply making fun of any one work in particular. Multiple works of Shakespeare, witch folklore in general, stereotypes of rural life, fairy tales of both Grimm and Disney persuasion, actors, writers and special effects, all are playfully woven together in Wyrd Sisters to make it deliciously funny, a little bit playful, and thoroughly readable. The best aspect of this book by far is the witches themselves, the three women who are amongst the very best characters in the whole series. They spend most of the book bickering – or rather, Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg bicker as Magrat, being the youngest and least experienced, merely gets bossed around – whilst trying to decide on the proper way to go about this unwelcome new problem. Granny’s prideful bossiness and Nanny Ogg’s uncouth cheeky nature and love of alcohol work well off one-another, and to counterpoint them both with young Magrat’s faintly pitiful mysticism and her clumsy attempts at being her own modern style of witch result in three excellent, distinct characters – each is a work of art on her own, but together they give this book one of the strongest cores in all of Discworld.

          If you want a laugh, then definitely read this one. I cannot recommend it strongly enough.

7: Pyramids

Book 7 is an unusual specimen, but is a Discworld book through-and-through. Ancient Egypt, ritual and religion are given a thorough going-over in the way that has now become the hallmark of this series. By applying one or two real-world rules to the concepts outlined, and then watching as a rational 20^th century mindset grapples with the all this rampant absence of logic. A land very much in the mould of Ancient Egypt, complete with hordes of bickering priests devoted to an endless pantheon of deities, thousands of years of homogenous history in which new ideas and outside influences are frowned upon, and funeral customs that generally involve the construction of vast, elaborately decorated stone structures with sloping sides and pointy tops. And camels. We cannot get enough of the camels.

          Teppic, crown prince of the Old Kingdom of Djelibeybi – conspicuous because of its time-slowing pyramids, its vast number of local gods, and for its great length/immense lack of width (having grown up along a river) – has just completed his training at the famous Assassin’s Guild of Ankh-Morpork, when he inherits the throne of his homeland a bit sooner than expected. He travels home to discover that nothing much has really changed in his absence, while he has changed a little too much – a modern, cosmopolitan mindset that puts him at odds with the old High Priest Dios. While it dawns on Teppic that he’s little more than a figurehead whose sole purpose is to keep the kingdom ticking-over for another generation, the construction of a new giant pyramid for his late father begins to completely bugger up the differences between time and space. Geometry, it turns out, has more in common with nuclear physics here on the Disc.

          Pyramids is definitely a good one. Right from the start at the Assassin’s Guild (something of a Hogwarts for contract killers) the book is witty, well-paced, and hits the mark spot on. The late King Teppicymon XXVII, while in much the same vein as the dead king from Wyrd Sisters, is a good secondary character who provides a suitable amount of black humour as his spirit observes his own mummification, while the pyramid contractors Ptaclusp and his two sons, Ptaclusp IIa and Ptaclusp IIb, are a perfect trio of characters who enliven much of the book with their designer funery monuments and Quantum Geometry. Another fine character is You Bastard, the greatest mathematician in the history of the Disc, but I shall say little more about him here – read the book, and you will love him.

          In the end, Pyramids is actually quite a good story, a tad science-fictiony in places (I mean this in a good way, unusually) which makes well-rounded points against religion, ritual, and the Egyptian afterlife, whilst poking fun at the ancient world in general, especially ancient Greek philosophy, drama and mathematics. Definitely worth a read, and its stand-alone nature amongst the Discworld canon makes it possibly one of the more accessible books for a newcomer.

8: Guards! Guards!

Ankh-Morpork has long proven itself to be the premier Discworld location, an amalgamation and mirror of every major western city on our planet. In this book we get to see this grubby jewel of cities not from the perspective of an aloof wizard, or a hapless tourist, or a privileged member of one of the thousands of Guilds that cluster inside its walls, but rather we see it through the eyes of the humble, underpaid and unfortunate survivors of the Night Watchmen; the remaining few dregs of society who constitute what’s left of the old-fashioned law and order of the city. Ever since Lord Vetinari, the Machiavellian Patrician and ruler of Ankh-Morpork, formally legalised crime in the city so as to make the crime-rates more manageable (and taxable, presumably), the need for a regular law-enforcement body has steadily dwindled to the point of extinction. The last remaining members are the cynical old drunkard Captain Vimes and his two aides, Sergeant Colon, and the short, vile Corporal Nobby. Three men to patrol the night-time streets of the largest and foulest city on the Disc. That is, until the young, idealistic and, dare we say it, heroic Lance-Constable Carrot joins the force, with a rusty old sword in one hand and an outdated law-book in the other (not to mention a trusty Protective device somewhere in-between), and the four watchmen bear witness to a crime of a devastating and near-mythical variety. It seems that a gigantic dragon is loose on the streets of Ankh-Morpork, and the Night-Watch are the only people who want to do anything about it.

          Guards! Guards!, at around 50% longer than any of the previous instalments, is one of the most complex Discworld books so far – though not actually complicated, you’ll be pleased to hear. Captain Vimes is as cynical a protagonist as we will ever get, and it is for this reason that he will go on to become one of the best and most versatile heroes of the series. While personally I am more of a fan of the witches of Lancre, Vimes and his crew of misfits are a good set of characters who give this book a definite new mood, and a unifying core that we cannot help but root for and love. The hooded secret society, another selection of misfits – albeit one bent on seizing control of the city via their misguided machinations – are a characterful group of villains and are easily the best antagonists of the series so far. Their plan is a perfect subversion of that old cliché ‘long-lost king returns to kill an evil dragon and thereby reclaim his rightful throne’, but having it take place in what is, essentially, a modern city where hot-dog salesmen spawn wherever a crowd gathers – for instance, at a dreadful disaster. The real hero of this story is not the dashing guy with the glittering sword who arrives after a life of exile to reclaim his supposed birthright, but rather it is the unwashed, uneducated sceptics who patrol the streets and ask for no gratitude – and who don’t get any either.

          In essence Guards! Guards! is a marker-stone in the development of Pratchett’s expanding world. At the top of the city is the Patrician, Lord Vetinari, a man who has briefly appeared in several of the previous books (most notably in Sourcery, but to no real effect), but it is here first of all that we see one of Pratchett’s greatest characters emerging, a man so devious, so manipulative, so paranoid that he can remain in control of a city as chaotic as Ankh-Morpork. Like so many of the other characters in this book Vetinari is highly cynical, and he therefore runs the city not as an idealist seeking to do right, or as a lunatic who only wants power and wealth from his position, but rather as an engineer maintaining a machine – it doesn’t have to work perfectly, it just has to function, to do the job it was meant to do. Vetinari is basically a tyrant, a dictator, but he is as benevolent a one as it is possible to get. In addition the other supporting characters are excellent as well; Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler the street-vendor, bustling entrepreneur and seller of suspect goods, makes good in the first of what will be many appearances in the series, and the Librarian of the Unseen University finds an interesting little role in this book as he ends up being temporarily drafted as a member of the Watch. Lastly, one of the finest aspects of this book is Lady Sybil Ramkin and her collection of swamp dragons. Sybil Ramkin is one of the most effective characters on display, a no-nonsense breeder of pet swamp dragons whose firm-headed sense of aristocracy, her towering stature and her complete lack of vanity make her a wonderful final supporting character; and that's to say nothing of the swamp dragons – a species of animal so weird and volatile (literally: explosive) that they could only come from a Discworld book.

          All in all, a very good entry in the series. I thoroughly recommend it.

In conclusion, of this selection of Pratchett's works Sourcery is not that great, while all the others are excellent and well worth a read. If there’s a common theme for this phase of the series, it seems to be a lot to do with kings and kingship. Sourcery seems to be dominated with the idea of whether ‘power = right?’, while Wyrd Sisters and Pyramids are both about murdered kings and their successors. Guards! Guards! finally brings this train of thought to an end by dealing with it head-on, wilfully pointing out what's wrong with the common tropes of heroes and kings and thereby having great fun with the idea. All in all, the Disc proves to be a good arena to test these ideas, and to great humorous effect. None of these books are too difficult to grasp, but there’s definitely more going on underneath than you would expect from what some, admittedly silly people, still think of as just another comic-fantasy series.

If I had to pick a favourite, I would be hard-pressed to choose; Wyrd Sisters is a well-rounded comedy, Pyramids is one of the most enjoyable sci-fi works I’ve ever read, and Guards! Guards! is thoroughly Discworld through and through, and has swamp dragons. I think my favourite might have been Pyramids, strangely enough. The Quantum Geometry alone is delicious, but along with designer pyramids, the Assassin’s Guild and one of the broadest swipes at Ancient Greek literature/mathematics/philosophy ever attempted, this particular book has a distinct quality that separates it from the other entries in the series. Unlike the others mentioned in this review, it does not reuse characters from previous instalments, and nor is it followed by sequels which feature the same characters – making it a rare stand-alone example. The main characters, admittedly, are not the best – both Wyrd Sisters and Guards! Guards! are better in this respect – but the supporting characters, the plot, the setting, and the humour more than make up for this. But overall, a firm thumbs-up for all three.

Biblioworld Part 2

Pratchett, Terry. Sourcery. Corgi: Reading. (1989 [First Published 1988])

Pratchett, Terry. Wyrd Sisters. Corgi: Reading. (1989 [First Published 1988])

Pratchett, Terry. Pyramids. Corgi: Reading. (1990 [First Published 1989]

Pratchett, Terry. Guards! Guards! Corgi: Reading. (1990 [First Published 1989]

End-of-Year Summary

This year I have tried and succeeded in reviewing at least two books per month. Starting from last January, I shall now present the cream of the crop, my personal choices for best things to read. In no particular order, and in categories arbitrarily dreamed up at this very moment, are the six winners of Artichoke’s illustrious prizes:

Most Humorous Funny Book of the Year: Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome is one of the most amusing things that can be read. A collection of cute little anecdotes about boating, this book shows us the light, silly side to Victorian England which contains badly-behaved dogs, reverse-psychology kettles, a practical example of how hypochondria works, and what to do once the ridiculousness of the whole idea of 'getting-away-from-it-all' finally dawns on you. i.e. Get away from the river as quickly as possible and catch the next train back to civilisation. [Reviewed January 2014]

Most Easily Enjoyed Book of the Year: I said that this book would be perfect for the lavatory, and this is still the case; Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino can be dived-into with no issue whatsoever, packed as it is with numerous little sections of standalone prose that can be enjoyed like a buffet. Each is brilliant, gorgeously written and presenting clear, amazing new ways in which to look at the world around us. It’s easy to enjoy, even if it isn’t quite so easy to understand all the time. [Reviewed June 2014]

Most Surprisingly Good Book of the Year: There have been several books I’ve picked up, expecting them to be boring or terrible, only to find that they were quite a lot better than expected. The Iliad was somewhat slow, repetitive, uninteresting, and not especially enjoyable to read, so I was delighted to find its sequel, The Odyssey, to be a whole lot better. Part of this was due, I think, to the particular translation – E.V. Rieu’s Penguin edition – but nevertheless the subject of the story, the progression of the plot, the characters on display, and the climactic ending, all were very much excellent. Modern adventure stories can all learn a thing or two from this founding-stone of Western literature. [Reviewed November 2014]

Worst Book of the Year: As always, some books just aren’t as good as others, but one or two of the things I’ve subjected myself to this year were awful to the extreme. Although there were some dreadful things to wade through, some were kind of funny in just how ridiculous and stupid they were; alas this is something that could not be said for the winner of this award – Douglas Adams’ Life, the Universe, and Everything, the sequel to The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. What makes me despair about this book so much, what makes it almost painful to me, is that Adams’ works were originally something worthy of praise – witty comic sci-fi that for a brief period were the finest examples of their genre – but with this attempt by Adams to resurrect his one good idea, the man had absolutely forgotten how to use his own comic genius. Everything that had made The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy so great in the first place is lacking from this book, and in its place is Adams’ misguided belief that he could, and should, write something more serious, give his paper-thin characters more character - not something they were designed for - and to try and put them through something almost like an actual science fiction plot. This is not The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – it is Douglas Adams flogging a horse that had died long ago, one that clearly should have been left buried. It hurts me to say it, because the original Hitch-Hiker phenomenon was such a good thing. [Reviewed March 2014]

Most Worthwhile Piece of Fantasy Fiction of the Year: Strangely enough, I’ve read quite a bit of ‘fantasy’ this year. For one thing I made it my duty to explore the original ‘Conan the Barbarian’ stories by Robert E. Howard, some of the first identifiable pieces of this genre ever recorded (predating Tolkien’s works, whilst being instantly recognisable to any practitioners of pen-and-paper RPGs thanks to how repetitively formulaic and unimaginative every last one of them was). But these are far from being good by any reasonable definition of that word, so we must look elsewhere to award this title. The best Fantasy is not really a Fantasy at all, but a joke parody of our world and modern civilisation, of our outlooks, manners and beliefs, and its a joke that keeps on giving.

We are of course talking about the Discworld of Terry Pratchett, one of the most versatile and true-to-life imaginary constructs ever devised by a writer – and the finest example of this I encountered in 2014 was Mort. Great characters, wicked humour and an interesting plot all go together to create a genuinely funny book that carries within it a serious critique of our own attitudes to mortality, morality, and fate. [Reviewed September 2014]

Best Book of the Year: This is the big one – the book that, even if you ignore everything else recommended here, you must make every effort to experience in order to make your reading-life complete. The book that has stood out most above all others for me this year has been, without any doubt, The Hour of the Dragon by Robert E. Howard, the only full-length Conan the Barbarian novel, a rip-roaring adventure across the Hyborian Age as the former King Conan of Aquilonia is put to the test tracking down a magical item which will aid in his efforts to reclaim his throne stolen by sorcerers and usurpers who are fed up with how Conan is just too awesome to be beaten using fair means... Wait; what came over me there? Conan can’t be the best book I’ve read all year. It's too stupid an idea to entertain.

Because the Conan stories are disqualified on account of being nothing more than overly-hormonal drivel, I've looked back through my notes and realized that the best book of the year, the one I have absolutely no reservation against holding up as a shining beacon of literature, is The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, a charming little tale about a Mole, a Water Rat, a Badger and a Toad as they live their relaxing little lives by the river. The story of Toad of Toad Hall which steals the plot for most of the second half of the book is all right on its own, but really it’s the parts featuring Moley and Ratty that make this book what it is – a relaxing stroll through an unspoilt countryside, revelling in the sheer beauty of life and the world, and of the writing used to convey it to the reader. For human beings of all ages this is a wonderful thing to experience or re-experience so, if you’ve never tried it before, then maybe you could give it a go. In the words of Ratty: “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing around in boats.” 
And who can argue with that? [Reviewed August 2014]

       Happy New Year – and read for pleasure every now and again. You’ll appreciate it.

Bibliofaff

Adams, Douglas. Life, the Universe and Everything. Pan Books: Bungay. (1982)

Calvino, Italo. Invisible Cities. Vintage: Reading. (1997 [First Published 1972])

Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. 49^th Ed. Methuen & Co. Ltd. (1935 [First Published 1908])

Homer. The Odyssey. Translated by E.V. Rieu. Revised Edition. Penguin: St. Ives. (1991 [First Published 1946])

Jerome, Jerome K. Three Men in a Boat. Alan Sutton: Bristol. (1989 [first published 1889])

Pratchett, Terry. Mort. Corgi: Reading. (1988 [First Published 1987])

The Argonautica, by Apollonius of Rhodes

The Argonautica, or The Voyage of Argo to give it the Penguin name, may seem like a cut-price Greek epic, and there’s an argument for that being the right appraisal. It has received criticism from scholars, both ancient and modern, mostly on the grounds for it being something of a Homeric knock-off, but my own reservations against it are far more general than that. On the plus side it’s short – tiny, if you compare it to the Iliad. It has one or two interesting characters lurking within, and it’s fairly consistent as a story – we follow our heroes from start to finish, whereas in Homer’s stuff the narrative veers all over the place. Alas however it’s not particularly gripping, most of the characters are non-entities, and it finishes without any real conclusion. Essentially, it’s boring. And it's not a matter of translator this time either: this edition was done by the same guy who did the translation of the Odyssey I spent so much time praising a month ago, so it just goes to show.

So the story of ‘Jason and the Argonauts/The Golden Fleece’ is a genuine piece of Greek mythology, much like ‘Theseus and the Minotaur’ or the ‘Twelve Tasks of Heracles [Or Hercules for the Romans, but people – particularly Hollywood – keep calling him that even in the Greek context, which makes no sense],’ but it wasn’t until after Alexander the Great that anybody thought to write down the whole thing; which is what Apollonius of Rhodes did in about the 3^rd century BCE, a good few centuries after the Homeric stories were composed. Of Apollonius little more needs to be said; this is his only real contribution to history or literature, and the first time he tried to write his own epic, it thing apparently turned out a bit rubbish. But, undeterred, he went back to the drawing board and did a whole load of editing, mostly cutting, and then he put it back on the market where it became an international best-seller.

          So the story. Jason is a hero; he needs to sail off and get himself a Golden Fleece so he can do something about a vaguely villainous king called Pelias, so he assembles a crew of would-be heroes, loads up a boat which they name the Argo, and they sail off to unknown waters. After stopping over in Lemnos, where they swan around with the all-female inhabitants until Heracles tells them to get a grip and carry on adventuring, the Argonauts then have a chat with a blind seer and sort out his harpy problem, who then gives them helpful directions to distant Colchis where the Fleece apparently is, and so they head through the Clashing Rocks – a nice little coastal-feature that pretty much gates off the Bosporus – into the Black Sea, and finally arrive at the Caucasus where they are duly welcomed by King Aeetes and his daughter, Medea. Aeetes is not well disposed to hand over his favourite Fleece, so he puts Jason through a suicidal challenge to yoke a couple of fire-breathing bulls and plough a field with serpents’ teeth which will immediately grow into a bunch of homicidal warriors. With help from Medea, who has – with a bit of Divine interference – fallen in love with him, Jason overcomes these challenges, nicks the Golden Fleece, and sails back homeward, via the Danube, the Adriatic Sea, Switzerland, and the deserts of North Africa, and there the tale ends with them pulling into port back home at Pegasae, with no closure about what happens with King Pelias, what they do with the Golden Fleece, or whether Jason and Medea live happily ever after. It was a cop-out ending, make no mistake!

          Most of the characters are a bit rubbish; I mean, for odd incidental characters who are only there to advance the plot this isn’t too bad, but Jason is the protagonist, and he’s as boring as they come. The rest of the Argonauts, though they’re each given their own dreadfully long introduction, are also a bit lifeless – this point I will just go over again, because it’s something I particularly dislike to see in books; it’s bad form to introduce a load of characters in one lump, as we can’t be expected to memorise a whole list of names and their associated traits all at once, and it only really ends up frustrating the reader. This is what the Argonautica does right at the beginning, boring us before we’d even set off. With the Homeric heroes you generally get some amount of personality in the characters, and the Odyssey goes about this in the right way by introducing the players gradually, fleshing them out in their own time, and never having too many to deal with. If only Apollonius had taken this particular leaf out of Homer’s book.

          There is one major exception to this criticism. The best character in the Argonautica, one who actually goes a long way towards making this story actually worth reading, is Medea – the daughter of King Aeetes of Colchis, dabbler in magic and potion-making, and the girl who’s more or less responsible for pulling Jason’s arse out of the fire. For Medea we not only have a more detailed and sympathetic human personality than every other character in the book combined, she pretty much steals the show the moment she first enters the story. Basically she fulfils the same role as Ariadne does in the story of ‘Theseus and the Minotaur’ – that is, being the daughter of the tyrannical king who goes over and helps the hero against him, giving him handy tips and useful items which will aid in the coming trial, before the hero does his business and they sail off back home together before some horrible ‘Greek-Tragic’ twist ruins their lives at the end. But the thing about Medea is that she has actual personality and character-development, and the writer never neglects just how important a character she really is. If the whole thing had been about her from the start, then it would have been a much better story. For one thing, it would have had an actual protagonist, because Jason and his goons certainly don’t fit the bill. 

          So that’s about the long and short of it. A Hellenistic paperback that some people say was made simply so that Apollonius could prove he could write an epic all of his own, while other people say that this work is a definite departure from Homer, innovative and new. I hate the fact it offers no closure about the story whatsoever; I mean, I was hoping to hear the story about Jason sitting despondently under the decaying wreck of the Argo years later only to be crushed to death when its prow falls on him, but I would have settled with having him hand over the Fleece and actually do something worthwhile about Pelias, even if they gave us a pathetic faux happy-ending. In the Iliad we didn’t really see an ending to that story either, yet that epic still managed to end more strikingly than this piece of disappointing post-Alexandrian shite. Yet it has its moments – and I genuinely mean that. It comes alive when Medea enters the stage, and to give praise where it’s due, she’s one of the better characters in Greek myth I’ve seen so far. If you read it for any reason, it’d be for her – or if you just really love that cheesy old Todd Armstrong film from the ‘60s, and who can say fairer than that?

Biblionautica

Apollonius of Rhodes. The Voyage of Argo. Translated by E.V. Rieu. Penguin: London. (1971 [First Published 1959 – or the 3^rd century BCE, if you’d prefer])