Madeline Miller
Circe

It is undoubtedly a so-called "entertainment" literature, let's clarify that right away, getting it out of the way. It is also, in my view equally undoubtedly, a refined and highly imaginative novel, a splendid proof of maturity for a writer who, already with her debut in 2011 (The Song of Achilles), had amply demonstrated courage, vision, and above all, style. Engaging in "retelling," especially in a decidedly "modern" key in various aspects, of such iconic subjects of classical mythology is definitely not something everyone can do; it seems almost unnecessary to point out how easy it could be to fall into the tacky, so the remarkable artistic outcomes of this American writer, born in 1978, deserve further, special praise.

In my opinion, what makes The Song of Achilles and, indeed, this Circe, released in 2018, books of value, is the originality of the approach. First and foremost, what are Madeline Miller's first two novels not? They are not fantasies; the universe and the magic contained within it are neither more nor less than those of classical myths. In this respect, the author adds nothing of her own, limiting herself to making everything more vivid through an elegant but never overly baroque prose that reads with excellent smoothness. And fortunately, they are not even young adult novels, even though they are particularly suitable for a teenage audience with good and healthy literary tendencies; however, anyone, at any age, can enjoy them with satisfaction. Now, in terms of complexity, Circe represents a "step forward," if we want to call it that, compared to the debut, for a very simple reason: instead of developing on a relationship between two main "fixed" characters, here we are closer to monodrama, the protagonist is unique, and the countless characters who, over the course of the story, will approach her, represent experiences, stages of a growth process. Stages that have "famous" names like Helios, Prometheus, Scylla, Pasiphae, Daedalus, Hermes, Medea, obviously Odysseus, Athena, and finally, Penelope and Telemachus. Said this way, it might also seem like a sort of pretentious "pastiche." Ambitious? Yes. Pretentious? No, I assure you.

If we really want to label it, then I would say that Circe is fundamentally a coming-of-age novel; the "wicked witch," initially an almost amorphous creature, is born at the court of the Titan Helios, the personification of the Sun, at the world's edge, without apparent powers except that of immortality, without a purpose in life. It will be the encounter with Prometheus (who better than he?) to ignite in her the first spark of that restlessness, that resourcefulness, and personality that will characterize her throughout her journey, and to separate her from the grotesquely decadent non-existence in which her kind languishes. Exiled to the island of Aeaea, we will see her fall in love with Daedalus, the personification of mortal ingenuity, and later with Odysseus. But, above all, we will see the witch, the woman, and later the mother, emerge from the expressionless shell of divinity. All this will happen extremely slowly and gradually, each event circumscribed by interludes of reflections and solitude, fundamental for the narrative and stylistic structure of the novel. An element of undeniable originality is how Miller characterizes characters Athena and especially Odysseus. Pallas has the role, for her completely unusual, at least in contemporary "pop" culture, of the antagonist, cold and arrogant, distant from humanity as much as the much less "renowned" Thetis in The Song of Achilles; Madeline Miller's Odysseus, on the other hand, is a deeply imperfect man, imprisoned by his own exceptional nature, which over time will lead him to paranoia and the impossibility of living in peace. With the exception of Penelope and Telemachus, who will appear only in the final phases of the novel, every "secondary" character has its symbolism, each acts like a chisel, which will shape Circe until the final form is reached. The entire narrative structure, I reiterate, is built with great coherence, mastery, holding together with impeccable fluidity, with a single exception. This exception, in my opinion, is the greatest flaw of Circe, the encounter with Medea and Jason, on which I had enormous expectations, but which turns out to be an almost self-concluding aside, poorly integrated with the rest of the narrative arc, placed there almost to gain pages.

Finally, the idea of the immortal being who renounces divinity for love, embracing the authentic life of mortality, is certainly not new. The Valkyrie Brunnhilde in Wagner's Ring has a decidedly similar path, albeit with different dynamics. Still on the subject of operatic comparisons, The Song of Achilles could be a Grand Opera by Meyerbeer or Berlioz, full of choirs, impactful arias, ballet, military march, love duet, and the madness scene, while Circe would require a decidedly more symbolist and post-Wagnerian approach, but I can't associate it as clearly: it would have been perfect for Debussy, perhaps, but also for Wolfgang Erich Korngold. Coming back down to earth, I can conclude by stating that it is a splendid achievement for its author, and at the same time, a point of arrival. The latest news, in fact, sees Madeline Miller working on a new novel, this time based on Shakespeare's The Tempest; a new artistic phase, therefore, a wise decision after such valuable works as her first two. As for me, the curiosity and hype are already very high.