Christopher Rivera, Period 7, 3/16/23

 Christopher Rivera, Period 7, Due 3/16/23

Literacy Circle: Circe by Madeline Miller

Proud, self-obsessed, arrogant, petty, jealous, and perpetually promiscuous, the Greek gods were essentially magnifications of all of humanity’s flaws. It is in the midst of the contemptuous, vain world of the Greek pantheon that Madeline Miller begins her novel Circe. The selfishness of the gods causes all sorts of heartache and sorrow throughout the novel, but much can be learned from the way different characters react to the pain inflicted by the gods.

Circe was born the black sheep of her family, the first daughter of a water nymph and the sun god Helios. Her sister Pasiphae and brother Perses endlessly mocked her for her streaked hair, her less-than-perfect face, and her screeching voice. Her mother cared nothing for Circe, being concerned only with her appearance and standing among her sisters. Circe found that her only joy came from isolation, wandering her father’s empty halls away from the gossip of her aunts and the jeering of her siblings. “I would like to say that all the while I waited to break out”, she reminisces, “but the truth is, I’m afraid I might have floated on, believing that those dull miseries were all there was, until the end of days.”

Stirring up the monotony of Circe’s lonely days was the news of a divine judgment. The Titan Prometheus had stolen fire from the gods and given it to mortal humans, then freely confessed his deeds to an enraged Zeus. For his crime, Prometheus was to be tortured in front of all the gods, a warning from Zeus against anyone trying to defy him. Circe and the other gods gathered together and watched Prometheus be brutally beaten. Rather than sympathy or grief, the faces of the gods were filled with a dark fascination. “You cannot know how frightened gods are of pain,” Circe says,  “There is nothing more foreign to them, and nothing they ache more deeply to see.” After days of torture, the gods’ morbid curiosity turned to boredom, and one by one they all left Prometheus to suffer alone. All, except for Circe. Partly out of confusion as to why a god would let himself suffer, and partly out of sympathy for her uncle who had also been shunned by the gods, Circe shakily approaches Prometheus and offers him nectar. He gratefully and humbly accepts, and Circe finds the courage to talk to him. 

    “Is it true that you refused to beg for pardon? And that you were not caught, but confessed to Zeus freely what you did?”

    “It is.”

    “Why?”

    His eyes were steady on mine. “Perhaps you would tell me. Why would a god do such a thing?”

    I had no answer. It seemed to me madness to invite divine punishment, but I could not say that to him, not when I stood in his blood. 

    “Not every god need be the same,” he said.

From everything that Circe had seen of the gods, she observed that her kind acted only in self-interest. Everything a god or goddess did was for their own pleasure or power or fame, regardless of who was harmed as a result. To Circe, it was inconceivable that a god would surrender their eternal luxuries and willingly suffer and bleed for any cause, least of all the benefit of mortals. And yet, that is exactly what Prometheus did. Meeting Prometheus stirred something inside of Circe. She realized that there can be more to her existence than endlessly enduring the chastisement of her family. She could choose to be different. She found a knife and sliced her palm, feeling the sharp pain and watching the blood drip down her arm. At that moment, she chose to set herself apart from her abusive family. “…All my life had been murk and depths,” she thought to herself, “but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it.”

After this, Circe met a young mortal fisherman named Glaucos. Drawn to his openness and charm, she fell deeply in love with him. He was everything the gods were not: humble, honest, and affectionate. Desperate to make him immortal so she could be with him forever, Circe secretly gave him a pharmaka, a powerful potion outlawed by the gods. To her delight, her amateur concoction worked - Glaucos transformed into a handsome sea god! Giddy with excitement, Circe brought Glaucos into her realm, where the nymphs doted upon him and the gods welcomed him into their ranks. Circe felt like her fate was finally turning - she had finally met someone who truly cared about her and she would enjoy his love and companionship for all eternity, unaffected by the disdain of her family. Glaucos’ transformation, however, was not merely physical. He was enraptured by the luxuries of his new palace, his newfound divine powers, and the affection of gorgeous nymphs. Gone was the caring young man that Circe had loved. Glaucos had become just like the rest of the gods. He chose to marry the beautiful nymph Scylla. Scylla held her betrothal as a trophy, mostly to torment the devastated Circe. Circe begged Glaucos to reconsider, to remember all they had done together when Glaucos was still human. Glaucos, however, was unmoved. “I will not think on those days,” he scolded her, “… I sit at councils with your father now. I do not have to beg for every scrap. Nymphs clamor for me, and I may choose the best among them, which is Scylla.” In a fit of desperation, Circe poisoned Scylla with a pharmaka, transforming her into a hideous monster. Circe hoped that Glaucos would return to her, but Glaucos simply shrugged off the loss of his bride and sought after the next most beautiful nymph. 

Circe was burning with shame, grief, and anger. She hated everything about the world she lived in- the indifferent indulgence of gods like Glaucos, the vain cruelty of the other nymphs like Scylla and her siblings Pasiphae and Perses, and the sadistic pleasure they all took from the suffering of others. She suddenly recalled the words of Prometheus: “Not all gods need be the same.”

    Prometheus has not cried out as the blows fell… And all the while, the gods had watched, their attention bright as lightning. They would have relished a turn with the Fury’s whip, given the chance. I was not like them.

    Are you not? The voice was my uncle’s, resonant and deep. Then you must think, Circe. What would they not do?

To Circe, the last thing that a self-indulgent deity would do was willingly accept punishment. Following in the footsteps of Prometheus, she confesses to using pharmaka in front of Helios. When the gods realized that Circe is truly a pharmakis, a witch, they decided on a punishment: Circe would be exiled to an island in the middle of the ocean, keeping her witchcraft contained. Her brother Aeetes told her, “‘It is your own fault for confessing. Why you did that, I will never understand.’” “It was true, he would not,” Circe thought, “He had not been born when Prometheus was whipped.” Circe knew that there was no benefit to be found in asking for punishment, and that was the point. Her actions were in defiance: she wanted to show the rest of the gods that she was different, that she was not self-gratifying or malicious or allergic to discomfort like they were. She wanted to prove that she wanted nothing to do with her family and that she would much rather be an outcast like Prometheus.

In an ironic twist of fate, Circe’s banishment was the greatest blessing she could have received. Her island was large and beautiful, and she was finally free from the perpetual revilement the gods and goddesses once oppressed her with. She had the freedom to do everything that set her apart from her kin: she could sing out loud with her human-sounding voice, she could work on her hands and knees in her garden, and she could master the art of pharmakeia. Circe imagined telling her father, “What do you have to say to me? You threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you.”

Circe’s exile was unexpectedly interrupted by the inventor Daedalus carrying a message from Circe’s sister. Pasiphae was one of Circe’s cruelest tormentors when she lived with her father, a fellow pharmakis, and wife of the demigod king Minos of Crete. In this chapter, we see Circe’s most distinguishing trait shine through. It is a trait that separates her from the other gods the most, the sentiment that had led to so much of her sorrow, and the same affection that led Prometheus to defy the gods. In stark contrast to her sister, Circe cares for mortals. Pasiphae had ordered the ship carrying Daedalus to pass through the Strait of Messina, where twelve of the crew were eaten by Scylla, the monster that Circe had created. 

    How could I have forgotten who my sister was?... I could see her bragging and laughing to Minos. Circe’s a fool for mortals, I hear. 

    I hated her more than I ever had. It was all so cruelly done. I imagined stalking into my house, slamming the door on its great hinge. Too bad, Pasiphae. You will have to find some other fool.

    But then six more men, or maybe twelve, would die.

Pasiphae knew of Circe’s affection for humans and had used Scylla to torment Circe with guilt. Circe agreed to go with Daedalus to Crete, and on the journey, she managed to save all the crew from Scylla’s monstrous hunger. 

When Circe arrived at Crete, she helped her sister give birth to the Minotaur, a half-human half-bull monster with an insatiable appetite for human flesh. Circe discovered that in the years since Pasiphae had been married, her cruelty had only grown. She mocked Circe for her desire to protect humans. “‘You made a monster, and all you can think about is how sorry you are. Alas, poor mortals, I have put them in danger!... More will die on every ship that passes.’” Pasiphae was keeping Daedalus’ son Icarus hostage to prevent Daedalus from leaving Crete, she had cast a spell that led to the deaths of a hundred girls, and she had all the prisoners in Crete fed to the ravenous Minotaur. Circe casts a spell that limited the hunger of the Minotaur, but questions why Pasiphae sent for her in particular when she could have sent for any other of her pharmakis siblings.

One night, Circe confronts Pasiphae about why Pasiphae brought her to Crete. 

“‘I came to your aid, despite all our history, despite the men you sent to their deaths. I helped you with your monster. I have done your work for you, and all you give me is mockery and contempt. For once in your twisting life, speak the truth. You brought me here to make me your fool.’”

Pasiphae does not give Circe a straight answer. She responds by talking about their shared past in the house of Helios, and the way they were treated by the gods. 

    ‘Let me tell you a truth about Helios and all the rest. They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. The only thing that makes them listen is power… They take what they want, and in return, they give you only your own shackles… You loathed them as I did. I think it is where our power comes from.’

    Her words were falling on my head like a great cataract. I could scarcely take them in. She hated our family? She had always seemed to me their distillation, a glittering monument to our blood’s vain cruelty. 

At this moment, Circe learns that she was not the only one to detest the selfishness of the gods. In the characters of Circe and Pasiphae, we see two different ways that people respond to oppression. Pasiphae’s reaction to the abuse from her family is to get on top. To her, the only way to escape oppression is to have power over everyone else. While she lived with the other gods, she could not fight against their injustices, so she reveled in what little power she had - her power over her vulnerable sister Circe.“‘Then Father gave me to that ass Minos,’” Pasiphae continues, “Well, I could work with him, and I have. He is fixed now, but it has been a long road, and I will never go back to what I was.’” When Pasiphae was married to Minos and moved into the human world, she leveraged all her powers as a witch to put herself on top of the ladder of cruelty, so that she would never have to be at the bottom again. Pasiphae represents people who perpetuate a cycle of pain. They receive abuse and violence, and all they know to do is to pass it on to other people. When Circe was abused by her family, her reaction was to get away. She had examples in Prometheus and then Glaucos while he was human. They were humble, caring, and willing to sacrifice. Circe decided she wanted to be like them. She wanted to be set apart, to be different from her kind, to get away from their narcissism and self-obsession. She cares for humans because they are so different from the gods, and her love for people sets her apart even further. She stands for all the people who want to break cycles of abuse. They receive hate, see how painful it is, and pass on kindness instead.  

Pasiphae finally comes around to answering her sister’s question:

So you tell me sister, whom should I have sent for instead? Some god who could not wait to scorn me and make me beg for crumbs? Or some nymph, to mince uselessly across the sea?’ She laughed again. ‘They would have run screaming at the first tooth. They cannot bear any pain at all. They are not like us.’

Pasiphae believes she and her sister are the same. They both grew up in the same oppressive environment, surrounded by deities who cared for nothing but themselves. Pasiphae thinks that of all people, Circe would understand why Pasiphae unleashes monsters and curses upon her husband and her kingdom. Circe feels differently. 

    The words were a shock, as if all this while her hands had been empty, and now she showed her knife. Sickness flooded my throat. I stepped back.

    ‘I am not like you.’

Circe’s life has taken a different turn than Pasiphae’s. Pasiphae sought to mimic the cruelty she saw around her, to assert her own power whenever she had the chance. But from the day Circe met Prometheus, Circe saw the value of being different. She saw that she could chart her own course away from the selfish and conceited lifestyles of the gods.

Martin Luther King Jr. famously preached, “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Pain doesn’t go away when we inflict it on others. The pain is only passed on, and it will continue to be passed from person to person until someone like Circe chooses to be different.