Author: Emma Rodrigues

 

Anne Carson’s novel in verse, Autobiography of Red, retells a Greek myth about a young red monster with wings named Geryon, whose story is known because it ended with famed hero Herakles (or Hercules in Roman) killing him and his dog. It does so in verse, much like the original myth, but it puts Geryon’s narrative in modern times, in America (not said directly but widely assumed), Argentina, and Peru. Reading about Herakles (whom I strongly dislike) reminded me of another Greek hero whom I have incredibly mixed feelings towards—Achilles, star of the Trojan War. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller is one of my all-time favorite books for many reasons, but especially because it portrays Achilles not as a perfect hero, but as a complex individual who could be violent and selfish as much as he was beloved and admired by those around him. While Herakles in Autobiography of Red is considerably more unlikeable, his depiction in other forms of media (such as the Disney movie Hercules) portray better sides of him. I thought it would be interesting to compare the portrayal of the two in recent retellings, as they are two of the most famous Greek heroes still talked about today. 

In both novels, Herakles and Achilles are depicted through the eyes of the men (or boys, as Geryon is fourteen) who love them. Even so, we understand that they are not perfect, as lovers or as men. Achilles is horribly selfish. He was born nearly invulnerable, and from a young age was told through prophecies that he would be the greatest warrior of his age. When the Trojan War began, it was told that the Greeks would never win the war without him. This also builds his arrogance. The selfishness comes in The Song of Achilles (I can’t speak too much to the original myth) when he is told he can either live out his days in peaceful anonymity (and have a full life with his lover Patroclus) but his name will be lost to history, or he will receive abundant glory and honor but die young (at Troy). Prioritizing glory more than the wishes of his mother, Thetis, and Patroclus, who do not want to see him dead, he chooses to fight in Troy even though it will cost him his future. This decision snowballs and throughout the years at Troy, his actions indirectly and sometimes directly condemn many people to die, including Patroclus. He is also a vicious and brutal warrior, similar to Herakles in his own myths. 

Where they differ, however, is that Achilles is not a cruel lover in the same way that Herakles is. He hurts Patroclus, inevitably, but he does understand him unlike anyone else, and truly loves him. In fact, he vows to be the first-ever hero who is happy and tells Patroclus it’ll be because of him. On the other end of the spectrum, Herakles kills Geryon in the original myth and mostly uses him for sex in Autobiography in Red. There’s never any understanding that Herakles has genuine feelings for Geryon aside from lust. Geryon seems to understand this too, saying, “Yellow! Yellow! Even in dreams he doesn’t know me at all!” (Carson 74). This is in response to Herakles recounting a dream with Geryon in it, where there was a lot of yellow, and Geryon only ever associates himself with the color red. Herakles also admits himself, “I guess I’m someone who will never be satisfied” (Carson 44). He is not with Geryon because he loves him—their relationship is merely physical, a placeholder until someone new comes along. We see this confirmed near the end of the novel when Herakles cheats on his new lover, Ancash, by having sex with Geryon. 

Herakles and Achilles both have incredible capacities to be violent, volatile, and cruel, but in retellings of their stories, Achilles is the one with at least some sense of compassion. He is shown as being able to care about people other than himself (mainly Patroclus and the people of his native island), but Herakles is never given any redeeming qualities in Carson’s novel. This may be, in part, because the popular retellings often depict Herakles (as Hercules) as a glittering, chivalrous, and incredibly masculine hero. Anne Carson pushes back on this narrative and portrays a more realistic characterization of a horny teenage boy/young man.

The idea of “confession” is one that has been intrinsically tied to questions and expressions of sexuality for decades, if not centuries. Michel Foucault discusses this concept in “The History of Sexuality,” discussing confession as a production of truth and a form of power, the holder of which can vary case by case. Confession exists, in a form, as one of the most important moments in a queer person’s life—coming out.

As queer characters continue to frequent mainstream media, so do “coming out” scenes. In recent years, there have been many famous “coming out” moments: Santana Lopez and Kurt Hummel each have their own moments on Glee, Simon Spier emotionally told his parents he was gay in Love, Simon, and Nick Nelson came out to his mom out as bisexual in Heartstopper. These are all explicit in the sense that each character tells a loved one they are in love with someone of the same sex or explicitly state their sexuality. The “coming out” scene I would like to examine through the lens of confession is from season four of Stranger Things. It is, unofficially, the coming out of Will Byers. 

Coming out can be a confession no matter what form it comes in, but in the case of Will Byers in season 4 of Stranger Things, there is a weight behind his words that adds to the feeling that he is truly confessing something. In episode 8, when Will’s longtime best friend Mike Wheeler is letting his insecurities get toh him, Will reveals a painting to him that he had been trying to gift him all season long. Except, when he uses this painting (which depicts Mike as the leader of a medeival-dressed group, a heart emblazoned on his shield) as a way to boost Mike’s confidence, he lies. He tells Mike that Mike’s girlfriend and Will’s adopted sister, Eleven, was the one who commissioned it. Will confesses that “El” has been “so lost” without Mike, that she’s “so different from other people”. Turning away from Mike, Will then says: “When you’re different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make her feel like she’s not a mistake at all.” As he continues, he becomes more emotional, to the point where he’s silently crying once he’s said his piece. 

Of course, in this scene, Will is not actually talking about Eleven. From the first episode we learn that Will has been working obsessively on a painting, but El did not commission nor does she know what it depicts. She assumes it’s for a girl that Will likes. Though it is made obvious through Will’s subtle confession that he, not El, needs Mike and feels like a mistake for feeling that way, the writer and Will’s actor have since confirmed that Will is queer and in love with Mike. This confession is of special note, because although Mike doesn’t seem to realize, Will is confessing things that are hard for him to voice, hence why he can’t admit he’s the one behind the words. This, Foucault would say, is a “production of truth” (58). Though it’s not the real truth, Will is creating his own truth in this scene to protect himself. And, between Will’s obvious distress and the 80s setting of Stranger Things, the audience gets a real sense that Will is, to some degree, ashamed. He’s coming to terms with his identity and his feelings at a time where it was not always safe to do so. Thus his confession is one made out of desperation for Mike to understand how needed he is, and perhaps for Will to finally release what he’s been holding in without fully exposing himself before he’s ready. This scene perfectly emulates “confession”, especially in the context of queerness and coming out.

link to scene:

https://youtu.be/Pw6m-yWneNA

“I watched and listened to the girls in my school talk about boys, go behind the equipment shed to kiss them, later whisper in algebra class that they had sex with them. I watched from the other side of a stone wall, a wall that was part self-preservation, part bones and blood of aloneness, part the impossible assumptions I could not shape my body around.” (Clare 144)

 

In Eli Clare’s book Bodies, he bolsters his arguments surrounding queer theory and disability activism with personal narrative that is often touching, relatable, and heartbreaking. In the above quote, he describes what it was like to be among his female classmates in his youth and not relate to their obsession with boys whatsoever, feeling like an outsider to it all. The first part of this quote that grabs my attention is that Clare specifically says he watches heteronormativism occur from the other side of a “stone wall”—this is a figurative stone wall, separating him from his classmates, but it’s likely also a callback to the Stonewall Riots of 1969. Clare elsewhere describes that he knew he liked girls when he was younger, perhaps deep down, but he forgot and had to rediscover that part of him. I think that although he doesn’t say it outright in this passage, Clare is certainly alluding to the fact that one reason he couldn’t relate to his female classmates was that he had no interest in men whatsoever—he liked women. The use of “stone wall” is a clever metaphor that then serves a dual purpose.

 

While I do think that the “impossible assumptions” Clare refers to are about his sexual orientation, I also think he’s talking about his complicated sense of gender identity at the time. Assigned female at birth, Clare makes it known that in his youth and adolescence he felt a clear disconnect with girls his age and recognized early on that he was “not girl, not boy” (Clare 151). As he did with his sexuality, Clare sensed from an early age that his experience of gender identity was different from his peers. This does not make it any easier to come to terms with, however, which is why he uses the term “impossible” to describe these self-realizations. Discovering anything about yourself that differs from societal norms can be terrifying, especially when you have grown up without understanding such identities to be just as normal and valid as cis-hetero identities, and Clare captures that in this passage.

 

“Louise, stars in your eyes, my own constellation. I was following you faithfully but I looked down. You took me out beyond the house, over the roofs, way past commonsense and good behavior. No compromise. I should have trusted you but I lost my nerve.” (187).

This section comes towards the end of the novel, where the narrator is grieving their relationship with Louise and reflecting on where they went wrong. Even as they repent and scold themself for making poor choices and treating Louise badly, however, the narrator continues to treat Louise as a child or a possession to be had rather than a woman whom they are fortunate to be loved by. Calling her “my own constellation” suggests that they see Louise as theirs—their love, their person to look after, their “baby”, and though they don’t say it outright, the narrator shows through action that Louise is also someone they make decisions for. They have her love, so therefore they have her. You could go as far as saying that they even feel entitled to her love, to happiness with her, despite the reverence they view her with. It’s a bit of a paradox. The narrator constantly waxes poetic (literally) about Louise and how lucky they are to be her lover, but they feel entitled to have all of her. This likely stems from their tendency to base their personality off of their lovers. The narrator sees their loves as an extension of themselves, and Louise is no exception—they obsess over her just as much (or even more) as any other past lover, and this is always their downfall.

Additionally, the use of “star” and “constellation” as a kind of symbol or metaphor for trust is clearly intentional. In the same way that navigators trust the North Star and constellations to lead them to their destination, the narrator trusted Louise to bring them happiness just by being with her. I think that they placed this blind trust in her that served almost as a burden, because they seemingly expected everything to work out perfectly with Louise just because they were in love, without necessarily taking steps to ensure the success of their relationship. This is a rather naive assumption to make, enrtrusting Lousie with their happiness as a couple and individuals. Part of the reason it doesn’t work out for the narrator, however, is not because Louise is untrustworthy—it’s because when it matters most, they listen to their own fears and insecurities rather than what Louise has to say. The old habit of running out on female partners continues when the narrator finds out Louise has leukemia, because rather than following the “constellation”, the narrator says, in their own words ,”I lost my nerve” (187). It’s important to note that while the narrator should’ve listened to what Louise had to say about her own diagnosis, much of the issues that arose would’ve been avoided entirely if the narrator didn’t rely solely on other people in the first place. They rely on other people for guidance, and then shy away from it when it matters—likely do to some insecurity the narrator has with being unable to trust themselves and their own impulses (possibly because of all the people they’ve hurt)—and this usually happens when it counts. They panic and listen to their insecurities or the influence of someone else, like Elgin. Either way, they screw themselves over. They need to learn to be their own trustworthy constellation to have any chance of happiness in the future.