Circe's Place in 2019

Ancient Greece and its myths are far behind us in history. The stories have been told and retold so many times that it’s nearly impossible to keep track of what’s true to the original and what’s been twisted anymore. Madeline Miller’s Circe takes advantage of the unknown and designs a plot for the mysterious witch that has specific, driven messages for 2019’s political climate. 

Circe is still a relatively recently released novel, and you’d think it would be blaringly obvious to readers why parts of it were written when they were in this era of politics, but the reasons genuinely didn’t come to my mind until I was looking through How to Read Literature Like a Professor’s table of contents, and I saw the chapter titled: “It’s All Political.” Miller’s Circe adds a lot to the ancient myths, but the best part about it is that she adds reasons. Miller invents reasons for Circe’s actions that the original myths don’t bother with (because why should they? She is only a woman, and designed as an obstacle the Greek heroes must overcome), and these reasons are what cause the audience to empathize with the goddess so much. Miller shows us, in a truly revealing and painful way, why Circe turns men into pigs. 

As How to Read Literature says, “...political and social considerations often find their way into the page in some guise, even when the result doesn’t look terribly ‘political’,” (Foster 122). The scene in Circe where the leader of the lost sailors rapes the goddess is so emotive to readers that they forget to think: why did Miller choose this in particular to be the reason why Circe spends her days turning the lost visitors of her island into pigs? 

Because it’s 2019. Because the #MeToo and #Time’sUP movements have changed everything, and Miller has something to say about them. Circe is her tool; it is her way of shouting (to those inquisitive enough to hear) how she views the pressing issue of trusting rape victims in their accusations. In the Greek myths, Circe turns men into pigs. Why, you ask? Well, because she’s a witch. And there’s nothing more to it. But if you ask Miller, there’s a million reasons. The moment when Circe is sexually assaulted is a huge turning point. She always admired mortals, was innocently curious of them, and ached to understand them, to be understood by them. She was naive and trusting, but afterward, she became jaded. She trusted no one. She changed completely, and she changed quickly. She finally understood the power of mortals.

Because it’s vital to remember: not only was Circe raped, but she’s a goddess who was raped. A powerful one; she has magic. And yet, in a matter of moments, she is completely helpless. She was taken advantage of, and not by a God, not by anyone who should be more powerful than her in any way; she was sexually assaulted by a mere mortal. So Miller forces her audience to understand the extent to which rape is a problem in society. All those people who hear the accusations and respond with “Well if it were me, I would’ve just-” are taken down by the very political argument she implicitly makes in that scene of Circe. She wanted to use magic against him, and “opened [her] mouth to cry out the spell, but he jammed his arm against [her] windpipe and the sound was choked off,” (Miller 188). 

“I fought him, but he was stronger than I had thought he would be, or maybe I was weaker… My mind still scrambled, disbelieving… A mortal would have fainted, but I was awake for every moment,” (Miller 188).

Miller horrifies her audience with this scene. It is an amazing piece of rhetoric for recent years’ accusation debates.

Works Cited

Foster, Thomas C. How to Read Literature like a Professor: a Lively and Entertaining Guide to Reading between the Lines. Harper Perennial, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, 2014.

Miller, Madeline. Circe. New York City, Little, Brown and Company, 2018.