Safari F. Grey
The nature and role of death is a subject of study which goes hand in hand with the Homeric epics, whether it be the traditions and practices of hero cult, the specifics of what constitutes the Homeric soul, or the origins and various representations of that pervasive mytheme – the katabasis narrative (a journey down to the underworld). This preoccupation is perhaps not surprising given that both epics are fundamentally concerned with Archaic traditions of death and immortality. The Iliad centres on Achilles’ choice of death, whilst the protagonist of the Odyssey survives many near death experiences as he ‘strives to save his own soul (ψυχὴ / psuchē: variously translated as ‘life’ or ‘soul)’ (Odyssey 1.5). This paper, however, moves beyond these traditional fields in order to examine three, more nuanced, aspects of death – or ‘afterlives’ which feature in Homer’s Odyssey. These are; darkness, the dream state, and anonymity.
The first two aspects, the dream state and darkness, both rely on a deeper understanding of the Homeric cosmos. The Homeric Underworld consists of a range of places (listed in the Odyssey 24.10–15) which include the Gates of Helios (Ēelioio pulas) and the realm of dreams (dēmos oneirōn). Our understanding of what constitutes an afterlife is enhanced by examining the relationship between these chthonic places and the mundane world. For instance, if looking upon the sunlight is synonymous with living then a state of perpetual darkness is akin to death. Likewise, if the dream state is a place where neither gods nor the living can enter physically, then it is similar to the realm of Hades where only phantoms and souls abide. However, the last ‘afterlife’ which this paper will examine – anonymity – concerns the role onomastics plays in determining existence or quiddity, namely the association between names and life, or rather, namelessness and death. Odysseus is the only Homeric hero to frequently and repeatedly subvert, and even renounce, his given name; and this act has powerful ramifications for his ability to return home as a living man. This chapter will demonstrate how Odysseus achieves his homecoming through recovering and accepting his own name (and lineage). By accepting such a connection between naming and life, our comprehension of the Homeric afterlife expands by suggesting first, that Odysseus’ absence itself is a pseudo-death experience defined by his anonymity, and second, that kleos (‘renown’) itself could be considered a form of afterlife perpetuated by the remembrance of a name.
There is much more to the Homeric cosmos than the world of the living and the House of Hades, and the guardian of all these transitory places is Hermes. Despite textually appearing as a relatively minor character in the Homeric epics, we should understand Hermes to be a crucial figure who alone is responsible for each of the thematically pivotal, and pervasive, mechanisms of death and the afterlife in Homer’s Odyssey. In short, this paper would alter the definition of Homeric ‘afterlife’ to instead mean ‘other worlds’; worlds which the physical body cannot typically enter, and so are defined by their absence of life.
The belief that death is akin to darkness, and life akin to light, is ubiquitous, and found in almost every religious or cultural eschatology the world over. Idioms such as ‘entering the host of the sun’ or ‘reaching the sunset’, for example, are used to signify death in the Ugaritic tradition (Lewis, 1989, p. 37). Something very similar appears throughout the Homeric tradition, suggesting that the mechanisms of the sunrise and sunset are intimately connected to Archaic beliefs concerning death and the afterlife. The most frequent occurrence of such cosmic eschatology in the Odyssey is the idiom to ‘look upon the sunlight (horan phaos ēelioio)’ which is considered analogous with living (Odyssey 4.540; 11.93, 498, 618–9; 14.44; 15.349; 16.439; 20.207) [translations throughout are the author’s own]. This belief is perhaps linked to the practice of closing the eyes of the dead. It is implied at Odyssey 11.425–426 that Agamemnon’s soul will encounter difficulty passing over to the afterlife if his eyes are not closed, i.e. if he can still see the sunlight. The reverse is also true: entering the darkness of Erebos means to welcome death. The soul of Antikleia asks Odysseus ‘how have you come under here to the murky darkness (zophon ēeroenta), and still alive (zōos eōn)?’ (11.155) and urges that he ‘strive back towards the light with all speed (phoōsde taxista lilaieo)’ (11.220). The noun she uses here, zophon, is a significant one. Both Odysseus and Poseidon use the phrase zophon ēeroenta synonymously for the netherworld (Iliad 15.191; Odyssey 11.57), but it is elsewhere used to refer either to the setting sun explicitly (Odyssey 3.335; 10.190) or to the far west where the sun sets (Odyssey 9.26; 12.81; 13.241). The connection between murky darkness and sunset suggests that the darkness of the House of Hades begins where the light of the sun ends. This connects light and life, as well as darkness and death, both thematically and linguistically.
The association between darkness and death, as well as the significance of zophon, are both further reinforced by the prophecy of Theoclymenus at Odyssey 20.350–357. In this passage the sun perishing out of the sky coincides not only with the death of the suitors – but with the descent of their souls to the darkness of Hades:
εἰδώλων δὲ πλέον πρόθυρον, πλείη δὲ καὶ αὐλή,
ἱεμένων Ἔρεβόσδε ὑπὸ ζόφον: ἠέλιος δὲ
οὐρανοῦ ἐξαπόλωλε, κακὴ δ᾽ ἐπιδέδρομεν ἀχλύς
The threshold (prothuron) is filled with phantoms (eidōlōn), and the court is full, [they are] hurrying below to the darkness (zophon) of Erebus: the sun has perished utterly (exapolōle) from the sky, and an evil mist (achlus) spreads everywhere.
This extract reinforces the direct relationship between the souls’ transportation to the afterlife, and the (drastic) transition of light into darkness. The sun disappears entirely, succumbing to a death created by an evil mist, and it is in this state of darkness that the souls of the suitors can pass, through the threshold (prothuron) into the darkness (zophon) of Hades/Erebus. It is clear that, within the Homeric eschatology, death exists where the sun cannot shine. (The importance of the threshold in this excerpt is emphasised by the discussion of cosmic gateways [below]). Elsewhere it is clearly stated that Helios cannot break through the darkness of even the Cimmerian land, which lies on the borders of the Underworld (Odyssey 11.15–20).
ἔνθα δὲ Κιμμερίων ἀνδρῶν δῆμός τε πόλις τε,
ἠέρι καὶ νεφέλῃ κεκαλυμμένοι: οὐδέ ποτ᾽ αὐτοὺς
ἠέλιος φαέθων καταδέρκεται ἀκτίνεσσιν,
οὔθ᾽ ὁπότ᾽ ἂν στείχῃσι πρὸς οὐρανὸν ἀστερόεντα,
οὔθ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἂν ἂψ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἀπ᾽ οὐρανόθεν προτράπηται,
ἀλλ᾽ ἐπὶ νὺξ ὀλοὴ τέταται δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσι
There is the land and city of the Cimmerian men
concealed by mist and cloud (eeri kai nephelē). There the
shining rays of the sun never look down upon them,
neither when he marches up to the starry heavens
nor when he turns in flight down from heaven to the earth,
always deadly (oloē) night (nux) stretches over these cowardly men.
Though neither Hades’ darkness (zophon), nor Theoclymenus’ mist (achlus), are used in this passage, another type of mist conceals the land, made up of ‘air and cloud’ (eeri kai nephelē). This concealing mist, along with Helios’ absence, creates a perpetual darkness akin to, but not as complete as, that of Hades. Furthermore, it is the perpetual night (nux) created by an endless darkness that is specifically described as deadly (oloos). The land of the Cimmerians, located just beyond the reach of Oceanus (which borders the earth) is thematically described as a forerunner to Hades itself. Though it houses men, rather than ghosts, it remains shrouded in mist and darkness and is denied the light of the sun.
These passages both serve to explain why Helios’ threat to shine among the dead is such a potent one, forcing Zeus to interact directly with the mortal realm for the first and only time in the Odyssey narrative (12.383, 415–418). Elsewhere, Zeus only issues signs of portent, or sends other gods to do his bidding, but here, he does not rally Poseidon to sink Odysseus’ ship – he does so himself. Helios’ threat is influential enough to rouse Zeus personally to hurl his thunderbolts into the sea. The clear Homeric eschatology of life and light, death and darkness suggests that should Helios shine among the dead, the dead would become the living – whilst consequentially those upon the earth would be rendered dead by the state of darkness. Helios’ threat is such a powerful one, not only because it would reverse the natural order of things, but because he would be exploiting his power of light by granting life to the numberless dead – a heinous and transgressive act (Hesiod, Catalogues of Women fr.90). Helios must instead pass through his Gates on the western path into the realm of Hades, ensuring that the dead live in perpetual darkness (Odyssey 24.12).
While the afterlife is inherently a place of darkness, the question remains, are all places of darkness the afterlife? It is nowhere suggested that humanity passes into a state of limbo every night after the sun sets, and yet there is a clear thematic and linguistic relationship between death and darkness in the text. Odysseus, for example, experiences his first near death experience in a glade where the sunlight cannot penetrate (Odyssey 19.439–452, 458); while in a story to Athena he claims to have taken away a man’s life during a night so dark that it grips the heavens (Odyssey 13.269–271). While it is clear that these examples do not take place in Erebos itself, it is certainly true that the author uses the imagery of darkness to enhance the threat of death during these narratives. In a similar vein, the cave of Polyphemos is plunged into darkness the moment the Cyclops wheels shut the door, and while the author makes no overt references to the absence of light, it is specified that Odysseus and his comrades escape with the rising sun as they cling to the bellies of the sheep (Odyssey 9.437); associating the darkness of night with the darkness of the cave. Elsewhere, in the Iliad, Priam’s journey to Achilles is framed by the passages of the sun (its setting and its rising 24.351, 695), which would be unremarkable were it not that the episode, like that of the Cyclops’ cave, has been described as a metaphorical katabasis scene (Stanley, 1993 p. 237–239; de Jáuregui, 2011, p. 37–68; Bachvarova, 2016, p. 78). In both of these instances the lack of sunlight is one of the defining features of a pseudo-katabasis episode, further reinforcing the connection between darkness and death in the Homeric representation of the afterlife.
The relationship between darkness and death, therefore, enhances our appreciation of other thematic episodes in the text. It has been argued elsewhere that the association is intrinsic to the Odyssey’s very plot, and that Odysseus’ return home is symbolic of a passage from darkness and death to light and life, played out through an etymological understanding of the key terms ‘homecoming’ (νοστος / nostos) and ‘consciousness’ (νοος / noos). Nagy argues that ‘the Odyssey itself is built on the symbolism of rebirth from death, as verbalised in the noos/nostos of Odysseus himself and visualised in the dynamics of sunrise after sunset’ (1990, 93, see also Frame, 1978). Whether or not we go so far as to accept these arguments, it is certainly clear that the author of the Odyssey draws distinct and frequent thematic parallels between darkness and death as well as sunlight and life. Nagy observes that Odysseus’ return to Ithaca coincides with the rising of the sun (13.93–95), as does his return to Aeaea after his descent to the Underworld (12.1–4) (Nagy, 2013, p. 299–300). The rising sun in these instances, therefore, is deliberately evocative of a return to the world of the living, adding nuance to passages such as the escape from the Cyclops’ Cave. Surviving his encounter with Polyphemus, and returning to his native soil in Ithaca, therefore, are framed in the same symbolism as his journey to the land of Hades. The importance of the rising sun as a harbinger of a return to life is perhaps why Eos is the only female character, mortal or divine, who is repeatedly awarded an honorific double epithet: ‘early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn (ērigeneia rhododaktulos Eō)’. Certainly, Ithaca is continually described from rhapsode 13 onward as a place of sunlight (13.212, 234, 325) suggesting that – within the paradigm of ‘looking upon the sunlight’ – it is a place where Odysseus can finally be alive. Homer uses instances of darkness, therefore, to evoke the gloom of the underworld, placing his characters in a pseudo-afterlife just as he places them in mortal danger.
In the Greek mythical tradition death is the son of night and darkness (Hesiod, Theogony 758). We have established that Homer accepts this tradition through his literal and metaphorical combinations of darkness and death. Yet the same tradition also claims that death is the twin brother of sleep (Iliad 16.681). This relationship is also evidenced in the Odyssey. Homer explains in Odyssey 24.12-13 that, on its way to Asphodel, the soul passes the Gates of Helios, (Ἠελίοιο πύλας / Ēelioio pulas), the same Gates which deny light to the underworld, before it reaches the realm of dreams (δῆμον ὀνείρων / dēmon oneirōn). (While it is not stated explicitly, there is an axiomatic association between sleep ὕπνος / hypnos and dreams ὀνείρoί / oneiroi). The ‘realm of dreams’ is likely the location of a second set of cosmic gateways which appear in the Odyssey: the Gates of Horn and Ivory (πύλαι τετεύχαται καὶ ἐλέφαντι / pulai teteuxatai kai elephanti) through which travel true and false dreams (Odyssey 19.562–567). While other scholars have argued that the Gates of Helios and the Gates of Horn and Ivory are one and the same thing (Anghelina, 2010, p. 65–72) it can only be concluded from the evidence within the text that they are both located in the limbo between the mortal world and the House of Hades, as laid out in 24.1–15. Certainly, the realm of Hades is described repeatedly as a well-gated place, emphasising the importance of gateways as a form of transition across cosmic borders, if never clearly numbering them (Odyssey 11.568; Iliad 23.71, 74; Hesiod, Theogony 732). However, it is sensible to assume that the dream Gates can be found in the ‘realm of dreams’ a region distinct from, but adjacent to, the location of the solar Gates (see also Juliette Harrisson in this volume). Arguably, just as Helios the sun passes through his own Gate when he descends toward the underworld, dreams – both prophetic and false – pass through their respective Gates when they ascend to the mortal world (or, perhaps, as a sleeper descends).
Certainly it is true that the land of dreams is described as an ‘alternate place’, much like states of darkness, in which it is not (usually) possible for the physical form of the living to enter. Homer alludes to this fact when Athena reassures Penelope of Telemachus’ safe return in rhapsode 4, as does Odysseus when he bewails to Circe that no living man has been to Hades (10.501–502). When visiting mortals Athena, and many other divinities, take the likeness of other living creatures whether human or animal before they communicate with mortal characters (examples from the Odyssey alone include: Athena 1.105; 2.401, 838; 8.8, 194; 13.222–223; Ino at 5.337, and; Hermes 10.278). Some immortals are able to appear before, and speak to, mortals in their natural state, such as Calypso and Circe. This peculiar ability is specified through the use of the epithet αὐδήεσσα / audēssa meaning ‘one who speaks with a mortal voice’ which is exclusively applied to Calypso and Circe, an exception that is possibly connected to their lesser status as nymphs i.e. earth-bound minor goddesses who are more likely to interact with mortals. However this instance, from the Odyssey 4.795–810, is otherwise unique among divinity–mortal interactions in Homer. Instead of taking the likeness of another creature, Athena sends an ‘image’ or ‘phantom’ (εἴδωλον / eidōlon) of Penelope’s sister Iphthime (4.796). She explicitly does not take the likeness (εἰκυῖα / eikuia) of Iphthime, as in all other instances, for example from 13.222 where Athena meets Odysseus on the Ithacan beach ‘as the embodiment (eikuia) of a young man’. Instead, the noun εἴδωλον (eidōlon) is employed to describe the phantom ‘Iphthime’, and it is used elsewhere by Homer. First, it is used to distinguish the soul of Odysseus’ mother, Antikleia, from a mere phantom (eidōlon) at Odyssey 11.219–221. The implication from the Nekyia scene being that a psuchē retains its identity and memory (Iliad 23.104; Bernstein, 1993, p. 27), whilst an eidōlon is merely a mindless doppelganger. The term also identifies the phantom of Heracles which Odysseus meets in the Underworld, the noun distinguishing his image from the other human ψυχαι / psuchai, or souls, that abide in the House of Hades. Heracles’ duality is due to the fact that, as the apotheosed son of an immortal, his actual form resides in Olympus, leaving only a shadow eidōlon of his mortal self in the underworld (see Odyssey 11.602; Bernstein, 1993, p. 32). An eidōlon, therefore, is neither a human soul (psuchē) nor is it the likeness (eikuia) of a person or animal which a divinity impersonates.
There are two further features of the ‘phantom’ that Athena sends which clearly demarcate it as separate from the goddess herself. The first is that it is clearly incorporeal: it cannot open the lock on Penelope’s door, and instead passes through the door jamb both when it enters and when it exits (Odyssey 4.802; 4.838), whereas Athena interacts physically with the human world (for instance: Odyssey 1.130). Secondly, the phantom is twice described as ἀμαυρόν / amauron, meaning ‘dark’ or ‘shadowy’ (4.824, 835), an adjective that is peculiar to this phantom alone and used nowhere else in Homer. Shadowy is exactly how we would imagine a ghost-like phantom, and certainly not how we picture the gray-eyed goddess with the lovely hair (Odyssey 7.41). So, why in this instance – and this instance alone – should Athena choose to conjure a shadowy phantom instead of simply changing into the likeness of Iphthime? She is certainly not unable to impersonate a living person, for she changes into both Telemachus and Mentor during the Telemacheia.
The only difference between this interaction and any other divinity-mortal encounter is that Penelope is asleep. Yet it is not merely the fact that Penelope is asleep which marks this encounter as peculiar – for Athena stands at the head of a sleeping Nausicaa at 6.22 when she speaks to her in the likeness of Dymas’ unnamed daughter. Unlike Nausicaa, however, the sleeping Penelope is inside the gate of dreams ‘very pleasantly she [Penelope] slumbered inside (en) the dream gates (oneireiēsi pulēsin)’ (4.809). In short, she has passed into another world, one of the limbo locations through which the ghosts of the suitors pass on their descent to the underworld in 24.1–20. It seems that in order to communicate with Penelope in this other world Athena must send a phantom to speak with her – suggesting that Athena herself cannot enter the realm of dreams. There are no instances in the Odyssey where any divinity other than Hermes freely traverses any realm of the Underworld. Hades and Persephone reside there, but do not leave. Even Helios is forbidden to enter and must instead pass through his own Gate, which presumably leads straight to the Eastern borders of Oceanos. Furthermore, the Homeric Hymn to Demeter tells us that should a goddess enter the Underworld they will be bound to stay there (4–20, 414–440), and that neither Demeter nor Helios is able to descend into Hades’ realm in order to save Persephone – instead they send the psychopomp Hermes (340; 384) (on Hermes’ role as psychopomp see Josipa Lulic in this volume). It appears, therefore, that strict rules operate with regard to whom or what can enter the Underworld. The realm, and gates, of dreams are found in the limbo stage which exists between the boundary of Oceanos and the meadows of Asphodel (Odyssey 24.12–15) and thus are ipso facto bound by the same laws which prevent Helios from entering the Underworld. While Athena might have the power to visit sleep upon mortals, she does not appear to be able to attend them once they have crossed over the gate into the realm of dreams.
The dream-state, like places of darkness, is another of the pseudo-afterlife states where a human soul exists in limbo – between life and death. Within the Odyssey, succumbing to sleep is described as being dragged downwards (9.372–373) while awakening is described as rising upwards (18.199; 19.551), which supports the argument that the sleeper visits a subterranean place – identified in the opening of rhapsode 24 as the realm of dreams. It is clear that the body does not move during this transition, but instead something akin to the soul must descend through the Gates of Dreams and into the realm of dreams itself, where false and prophetic dreams reside. Antikleia flutters out of Odysseus’ arms ‘like a shadow (skia) or a dream (oneiros)’ (11.205), and herself tells us that the ‘soul flitters like a dream’ (11.220) suggesting that whatever it is that makes a transition into the dream world operates much like the incorporeal soul (psuchē).
Sleeping becomes a ‘dry run’ whereby the spirit of the dreamer (whether we identify it as the soul, or a phantom of the self [eidolon]) descends towards the Underworld – but only so far as the realm of dreams. This is farther than Helios, or any other god but Hermes, is permitted to travel, which explains the association between sleeping and darkness, whilst also reinforcing the relationship between sleep and death, for both exist on a similar plain. The connections between death and sleep are certainly strong in the Homeric tradition. Penelope wishes for a death akin to sleep in rhapsode 18 (202) whilst Odysseus undergoes a sleep most like death during his passage to Ithaca (13.79–95, 134, 187–188). It has been argued that Odysseus’ sleep-state in the episode is thematically fundamental to his return home as it enables his final return to consciousness, and therefore, life (Nagy, 1990, p. 219; Nagy, 2013, p. 300). Finally, Penelope explains that ‘it is not possible for people to go forever without sleep’ (19.591) no doubt because such a thing would be akin to immortality (as per the Gilgamesh tradition). To be forever awake would be to never descend, and to always look upon the sunlight, preventing the mortal from ever entering any afterlife state and so never truly dying.
These two ‘other worlds’ – darkness and sleep – are granted a physical location within the Homeric cosmos. They can be found past the Cimmerian peoples, past the boundaries of Oceanos, and the White Rock, and are defined by tangible nouns such as Gates (pulai) and Realm (demos). Though they are traversed only by phantoms, souls, and select divinities, they are as real as the wide-running Oceanos. The final ‘afterlife’ of this discussion, however, is far less material. It is instead a form of metaphorical death which makes itself known through the realm of linguistics.
The power of a name is an established cultural motif, found in social and mystical practices the world over. Levi-Strauss, for instance, studied the conventions of Nambikwara Indians and found that ‘les noms propres ne sont jamais prononcés (proper names are never spoken)’ (1948, p. 36). Though one need not look as far afield as Brazil for such onomastic traditions; the Kabbalah, for example, is an integral part of the Judaic faith, while the systematic removal of names from history (damnatio memoriae) was practiced by Egyptians and Romans alike. An extensive anthropological account of the power of names is covered by Frazer (1955, pp. 318–334), while Brown argues that ‘it seems safe to assume its universality’ (Brown, 1966, p. 199). The Polyphemus episode of the Odyssey certainly makes it plain that – within the Homeric universe – a man’s name is a thing of power. This may explain a peculiar Homeric convention whereby dialogue will be pre-empted by the formulaic expression: ‘[so-and-so] spoke the word (epos) which forms (ek) his name (onomasden)’ from which the name rarely follows (Odyssey 3.374; 4.311, 610; 5.182; 6.254; 8.194, 291; 10.280, 319; 11.247; 14.52; 15.125; 18.78; 19.90; 21.84, 248, 288; 23.96). Instead, the speaker often opens their speech with another form of address, such as: philos (‘nearest and dearest’), pater (‘father’), mēter (‘mother’), or even nēpioi agroiōtai (‘foolish countrymen!’), rather than using the given name of the person they are speaking to. Within the confines of the formulaic expression both epos and onomasdō serve as substitutes for the actual name of the addressee. The avoidance of a spoken name can be explained through an understanding of the power of names and naming within Homeric conventions (see also Nick Brown on the naming of Phraskleia in this volume).
While the Odyssey may be known for its puns and wordplay, especially on names (Austin, 1972, pp. 1–19; Stanford, 1959, pp. xxi–xxii), there remains a deeper significance to their use. For instance there is a clear convention that being named is considered synonymous with living (Odyssey 8.552–555), though it is perhaps truer to say that losing a name is synonymous with death. Penelope bewails the fact that Telemachus would lose his name should the suitors succeed in killing him (4.710), while the soul of Agamemnon remarks that Achilles must be a special case indeed that his name should not be destroyed upon his death 24.93: ‘thus, you are dead but your name (onoma) is not killed (ollumi)’. The notion that the name itself conveys a person’s essence is made clearest when it is understood that the verb ‘to be’ εἶναι / einai is interchangeable with ‘to call’ καλεῖσθαι / kaleisthai (Rank, 1952, p. 25). In many instances it is preferable to translate kaleisthai as ‘to summon’ in order to convey the more potent meaning of ‘bringing forth’, or bringing into actuality through naming. Rank cites the instance from Iliad 4.60–61 as an example of this, whereby Hera equates being the eldest child with being called the wife of Zeus (Rank, 1952, p. 25).
Avoiding – or altering – a name, therefore, is a potent and meaningful act. To subvert it altogether to the point of anonymity is an act of transgression akin to surrendering one’s own life. If the name is the man, as Austin succinctly puts it, then a nameless man is no man at all: he is a man who does not exist (1972, p. 3). Deformation, which Louden defines as the act of ‘forming a compound that negates or worsens the force of a name or noun’ (1995, p. 31), is a powerful device employed repeatedly throughout the epics, though perhaps to greatest effect in the Odyssey. After he has been beaten by Odysseus and left to be sent to his death, Iros is called Ἄϊρος ‘un-Iros’ by the suitors (18.73), who equate the act of un-naming him with his fate. In a similar manner, Penelope seeks to undermine the power of Troy by first subverting its name, calling it Κακοΐλιον ‘Evil-Ilios’, and then by denying it altogether, saying it is, οὐκ ὀνομαστήν ‘not to be named’ (19.260, 597; 23.19). This spoken act is intended to tie its namelessness to its destruction. If the loss of one’s name is akin to the loss of one’s life, or at the very least one’s essence, then from the Isle of the Cyclopes to Ithaca Odysseus is a dead man walking, for he is a man who has surrendered his name. Even the narrator scrupulously avoids uttering his name for twenty lines during the opening of the text – speaking only of a nameless man ἄνδρα (1.1); an evasion which is not shared in the Iliad whose protagonist makes an appearance in the very first line (Austin, 1972, p. 10).
Odysseus’ renunciation of his name is his choice, but what does this same anonymity say of those dearest to him, who meticulously avoid naming him throughout the text? Austin has noted that it is only advocates of Odysseus who are cautious in their use of his name (1972, p. 5), and attributes this aversion to their knowledge of name taboos. He argues that by not naming Odysseus, his family and friends are protecting him from ill wishes – the kind which Penelope employs when she debases the name of Troy (1972, p. 11). They avoid naming him in order to lessen his fame, in the fear that his infamy may border on hubris, and are so protecting him from the wrath of the gods. Yet foremost of all the characters who wish Odysseus well, Athena is never restrained in her use of his name – indeed she is both the first, and last, character to utter it (1.48; 24.542). Admittedly, Athena is a goddess and so perhaps she is not as cautionary of raising his fame. However, the notion that his loved ones should seek to protect him from ‘fame that reaches heaven’ through omitting his name is practiced by no other Homeric hero. In fact, it is precisely such a kleos which they all seek, otherwise Achilles would not choose a death that granted him an everlasting name. The reticence of Odysseus’ family and friends, therefore, should not be attributed to an act of protection. Instead, it is more likely to be evocative of their belief that Odysseus is dead. If namelessness is akin to death, as the Odyssey elsewhere suggests, then the family either do not wish, or are not able, to name a dead man. Their avoidance is evidence of their belief that he has died. This would explain why Athena is (alongside Circe and Calypso) more liberal with his name, armed as they are with the knowledge that Odysseus still lives.
His namelessness whilst abroad reinforces the notion that from Ismaros to Scheria, Odysseus inhabits an ‘other world’ which is separate from that of the human world (Germain, 1954, pp. 511–582). To cross over into the mystical realm, where unearthly creatures live, is an act of transgression as powerful as that of rhapsode 11 when Odysseus crosses into the underworld. Arguably, the means by which he survives in this mystical realm is by surrendering his name – which he does almost immediately in the chronological narrative. By doing so, Odysseus is able to enter a quasi-death state, which enables him to endure in a world of non-humans whilst his companions perish – just as only phantoms and souls can exist in the House of Hades. Consequently, in order to leave this ‘other world’ he must first regain his name – which in turn will restore his life – so that he may continue to live in the human world. Austin’s later interpretation, concerning the pivotal role of Telemachus, reinforces this point. He argues that in order to recall Odysseus from his anonymity, his name and likeness must first be drawn from memory (1982, pp. 78–79) and that the Telemacheia is primarily an extended Embassy Scene through which Athena, Hermes, and Telemachus work to summon Odysseus back home.
Briefly, for it is Austin’s works that should be consulted, Telemachus’ thoughts change from ‘seeing his father in his mind’s eye (ossomenos pater)’ before Athena’s visit (1.115) to ‘being reminded of his father (hypemnēsen te he patros)’ after she has left (1.321). The verb hypomimnēsko literally means ‘to put [something] in one’s mind’. For Telemachus, it is a process of moving from imagination (‘seeing in his mind’) to memory, through having the real memory of his father planted in his mind – specifically through Athena’s use of his name. Telemachus goes from repeatedly avoiding his father’s name, denying even his parentage (1.215–216) when conversing with Athena, to publically declaring his heritage in the Assembly (2.71). He then travels to Pylos, where he asks Nestor to recall from memory μνῆσαι / mnēsai (3.101) what he knows of Odysseus. Nestor is duly reminded (emnēsas) of the wretched man (oisdous – itself perhaps a pun on Odysseus) (3.103), the more so as Telemachus so closely resembles his father physically (3.124–125). From Pylos, Telemachus travels to Sparta, where both Helen and Menelaus are struck by the boy’s likeness to Odysseus (4.141–143; 148–150), which sparks their memory (memnēmenos) of the man himself (4.151). At the same time as Telemachus ‘searches for Odysseus in the world of men’, Hermes travels to ‘find Odysseus in the world beyond the human world’ (Austin, 1982, p. 79). Both diplomatic figures and messengers, Telemachus and Hermes have parallel missions instigated by Athena’s discourse with her father, which centre upon returning Odysseus to the human world through the act of recalling his name. Austin calls Telemachus a psychopompos, for he ‘duplicates Hermes’ role in the psychological realm’ just as ‘Hermes negotiates the transfer of the physical man back into life’ (1982, p. 79).
For Odysseus himself, the matter is rather more convoluted. After first claiming his ‘famous name’ (onoma kluton), to be ‘No One’ (Οὖτις / Outis) during his encounter with Polyphemos (9.366), Odysseus saves himself. Consequently, it is only by declaring his name and lineage that he invites the curse of the Cyclops upon him (Brown, 1966, p. 196), which pursues him for the rest of his journeys. Odysseus learns early on that anonymity is by far the safer course while travelling on unknown seas, though perhaps he learns this lesson too well. There is an argument to be made that Odysseus may personify his anonymity more than his name, that Outis is not his pseudonym but instead his cognomen (Austin, 1972, p. 15; Dimock, 1956, pp. 52–70). This is evidenced by the nature of his μητις / mētis (‘cunning intelligence’). Whenever Odysseus wields his mētis – which is itself as much a part of his name as Odysseus, belonging as it does to one of his primary epithets polumētis – he resorts to becoming an Outis. The two are one and the same thing: so much so that Odysseus himself claims that it is both his nameless name (Outis) and his cunning (mētis) which save him (Odyssey 9.414). Nothing is truer, as again and again he cleverly employs anonymity in order to protect his life. (For the paronomasia between outis and mētis/metis see Stanford, 1982, p. 6).
Austin’s suggestion that Odysseus is more personified by his cunning than by his own name is further realised during his meeting with Nausicaa. Finding himself at his most naked, Odysseus pulls a branch from an olive tree in order to conceal the χροῒ μήδεα φωτός ‘skin (chroi) of his male (phōtos) genitals (mēdea)’ (Odyssey 6.129). While it is apparent here that the correct translation of mēdea should be ‘genitals’, the word is otherwise translated as ‘arts or schemes’. Given that the Odyssey is a text rife with paronomasia (Louden, 1995, pp. 27–46), it may well be a deliberate implication that Odysseus’ cunning is as true to him as the skin he stands in; and that he conceals his nude genitalia just as he conceals the cunning arts which define his identity. There is also, perhaps, an implication that Athena (symbolised by the olive tree) is aiding in this concealment, just as she later does with a convenient mist (7.15). The pun on mēdea appears again, in the Iliad, this time in a reversed manner, and by Helen nonetheless, who describes Odysseus as a man who ‘knows various crafts (dolous) and firm (pukna) mēdea’ (Iliad 3.202). It would seem tautologous to credit him for knowledge of both dolous and mēdea (or his ‘crafts’ and his ‘arts’) – especially when the latter is reinforced by such a physical adjective. If there might be a wry smile on the lips of some listeners who hear of Odysseus’ knowledge of firm mēdea, the same may appreciate the insinuation that Odysseus attempts to cover his ‘true self’ before the princess, just as he does every time he adopts a disguise.
At every turn Odysseus’ name evades us. His given name is ambiguous, meaning either the man who suffers, or inflicts, pain; and he spends most of the narrative as anyone other than Odysseus, making both Outis and mētis more true to his characterisation than his cognomen. Certainly it would suit his characterisation best for all these interpretations to be valid. He possesses more epithets than any other hero – and most of them begin with the prefix poly, hinting at the versatility of his character. Whether or not we could ever ascertain Odysseus’ true name, there is certainly meaning to be found in the name he selects for himself. Odysseus succumbs to claiming his given name only when he is prompted to after Demodocus’ rendition of the story of the Trojan Horse (9.19–20). He identifies himself as the same Odysseus that Demodocus sings of at 8.494. Notably, Odysseus only identifies himself as such once he has been reminded of the kleos of his name through Demodocus’ song; just as his friends Nestor and Menelaus remember his name once they have been reminded of it by Telemachus and his presence. Demodocus’ song (and, metapoetically, the text itself) highlights the fact that the name-epithet ‘Odysseus sacker of cities’ belongs to the song and the myth, and so when Odysseus adopts this name he is aligning himself with the poetic tradition which will carry his name through the ages. Though the names are the same, this is another persona. The afterlife of his kleos, therefore, is entirely contingent upon his name. He is rather less enamoured of this form of afterlife than Achilles is, as he adopts his cognomen and its associated fame only as another mask – it is merely a tool which he uses to obtain the assistance of others. Elsewhere, he is less attached to the name Odysseus. He often refers to himself in the third person, reinforcing this disassociation from his given name. Once he has revealed himself to Telemachus he tells his son that ‘No other Odysseus than I will ever come back to you’ (16.204), and later demands of his comrades ‘Let no one (mē tis) hear that Odysseus is in the palace’ (16.300).
After drawing Polyphemus’ curse upon him, Odysseus avoids using his given name at all costs, recognising the power that it contains. Odysseus realises that anonymity is a protective force, one which places him in a death-like state – an ‘other-world’ of the non-living, which allows him to traverse the mystical realm. He can, therefore, only leave this realm by claiming a name. However, the name by which he is identified itself belongs to another ‘other’ world: the world of myth and folklore. So who is the man really? It is perhaps telling that we name the one poem Odyssey and the other Iliad (rather than Achillead), for we keep his name alive through his song. That the kleos of Odysseus’ name should be contingent on the survival of his song mirrors the fact that his survival in the story is contingent upon his anonymity. But what is significant is that the name he most truly embodies is no-name at all. If a name constitutes a man, then when is Odysseus ever alive other than when we sing of him?
It should not be surprising that the uniting force behind all these ‘afterlife’ states is the psychopomp Hermes, whose role it is to transgress physical, spiritual, and psychological boundaries: ‘In the myth of Hermes we find the negation of the principle of identity . . . the god knows no spatial limits and [appears] in different shapes’ (Eco, 1992, p. 29). While we probably most often associate Hermes with the role of messenger, this is not his primary employment in the Homeric cosmos. In truth, during the course of the Odyssey, Hermes only performs the role of messenger once – when he visits Calypso at Zeus’ behest (5.47f). Yet during even this exchange Zeus makes it very plain that sending messages is not his son’s primary role: ‘Hermes, since you are, at other times (alla), our messenger (angelos) . . .’ (5.29). Indeed, he has Iris for that purpose (Iliad 2.786; 3.121; 5.352; 8.397; 11.185; 15.53, 145; 18.167; 23.196; 24.77, 142, see also: Homeric Hymn to Demeter: 314–315; Homeric Hymn to Delian Apollo: 102), whilst Rumour is also an efficacious messenger (Iliad 2.93; Odyssey 2.216; 24.412). Nowhere else in the Odyssey is Hermes described as an ἄγγελός (angelos) – a title saved more exclusively for Iris. This supports Austin’s argument that Hermes’ visit to Calypso is a peculiar, and therefore significant, one (1982, pp. 78–79) which is better explained through his role as psychopomp than his role as envoy.
The fact that we should understand Hermes’ primary role as psychopomp, rather than herald, is further evidenced by a study of his epithets. Like Odysseus, Hermes is a multifarious character who sports a wide range of epithets – thirteen within the Odyssey alone. The most common of these is ‘slayer of Argus’ (Ἀργειφόντης / Argeiphontēs) which is more of a moniker than an epithet, much as Athena is titled Pallas Athena. His second most common epithet, however, is διάκτορος (diaktoros) variously translated as ‘minister’, ‘messenger’, ‘guide’, and even ‘runner’. There is a great deal of discussion surrounding the origin of this word, namely whether it stems from διάγω / diagō meaning ‘to carry over’, or διώκω / diōkō; ‘cause to run’ (Autenrieth, 1891, s.v. διάκτορος; Stanley, 1993, p. 237). If one believes Hermes’ primary role is as a messenger of the gods, then one would of course seek a reference to running in his principal epithet. However, diōkō is more usually associated with pursuing or chasing (Odyssey 15.278), and in Homer at least it is most frequently a ‘driving force’ (Odyssey 5.332; 12.182; 13.162; 18.8; 409). It is not the swiftness (ὠκύς) that Achilles, for example, exhibits. Furthermore, as we have seen from within the Homeric tradition, Hermes is most emphatically not considered a messenger god.
Dismissing diagō as the source of the epithet is based on a misunderstanding of the god’s true purpose. Hermes is a god of transition – the one whose staff sends men to sleep and wakes them; the one who carries over souls from one realm to another; the one who returns Odysseus from a land of anonymity to a place where his name is sung the world over. Within the Iliad, he also appears in his psychopompic role (Stanley, 1993, pp. 237–239; de Jáuregui, 2011, pp. 37–68). An epithet which stems from diagō ‘to carry over’ seems infinitely more appropriate for such a one than a ‘driving force’. Why should we even consider ‘messenger’ as a translation of diaktoros, when Zeus himself uses the term angelos to refer to the role? Aside from 5.47 where it is given in a negative, Hermes is never awarded the title angelos, unlike Iris. Given what we know of his position, diaktoros would be better translated as ‘the one who carries over’ or at the very least simply the ‘guide’.
As a god of transitions, Hermes has the power to navigate not only the House of Hades (11.625–626; 24.1–15) but also all three of the other ‘afterlives’ examined in this paper. He is thematically linked with the mechanisms of sunrise and sunset in the pseudo-katabasis narrative of Iliad 24. Hermes meets with Priam at the tomb of Ilos, at sunset, in the likeness of a young boy, and proceeds to guide Priam through the Achaean camp to Achilles’ tent (24.345–355). Priam’s return is couched in the opposite terms, as he returns at sunrise – again guided by the psychopomp (24.690–692). In brief, the pseudo-katabasis scene is identified specifically by the presence of Hermes and the passages of the sun (de Jáuregui, 2011, 44). While he is not directly responsible for the movements of Helios, there is a clear association with the presence of darkness and the transition into another realm which is effected by Hermes.
During Priam’s ‘katabasis’ Hermes’ attributes as a πομπός are ‘repeatedly stressed’ – notably the staff which he uses the send the guards to sleep (24.343–344; 445–446; see, de Jáuregui, 2011, p. 44). In the Odyssey, Hermes is thrice awarded the epithet ‘of the golden staff’ (χρυσόρραπι / chrusorhapi) (5.87; 10.277, 331) and several lines are dedicated to describing the staff, when we are first introduced to him (5.47–49), and again when he guides the suitors’ souls to the Underworld (24.2–5). Admittedly, he is not the only god to have a staff with transformative powers; both Athena and Circe possess wands with the power to transform physically. Likewise, Athena sends mortals to sleep several times in order to ease their suffering, and yet no other staff is awarded such descriptive space as Hermes’. His connection to both sleep and darkness is further evidenced by the fact that both Eumaeus and the Phaeacians pray to him before they retire for the night (14.436–437; 7.136–138):
εὗρε δὲ Φαιήκων ἡγήτορας ἠδὲ μέδοντας
σπένδοντας δεπάεσσιν ἐυσκόπῳ ἀργεϊφόντῃ,
ᾧ πυμάτῳ σπένδεσκον, ὅτε μνησαίατο κοίτου
. . . and found the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians
pouring libations from their goblets to keen-sighted Argeiphontes,
to whom they pour the last libation when they are mindful of the time for bed.
Finally, as Austin remarks, Hermes is as pivotal a character to the recovery of Odysseus as Telemachus. Both act as embassies whose purpose is to return Odysseus’ name to the land of the living, so that he may be recovered from his state of anonymity. Like Telemachus, Hermes participates in Odysseus’ anonymity, for during his conversation with Calypso, neither one mentions Odysseus by name (Austin, 1972, p. 7). Hermes is far more than a simple messenger – he appears to perform this role only during what is actually another act of transition whereby he enables Odysseus to cross over from one world to another.
When we understand that there is more to the Homeric afterlife than the House of Hades – that a form of limbo extends to places of darkness, periods of sleep, and paronomatic anonymity – we begin to accept that for most of the Odyssey Odysseus is, for all intents and purposes, dead. He is dead, just as his family claim him to be, right up until the moment he reveals himself to them. Reading the Odyssey with this appreciation of Homeric eschatology makes it plain that Odysseus’ nostos is more of a spiritual journey than we otherwise might believe – in the sense that it is a journey through various forms of death. The proem, therefore, should be translated in its most literal sense:
Sing of the man, muse, the much turning one, who very many
wanderings made, who wasted the sacred citadel of Troy.
Who saw the cities of many men, and came to know their minds.
Who suffered many pains on the sea, down in his heart,
who sought to save his soul, and the homecoming of his companions.
For if so many of his journeys were spent in a quasi-afterlife state – from the darkness of Polyphemos’ cave to the anonymity he takes upon himself, transitioning from one place to another as he sleeps – then it is his soul and not his life that has been endangered, and it is his soul which he finally recovers in sunny Ithaca when he returns to the land of the living. As for his name, it takes on an afterlife of its own through a more powerful transition than any Hermes can illicit – the transition of time, through the kleos of his song.
Anghelina, C. (2010) ‘The Homeric Gates of Horn and Ivory’, Museum Helveticum, pp. 65–72.
Austin, N. (1972) ‘Name Magic in the “Odyssey”’, California Studies in Classical Antiquity, 5, pp. 1–19.
Austin, N. (1982) Archery at the Dark of the Moon: Poetic Problems in Homer’s Odyssey, Berkeley, University of California Press.
Autenrieth, G. (1891) A Homeric Dictionary for Schools and Colleges, New York, Harper and Brothers.
Bachvarova, M. R. (2016) From Hittite to Homer: The Anatolian Background of Ancient Greek Epic, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.
Bernstein, A. E. (1993) The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds, Ithaca and London, Cornell University Press.
Brown, C. S. (1966) ‘Odysseus and Polyphemus: The Name and the Curse’, Comparative Literature, 18, pp. 193–202.
de Jáuregui, M. H. (2011) ‘Priam’s Catabasis: Traces of the Epic Journey to Hades in Iliad 24’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 141, pp. 37–68.
Dimock, G. E. (1956) ‘The Name of Odysseus’, The Hudson Review, 9, pp. 52–70.
Eco, U. (1992) ‘Interpretation and History’, in U. Eco and S. Collini (ed.) Interpretation and Overinterpretation, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, pp. 23–43.
Frame, D. (1978) The Myth of Return in Early Greek Epic, New Haven, Yale University Press.
Frazer, Sir J. G. (1955) The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion Vol. II, Third Edition, London, Macmillan.
Germain, G. (1954) Genèse de l’Odyssée, le fantastique et le sacré, Paris, Presses universitaires de France.
Lévi-Strauss, C. (1948) ‘La vie familiale et sociale des indiens Nambikwara’, Journal de la Société des américanistes 37, pp. 1–132.
Lewis, T. J. (1989) Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (Harvard Semitic Monographs Vol.39), Atlanta, Scholars Press.
Louden, B. (1995) ‘Categories of Homeric Wordplay’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 125, pp. 27–46.
Nagy, G. (1990) Greek Mythology and Poetics, New York, Cornell University Press.
Nagy, G. (2013) The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours, Harvard, Harvard University Press.
Rank, L. P. (1952) Etymologiseering en verwante verschijnselen bij Homerus, Utrecht, van Gorcum.
Stanford, W. B. (1959) Homer: Odyssey Volume I, New York, Macmillan.
Stanford, W. B. (1982) ‘Astute Hero and Ingenious Poet: Odysseus and Homer’, The Yearbook of English Studies, 12, pp. 1–12.
Stanley, K. (1993) The Shield of Homer: Narrative Structure in the Iliad, Princeton, Princeton University Press.