“Will you read?” Oenone asks Paris. Though she never meant to, I believe she spoke for many of us in that one sentence. “Would you pick up?” we may ask, or, “Will you see me again?”. Ovid’s Heroides (ed. Harold Isbell, 2004, Penguin) is a collection about (and for) those who need to accept no as an answer.
This book had me hooked at Penelope’s first words, then proceeded to capture my heart entirely through the letters of Oenone and Medea. Setting my favourites aside, many of these voices spoke to me – I simply cannot contain their discourse anymore.
Penelope (pp. 3-6)
Penelope is a Spartan woman who marries Odysseus and moves to Ithaca with him. Although she pleads with her husband not to leave for Troy, he is forced to do so anyway. After his side emerges victorious from the Trojan War – after ten years – he takes on a sea voyage home – lasting another ten years. During that time, Penelope stays in Ithaca, raises their son, and resists the myriad of suitors trying to win her favour.
During a period of abandonment, whether perceived or actual, temporary or permanent, there comes a moment when we echo Penelope’s, “Do not answer these lines, but come”. When simply reaching out feels fruitless and only seems to reaffirm unreciprocated emotions, it is difficult to avoid thinking “You are a victor but I am here / alone”. Her anguish is amplified by a further layer of isolation; she feels her “sorrow” isn’t shared by “many wives” anymore, projecting her loneliness on her community as well. I am sure she would find more sympathy today. Though I don’t think many people our age would venture on a 20-year journey on a ship as Odysseus did, some of us have certainly experienced that lingering numbness when someone important has left our lives. In an age where one is pushed to move on rather quickly, and lingering feelings may be looked down upon, I suppose we could take a moment for ourselves to share in her grief. Her letter is a comforting reminder that emotions need some time to catch up with the reality of physical absence.
Phyllis (pp. 11-16)
Demophon marries Phyllis in Thrace, on his way home to Athens following the Trojan War. Shortly after he expresses his wish to briefly visit Athens, but promises Phyllis he would return. It is a promise left unfulfilled.
Similar to Phyllis, we may also struggle to “lose sight of the day you sailed off”. It is not only memories that her letter teaches us about. She evokes the last, the cruellest element of Pandora’s box: “I still have just a little hope left, for we / believe slowly when belief brings pain”. I believe her poignant introspection speaks to our experience of choosing faith instead of taking the first step towards the pain of acceptance, the hurt that comes with letting go. Naturally, time heals. The initial pain may lead to a path of greater inner peace and harmony. Nevertheless, some may find comfort in nourishing that little hope with Phyllis for a moment longer.
Oenone (pp. 39-45)
The Trojan War erupts when Paris abducts Helen of Sparta, wife of Menelaus. Many texts, including Homer’s Illiad are predominantly concerned with the events of the war. That, however, does not apply to Oenone, Paris’s first wife. She only learns about Paris’s infidelity once he returns on Trojan shores with Helen by his side.
There is something violent about her letter, yet in the most subtle way possible. When she notices Helen on Paris’s returning ship, she speaks of ripping at her “tear-stained cheeks”, filling “Ida’s holy land” with her cries and taking her “grief to the barren rocks” almost as a physical display of her emotional turmoil. Burdened by a sense of injustice, she sneers at Paris and reminds him that her affections have “not brought an army of Greeks and [she does] not come in bloodied armour,” condemning the consequences of the adulterous relationship between Paris and Helen. Even so, the greatest pain may strike the reader through the gentlest of images, a piece of nostalgia claimed by the past evermore:
Your tears fell when you left, do not deny them.
Victims of grief, we wept together;
Your arms held me closer than a clinging vine
Holds the elm.
Hypsipyle and Medea (pp. 47-55 and 103-115 respectively)
Both of these women were wives of Jason at some point or another. First, he leaves Hypsipyle for Medea, then leaves Medea for Creusa. I mainly focus on Medea, purely because I find her spectacular (and Jason all the more spiteful). By virtue of her magical powers, Medea helps Jason through his trials and tribulations, yet her enchantments are not enough to keep him faithful to her. These women highlight Jason’s dishonesty and ingratitude while lamenting their own pain.
I suppose only a few of us would prefer to be kept in the honeyed trap of sweet and sour lies, rather than see the situation as clearly and truthfully as humanly possible. Certainly, Hypsipyle and Medea prefer the latter, one condemning Jason’s “tears flowing down your false face”, the other expressing disgust over “the lies / that fell so gracefully from your tongue”. In their case, I find it peculiar that Jason should mistreat Medea considering how many times she has saved his life. Indeed, only her magic remains, the “favours” Medea may “take some little pleasure” in, despite the sorrowful outcome. Her experience also resonates with those who battle with difficult days and nights that become “vigils of bitterness”. She realises that “My magic made the dragon’s eyes close / but nothing I can do will bring sleep to me.” This brings her to a conclusion rather familiar to the people-pleasers among us: “I benefit others more than me.” Her letter speaks to those who feel drained in their state of abandonment, who may struggle with the thought that their efforts have slipped into a gaping void, rendering their kindness absolutely traceless.
Laodamia (pp. 116-123)
Protesilaus is the least offensive of all men in this collection. He is the first to die over the course of the Trojan war, leaving Laodamia widowed. Her account is certainly one of grief – what complicates the letter is speculation. She has not learned about her husband’s death at the time of writing, so readers are confronted with her tragic hopefulness.
The widow of the first Greek soldier to die in the Trojan war is less canonical than some of the figures mentioned above, yet still quite resonant for modern readers. The abandonment she illustrates in her letter is uncertain, hopeful; yet the dramatic irony of us knowing the inevitable fruitlessness of her faith renders her words all the more devastating. Like Gigi Perez in ‘Sailor Song ’ Laodamia finds “comfort only in my dreams” and keeps asking “How long until I hold you, safely returned; / How long until I am lost in joy?” A generation listening religiously to Perez’s song would suggest Laodamia to sleep instead, if she hates having to wait so long. Even more painfully, in a manner alike to Cassandra, Laodamia concludes:
But we can never know. Our persistent fear
Compels us to imagine the worst
That could be as already having happened.
Her journey may offer insight to those navigating a potentially temporary, yet somewhat anxious period of waiting, or abandonment. Her vulnerabilities, her questions allow us to release and express emotions that may otherwise be perceived as desperation. Her letter gives us a space for mourning, and vocabulary to articulate the worries about a loved one’s well-being and return.
I focused on notions of loneliness, abandonment, and fear, but Ovid’s heroines discuss infidelity, feelings of inadequacy and (inadvertently) misogynistic rivalry between women. As repeated above, these letters offer great safe spaces for emotional release. However, the show must go on at some point, and we cannot persist in a state of grief and abandonment forever. Luckily, the poems pose alternative paths that readers may take away.
Like Sappho, we may continue to write and create even if the “heart was frozen with cold frost.”
Like Deianira, we may simply say, “To you, my lord – farewell.”
Like Briseis, we may swear that “My tears and my silence will crush you.”
However, in my opinion, Medea’s conclusion responds with a peculiar empathy that may guide us out of a labyrinth of loneliness:
Let that be in the care of the god who probs me;
I do not know for certain what is in my soul.
Mysterious, strange, and inaccessible one’s soul may be, but we all possess our own and no one can take that away.
Disclaimer: A note on bibliotherapy
I am not a trained or qualified professional. I have no credentials besides personal anecdotes. However, hopefully, this series may motivate you to tap into these works (which should be all accessible through the Bodleian Libraries) and take a few minutes out of your day to engage in a passively creative and meditative activity. I, at least, take great pleasure from therapeutic engagement with literature and would love to share this experience.
Some of my initial background research involved Sarah McNicol’s chapter in Bibliotherapy (Facet, 2018) which highlighted a ‘therapeutic transference’ that occurs when reading fiction (encouraging connection, resolving contradictions, developing relatability). She also wrote about mechanisms of identification, catharsis and insight which is a process whereby a reader responds to a text empathetically, connects with characters on a level of emotion, and thus improves their skills in mapping and navigating their own affective and emotive landscape. Furthermore, Kelda Green’s case study on Wordsworth’s poetry in bibliotherapy (included in her Rethinking Therapeutic Reading, Anthem Press, 2020) affirmed that creative fiction demands focus, flexibility, and imagination from readers. Her research does not extend to the ways in which such reading experiences shape human cognition and behaviour, but this is just additional motivation for me to attempt “prescribing” certain works.