On the Greeks

To my pleasure, I’ve realised that I can read scripts on the bus without getting travel sick. I’ve found that reading on transport either will deter people from starting a conversation, or start one. If you too want to have a heated debate on Catch-22/Shakespeare/Aeschylus, pull up a chair, grab a coffee and marry me. But y’all know my feelings about people who are simply discontented with their own thoughts, and then try to rope me in as their counsellor. No. I don’t want salacious gossip,  I want you to bugger off and leave me alone.

It’s this week, after a very speedy reading of the Oresteian Trilogy (and a subsequent not-so-speedy reading), that my passion for Greek myths has been reignited. When I was about ten, I was obsessed – if you’d given me the name of a god, I’d have been able to rattle off their life story, the humans that were given the pleasure of their company, their children, their lovers, their preferred style of Grecian sandal. Alas, my brain has now become cluttered with art coursework, trig identities and the identity matrix, and Zeus and Persephone and the Harpies have been tucked away in a drawer.

I’m in two minds about this sudden fascination – it’s not even the traditional myths that are my sole interest now. I want to read more plays and have another crack at the Iliad and more Aeschylus and Sophocles. I also want more money, but that’s unlikely, if I’m splashing out on books. Half of me is screaming ‘Yes! We can let the gods fly loose again! You’ve found something better to do than stalk ‘Hot Guys Reading’ on Instagram!’, but the other, more responsible half is beating me with a very large stick. Goddammit Isobel, it’s saying. You have exams VERY VERY SOON, and all you can do is read up on Aristotle.

Oh well. If I can spout about hubris, hamartia and catharsis, I’m guaranteed an A*, right?

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