Circe

I found this retelling of Circe, the goddess who was exiled for her witchcraft (we can’t give women too much power, now, can we) simply, well, enchanting, from the spellbinding story to the mesmerizing prose. It’s both thrilling and thought-provoking, like an action movie that makes you smarter. I thought about how women have been portrayed through the ages: harpy, harridan, hag, whore; siren, seductress, sorceress, shrew. I thought about how someone can be depicted as a hero or villain, depending on who’s spinning the story: Circe as jealous, vengeful, predatory, punished for her power; Odysseus as charming, disarming, self-deprecating, forgiven for his flaws. I thought about the double standard for men and women. I thought about Johnny Depp and Amber Heard.

𝘊𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘦 subverts the myth and searches for the truth: that women aren’t just good or bad; virgin or whore; Patient Griselda or Fatal Attraction; that sometimes, yes, they are shrewish or vicious, transformed by isolation or abuse or cruelty or grief. Maybe women aren’t as good at shrugging it off, lightening up, calming down. Maybe they don’t dissemble as much as crumble, worn down by a thousand cutting remarks. Maybe they don’t have the charming insouciance of men, because as women, they’ve always had to fear for their personal safety.

I think about the women and girls who are lonely and reviled and misunderstood; the ones who shrink from personal contact or lash out because of it; and I wonder what exile they might have endured to make them the object of fear or pity or scorn, and how much more there is to their story.