On Myths & Monstrosity: Ariadne by Jennifer Saint
I will read any mythological retelling, but Ariadne is a particularly good one. Particularly because it doesn't shy away from the monstrosity at the heart of so many stories.
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Hello! It seems that some of you had a problem receiving last week’s newsletter; if you missed it, you can read my mountain-y reading recap here.
The Books
This week, I listened to the audiobook for Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig (Penguin Books) through the library. For those keeping track, this is my first full book by a MAN this year! I also finished They Never Learn by Layne Fargo (Gallery/Scout Press), a violent and twisted thriller that I recommend for anyone looking to dabble in a little misandry. I started Girlhood by Melissa Febos (Bloomsbury).
Ariadne by Jennifer Saint (Flatiron Books)
I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.
“No longer was my world one of brave heroes; I was learning all too swiftly the women’s pain that throbbed unspoken through the tales of their feats.”
Are you looking for a thoughtful and adventurous mythological retelling that centers the voices of women with vastly different reflections on womanhood and motherhood? Have you read Circe by Madeleine Miller and are looking for your next reinvented heroine? Read ARIADNE by Jennifer Saint. This book, told from the alternating perspectives of Cretan princesses Ariadne and Phaedra, is a compelling and welcome addition to a tradition of myths typically defined by men. The well-trod tales of Theseus and the Minotaur, the rise of Dionysus, and the death of Hippolytus have always converged around the two sisters, but their oft-forgotten names are typically relegated only to footnotes. Saint’s book resurfaces Ariadne and Phaedra for a generation of readers clamoring for a more complete rendering of these stories.
An unforgettable theme of ARIADNE is its meditations on monstrosity. In terms of literary history, this makes perfect sense: a fundamental Western example of revisionist writing is Jorge Luis Borges’s short story about the heralded Theseus (a “hero” and erstwhile lover of Ariadne) and the blood-curdling Minotaur named Asterion (Ariadne’s half-brother). “The House of Asterion” is uniquely written from Asterion’s perspective, which casts him as “terribly misunderstood” instead of, you know, a child-hunting monster with the body of a man and the head of a bull. The first section of Saint’s book similarly grapples with the existential power of Asterion: as his elder half-sister, Ariadne hoped “to nurture the humanity within him” despite his monstrosity. However powerful her revulsion and horror became, it was so “inextricably wound up” with pity and anger at the circumstances that had made him that way.
“Asterion. A distant light in an infinity of darkness. A raging fire if you came too close. A guide that would lead my family on the path to immortality. A divine vengeance upon us all. I did not know then what he would become. But my mother held him and nursed him and named him, and he knew us both. He was not yet the Minotaur. He was just a baby. He was my brother.”
Those circumstances are, of course, a product of the punishments doled out by gods typically following the misdeeds of men. But Asterion grows into the legendary Minotaur, which is starkly different from other examples of monstrosity that Ariadne witnesses. Much of Saint’s book shows young Ariadne being warned about reviled and monstrous women like Scylla and Medusa, not to mention her cursed and crazed mother Pasiphae. While the Minotaur gets honorably slain by a hero, monstrous women aren’t so lucky.
After risking her life to help Theseus rid the world of her half-brother, Ariadne experiences just how such celebrated heroes punish women who offer indispensable assistance. (Spoiler: he strands her on the uninhabited island of Naxos, leaving her for dead.) Saint's rendition of the ensuing tale is gripping and devastating, steeped in a sense of dread and well-earned bitterness that allows jewels of Ariadne's joy to shine through despite her situation.
“...these men, these gods who toyed with our lives and cast us aside when we had been of use to them, who laughed at our suffering or forgot our existence altogether… How many women had he left in his path before me? How many had he charmed and seduced and tricked into betrayal before he went upon his way, another woman’s life crumbled to dust in his fist, claiming every victory for himself alone?”
As Ariadne and Phaedra alternate perspectives to narrate the high-stakes stories of their lives, both are constantly aware of the myriad ways that monstrosity can manifest. Ariadne, who eventually marries the god Dionysus, confronts his avaricious ascent to a seat on Olympus and the grotesque demands he makes of his cult. Phaedra, who was swept away from Crete as part of a political bargain, cannot muster maternal affection for her offspring and considers herself a monster for her disillusionment. Those heartbreaking chapters from Phaedra’s perspective are excruciating and are some of my favorites. Saint infuses both of their voices with such humanity and urgency that their stories feel revelatory, even though I knew that neither story ended with a typical happy ending.
In the end, Saint’s portrayals of the duo offer complex accounts that make each feel simultaneously fresh and primordial. While men are typically the favorites of gods and bards who keep myths alive, ARIADNE unflinchingly holds men accountable for those omissions. Despite some pacing issues toward the middle of the book and the fact that comparing anything to Madeleine Miller is asking for critique, ARIADNE is a refreshing retelling that pedestals the voices of women in spite of their perceived monstrosity.
Tasting Notes
Appropriate accompaniments for ARIADNE include Madeleine Miller, obviously (my preferred book by her, Song of Achilles, is the NYPL and WNYC book club pick of the month because it apparently went viral on Tik Tok); crusty bread and red wine; When God Was Queer, a podcast about legends and myths that act as “divine reflections of LGBTQIA+ identities and experiences” in the Greek pantheon and beyond; the video game Hades, which was originally supposed to have Theseus as the protagonist(!?!?!?); Dionysus by BTS; gorgons; Judy Chicago’s iconic artwork, “The Dinner Party;” considering the lack of intersectionality in some ostensibly “feminist” revisionism; The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s tiny exhibit that I saw a few years ago, “Dangerous Beauty: Medusa in Classical Art;” Lore Olympus; and Jessica Zimmerman’s column for Catapult, “Role Monsters.”
I’m sure you have better things to do today, but do ensure you’ve read this chaotic and hilarious article about hot animated dads before you go. Bye!