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"Isn't this a misreading of who Achilles is? You are ignoring the fact that Agamemnon had confiscated the young woman Achilles was fond of, and you are ignoring Achilles' capacity for love in his relation with Patrocles. Even at the beginning of the book, Achilles demonstrates his inherent sensitivity. Do you really think it would be believable for Achilles to demonstrate so much compassion for Priam in this scene if Homer had portrayed him as so much of an 's.o.b.,' as you so indelicately call him?"

Silence. All the magic drained right out of my face. She obviously had read the whole book, preparing for today. Suddenly I remembered that she was supposed to be in charge of the discussion, not me. I had only prepared this particular scene. It had been years since I had re-read "The Iliad." Shit. I was caught. Everybody was watching very closely.

"Hmm," I muttered, stalling for time. "Hmm." All I had was a one-syllable tone.

"Look at the end of the scene," Charlotte continued. "Achilles prepares a bed for Priam and then lies down with the girl. He cares for her; she is his companion. Agamemnon didn't take just any old girl from him; Achilles had a good reason for his refusal to fight. He is a complex character, not the one-dimensional figure you have created in order to set it up for his supposed growth in this scene."

Ah. She went too far, left me an opening. I roared into it. "Wait a minute back," I said, feeling my eyes grow hard and cold. "I'll concede your point about his complexity, but that doesn't change my interpretation of this scene. I still contend that Achilles, in the scene, develops his awareness as he confronts everything from his memory of his father to the obvious pain in the old man." I was almost convinced of my own argument, but was sadly aware of the lost dramatic moment in the classroom. The class sided with me, of course, wanting to get back to the intensity of my storytelling and away from what they saw as an interruption.

I finished reading the scene, but I was crusted over with light dread. I had been dramatizing Achilles' capacity to learn through self-awareness, and here I was resisting learning from Charlotte. First of all, I had completely forgotten her in my own self-importance, and then I had tried to cover over the fact that she knew the book better than I did. I was faking it and was refusing to admit it. Besides, she had exposed a hole in my entire method. Instead of taking these old classics on their own terms, I was forcing them into being mere vehicles for my own post-postmodern consciousness.

I decided to face the issue head on with the class. "Listen," I said. "Charlotte has a point. I was ignoring the totality of 'The Iliad' in order to use this scene to make 'The Iliad' relevant to modern life. You can see both perspectives here: hers, that 'The Iliad' has to be carefully read and interpreted in such a way that we are respectful of its own 'world'; and mine, that we are entitled to yank pieces of historical literature out of their context to address modern issues." Now, I was proud of myself. I had incorporated her criticism into the lesson and come out looking humble, conciliatory and still professorial. Yay, team. Most of the class was smiling. "The Man" had done it again.

Only Charlotte didn't want to be assimilated into my synthesis. "Well," she said, I certainly don't object to your making literature relevant, but I still think you misunderstand who Achilles was."

"Maybe so," I almost mumbled and then finally confessed what I had been withholding all along: "It's been a long time since I last read the whole book." I avoided looking at her, afraid that there would be either fear or hatred in my eyes. Inside, I felt my authority and joy oozing away as from a small, rather ornate wound, and I desperately wanted the class to end. How monstrous, I thought, that my overweening pleasure could so easily be diluted, the moral fervor I had teased out of canonical literature reduced to petty squabbling.

The dwarf at Shiva's feet is hard to subdue -- especially for some of us. How much more graceful it would have been for me to have recognized that there was someone else in the room who knew more than I did, or, even better, to have granted Charlotte the responsibility she had volunteered for. I could have participated in a blissful waltz instead of staggering, like a drunk, heading for a fall.
salon.com | Oct. 8, 1999

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