I’ve reread it.
I’ve come to two conclusions.
One, the trouble I had with Mythos the first time is precisely the same reason I loved Heroes as I did. It is no fault of Stephen Fry’s whatsoever. I did, indeed, fail him.
In Mythos, I knew many of the stories presented already. I am, horrifically, a nerd. I don’t say this as though it has just dawned on me. I say it with the sigh of looking down at myself and humming, ‘ah, yes.’
I read the Aeneid aloud, voluntarily, to my infant babies, in Latin, with the hopes that they would one day be better equipped for pronunciation as development of phonemes quickly scissors off as you age.
I am, horrifically, that guy.
And that meant that Mythos had little to offer me, the asshole of Latin class, in terms of novelty. What it did offer, what I was most able to appreciate, was Stephen Fry’s voice. He has a unique voice, both out loud and in writing, and it is something highly envied. The tongue-in-cheek presentation of Greek and Roman myths in modern parlance is delightful.
The many references to Edith Hamilton —hey, I know her. I read that book as a child, too. And so in slowing myself down and coming to Mythos with less tired eyes, I was able instead to see a sort of kindred spirit in it. This is how I tell Greek and Roman myths when I summarize them to other people, this same ‘ah, yes, Zeus’ wink wink say no more.
It’s nearly impossible not to talk about Greek or Roman mythology where I don’t sound like an asshole. It’s one of those few areas in life where I spring up, ready to fight, because of all of those horrid Latin trophies I got once upon a time.
I think it’s why I like Norse mythology and Egyptian mythology and indigenous myths and legends. I don’t know them well, nor should I. They don’t belong to me.
And Heroes, Heroes achieved exactly what I had wanted for in Mythos– it told me a few things I didn’t know.
I read Mythos very quickly, partly because I’ve already read it once and partly because I knew the tales.
I needed to give it a closer examination, because it deserves it, because it is very good.
It’s charming, dry, ribbing. It is a book that does exactly what I like in mythology collections–it tells the myths. It’s a wonderful introduction, an eloquent refresher.
I would be doing a disservice if I hadn’t given it the try it deserved.
But this gets at a point of mental health maintenance that I think needs to be addressed. It is possible to read too much, too quickly, and to dislike something seemingly made for you. It’s possible to come to a book (or anything, truly) at the wrong time, the wrong place, then spend your days blasting Madam Bovary only to find that in old age that you see it with kinder eyes.
Except let’s not go that far for Madam Bovary. I still have my hang ups.
Conversely, you may reread something you loved at one age and find yourself saying ‘dear god what pretentious, poorly crafted bullshit’.
Many times you will do this to yourself.
And it’s okay.
It’s perfectly decent of you to give something another try. It’s perfectly decent of you to change your mind, your opinion, yourself.
And please, slow down.
Aliactast 