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This is one of the greatest books ever written. To say that Publius Ovidius Naso (43 BCE- 17 CE) known as Ovid, was possessed of a monumental genius, is to somewhat understate his influence on writing, painting, sculpture, music and poetry for the last two millennia. There are few if any artists of worth, certainly of the western tradition (indeed other traditions have such geniuses from whom we could all learn), who have not been enthralled by his brilliant imagery, his insight into the human condition, the sweep of his epic narrative, his capacity to depict the depths of human depravity and the heights of love.

The cover of this Penguin edition, with its very clear and lyrical translation by David Raeburn, has a picture of Bernini’s incredibly beautiful sculpture of Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne (1622), a scene from the dozens of stories in the Metamorphoses that are all threaded together by the theme of change, as life is indeed change, capturing the touching moment of Apollo and Daphne’s agonized frustrated lovemaking as she is transformed into a tree. The Metamorphoses weaves a difficult path brilliantly through Ovid’s vast knowledge of history and mythology, borrowing and rewriting Virgil, Lucretius and Homer to suit his own ends. This makes a great deal of sense, for in the life of an artist there comes a point of re-evaluation – an assessment and acknowledgement that she or he has arrived at the point they have through the influence and insights of others.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses, reacting somewhat to the Roman idolized image of the gods, depicts them as deeply ambivalent beings. Some of the stories show them as monsters, vicious cruel murderers and rapists. Jove or Jupiter, is a dreadful being. As the king of the Gods with weighty responsibilities on him, he is also a psychopath, a serial rapist who uses his power to tryst with females of his fancy, fathering countless offspring to his wife’s horror and vengeful rage. This is hardly a sterling example of a moral life, an example of the kinds of godly behaviour in the Metamorphoses that leaves much to be desired.

So we are left with a dilemma. The world order, the nature of existence, is terribly out of joint. How does one live? What constitutes a moral existence? What hope is there for humanity when the gods are mad or corrupt or all too human? Ovid describes the world and leads us to the doorway of moral choice. He describes these beings, these gods, largely products of a complex evolutionary cultural anthropomorphosis, as being as capable of horrible acts as they are equally capable of heartbreaking tenderness. When the sun god, (Helios to the Greeks, also Apollo to the Romans, but Phoebus to Ovid) allows his all too overconfident ambitious son Phaeton to take the reins of his sun chariot on its daily journey round the Earth, things go terribly wrong. This is when Phaeton, filled with cock-sure ignorance, loses control of the sun-chariot and sets the world on fire, almost burning the earth, is killed by a bolt from Jupiter to stop the destruction of everything. Thus the Earth is shrouded in darkness as the heartbroken Phoebus covers his radiant being with his cloak in inconsolable sorrow at the loss of his beloved son. It is a terrible time, a tragic moment, handled with incredible tenderness by Ovid.

Pain, joy, ambition, jealousy, longing, loneliness, the burden of giftedness, overwhelming infatuation, the loss of love, lies, deceit, moments of hilarity, power politics and horrific acts of revenge – in other words the full sweep of the human condition – mark his subject matter, and in the Metamorphoses, Ovid deals more than anything else with what it means to be a human being, trapped in time, a mere plaything of the fickle and vengeful gods. He deals with this subject with a level of emotional and psychological accuracy that leaves an unforgettable mark on the reader. It’s not without significance that Shakespeare was a lifelong reader of Ovid, and returned to him over and over to seek new themes for his plays and poetry.

Rome remains the cultural centre of Ovid’s personal universe, and the glory of Rome is his joy and love. Despite all its horrors and imperial cruelties it remains his personal point of reference. It is a mark of the poet Ovid’s truly extraordinary self-assurance that at the end of this very large and very readable book, filled as it is with super heroes and gods, monsters and victims, saints and mystics, he modestly asks Emperor Augustus to immortalize him. After all, he argues, he has written the Metamorphoses. This same emperor, disdaining Ovid’s tendency to write rather explicit poems about sex and seduction and taking lovers and, moreover, how to keep ones lover, as in the Amores and the Ars Amatoria, had exiled the heartbroken poet (a banishment celebrated by Turner in a painting in 1838). Ovid, who found the world of Rome his inspiration, never got over his exile and he never stopped wanting to go home. The cliché of an artist never being fully understood in his own time is very true of Ovid, who died in what is now Romania, where he is celebrated as one of their own.


Oran Ryan

Oran Ryan is a novelist, poet and playwright from Dublin.  His poetry, short stories and literary criticism have appeared in magazines worldwide.  His novels The Death of Finn and Ten Short Novels by Arthur Kruger, both published in 2006, and One Inch Punch, his third is to be published in 2011.  His work has also appeared in the anthologies Census 1 (2008), Census 2 (2009), Living Streets, Anthology of the Ranelagh Arts Festival (2009), Dublin 10 Journeys, One Destination (2010).  His play Don Quixote Has Been Promoted was performed at the Ranelagh Arts Festival 2009; his has been shortlisted for the P J O’Connor Award; his words were performed on stage at the Stone Theatre in Manhattan, New York in 2008 and in 2010 his Radio Play Christmas 1947 was performed live as part of KRCB FM 91.1 Twisted Christmas 8 Live performance in California, as well as broadcast on KRCB over Christmas 2010.

He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.

But he looked really like a girl.

She was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.

When Blur released their single Girls & Boys (apologies for the obnoxious advert preceding the youtube video) I remember thinking something had changed. Here you had a mainstream pop song  with lyrics hinting at shifts in gender roles – with the caveat that Blur is describing Britain’s boozy yoof culture, not some progressive pansexual vision of the future.

Still, I thought to myself, it’s a start!

Ali Smith’s short novel concerns itself with love regardless of its form. Anthea Gunn has been wrangled a job by her sister with an omnivorous corporation that is looking to establish itself as a global water monopoly. When gazing out of a window during an insufferable ‘creative’, brainstorming session, with the attendants encouraged to free associate a new brand name for bottled water targeted at a Scottish market, Anthea witnesses a figure in a kilt deface a advertising poster for the company with political slogans. The sloganeer is actually a woman named Robin Goodman. Anthea falls head over heels in love with her.

Imogen Gunn feels distraught not only at her sister having walked out of her well-paid position with Pure, but by the sudden revelation that her sister is gay. She is not even able to think the word lesbian. Imogen tries to think what could have caused Anthea to become attracted to women. She never showed any evidence of it before. In fact her sister had had more boyfriends than her growing up. Both sisters went to school with Robin years before and Imogen remembers how she was bullied for being different, although she never really stopped to consider why. Now Anthea is in a relationship with her. She feels threatened by her sister’s choice in a partner, her emerging political consciousness and contempt for the boozing male workers at Pure, who chuckle at the pub while making fun of women just like Anthea. Why can’t she be normal, like her?

Of course Imogen is not quite normal at all. Frighteningly thin, blinded to the bigotry and sexism that surrounds her she grows increasingly resentful for her sister’s choices until forced to take a moral stand herself. Water is an essential requirement for life and yet her employers are trying to control and own it as a private resource. Robin’s political subversiveness is infectious and soon both of the Gunns find themselves questioning the lives they lead, whether any progress to a fairer world is at all possible in today’s society?

Smith draws extensively on both classical mythology, particularly the story of Iphis and Ianthe in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, as well as Scottish folklore. She positions modern-day Inverness as being on the cusp of returning to its Enlightenment-era progressiveness, where ordinary people are in a position to object to the callous practices of immoral conglomerates.

The book’s theme is that water and love are both things which cannot be sold, bought or controlled, nor should they be. Love is reduced to anonymous sex – there is a particularly oppressive scene in a pub with Imogen becoming increasingly alarmed at the aggressive manner of two male colleagues. Water is taken from farmers in India to benefit globe-straddling Western companies and headed by unfeeling creeps such as the buzz-word spouting spokesman for Pure, Keith.  In her acknowledgements, Smith recommends books such as Blue Gold by Maude Barlow and Tony Clarke and H20: A Biography of Water by Philip Ball.  This fusion of political consciousness and mythology makes for a passionate and gripping read.

This is also a very romantic novel and Imogen’s dismay at her sister’s new lover is actually very funny, a stream of consciousness rant prickly in its paranoid suspicion of how the ‘conversion’, was achieved (there’s a very funny moment when she wonders whether Buffy the Vampire Slayer was at fault), while at the same time remaining very amusing. Despite her horror she cannot help noting how loving and gentle Robin and Anthea are together.

A fantastic book, which made me feel alive. Ali Smith is someone to watch in the future.

And there we have it – my two hundredth review. Phew. Two hundred days and me turning 31 on Sunday. Hopefully I won’t hit my 32nd birthday doing this. Cheers for reading folks, tomorrow is day two hundred and one!

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