Not long ago, when I decided I would write this, I couldn’t think of a suitable title. One could argue that An Odyssey was a thoroughly ordinary choice. It was and it was not. This is, roughly speaking, a narrative of a man’s journey to the sea and its implications. It was fair enough, then, to simply name it An Odyssey. There is more meaning into it, though; something that I feel compelled to disclose in the very beginning not because I think it would be wrong not to do so, but because I recognize that I need the readers’ sympathy, and nothing more sympathetic, nowadays, than honesty. My original intention was to establish a link between what I am about to write and Homer’s Odyssey. I am aware of the absurdity of the idea, especially because my text will not take more than a few pages, and, more importantly, it has absolutely no literary pretensions; but, still, I figured it would be a good idea to relate it to something of Homer’s magnitude. Something absolute, unshakable, free of doubt. The reason why I think it is a good idea will hopefully become more evident as I go on, but it is undeniable that an epic poem such as The Odyssey has already acquired some sort of divine quality; people don’t read it anymore, they simply bow before its intimidating importance. No matter how insignificant and unsuccessful my writings happen to be reputed someday, they will always be praised for at least bringing up the reassuring memories of ancient creativity. And I intend to keep this link fresh in the readers’ minds by naming this story’s hero Odysseus, or Ulysses, although it is widely known that his real name had nothing to do with either of the two.
I must warn the adventure-seekers that this Odysseus’ wanderings were much milder than the original’s: there were no witches or giants to trouble his journey; and his journey, instead of ten years, did not last more than ten months. But his inexplicable (not entirely inexplicable; this will be discussed in depth later) urge to reach the sea was undoubtedly comparable to the original Odysseus’ urge to reach Ithaca, even though this Odysseus had obviously no underwater family anxiously awaiting. For being so, many could infer that not much attention would be drawn toward his odyssey. If I were to infer, I would have probably inferred the same, but the outcome ended up being the exact opposite: innumerable books (books, not brief texts like this one) were written about it, and discussions concerning his life, his motives, and his death are unending. I happen to be humble enough to admit that I can barely comprehend many of these books, for they have reached a level of complexity that is well beyond anything this town has ever experienced. My friends and I like to think that they are almost as obscure as Odysseus’ mystery itself, and with this in mind we increasingly tend to ignore them.
* * *
Odysseus’ hometown is as far from the sea as a town can possibly be. In fact, the sea used to be regarded, by its inhabitants (and it still is, by the more skeptical ones), as something beyond human grasp, just as some like to think that the existence of God or any sort of divinity is a topic beyond human’s sphere of conjectures. The sea, though, never had any sacred book to defend its existence, let alone apostles who were willing to approach different peoples to spread its influence, resulting in a general belief that the sea was nothing but a legend, something so distant (both geographically and ideologically, though no one was ever certain, before Odysseus’ journey, about their exact geographic location) that only the children still bothered to give it any relevance. This is perfectly understandable, for there was a myriad of fantastic tales about the sea, usually depicting brave sailors and overwhelming storms. Had they inquired about it to anyone immediately outside their community, they would have found out that, after all, the way to the sea was not that complicated.
When Odysseus was still a young child, he said: “I want to reach the sea.” His father was particularly amused by this childlike whim, especially because of Odysseus’ stern and resolute facial expression. Nevertheless, as the years progressed, and Odysseus’ original statement evolved into “I need to reach the sea” and “I will reach the sea,” respectively, his father’s concern increased considerably. In one of his first so-called dictionary sessions, Odysseus learned the definition of the word impossible: “Not capable of existing, being done, or happening.” He never seemed to notice that his father wanted him to relate this word to what he wished to accomplish. Rather, he was always ready to learn different words (the dictionary sessions were held thrice everyday, under the inexorable supervision of his father), for he thought that there was nothing more important than that. He once said: “There may be language without thought, but there may be no thought without language, for, after all, how could a thought, as simple as it might be, prove its own existence if not through the language? An ancient man, living in caves, could exteriorize his, say, lascivious intentions, to an ancient woman he finds to be attractive, through unintelligible moans and groans. Yet another language.” Nonetheless, once Odysseus’ father ran out of words to teach, that is, once Odysseus finished reading the whole dictionary, his father became, in some strange manner, bitter and mean-spirited for not being able to impose any kind of intellectual superiority upon his own creature. He, then, started to arbitrarily and mistakenly correlate meanings to words: sea became “the solid portion of earth’s surface”; love became “a strong feeling of dislike or ill will” and so forth.
The reason why I bother to mention this eccentricity is that it helped Odysseus tremendously during his journey. The relation is indeed not that obvious at first sight, but one could think of it this way: Odysseus became acquainted with an adverse situation. Even though he knew his father was freely mixing up words and definitions (for he, fortunately, had a dictionary of his own, and, besides, he already knew the correct meaning of most words), he had to submit himself to the now long and fastidious dictionary sessions with remarkable resignation. He did it because of two reasons: he was still grateful to his father, for, after all, he was the one who first introduced him into the study of words (at the time, a coherent study); and, perhaps even more importantly, he was still not quite ready to leave his home. The reasons why he accepted it pale in contrast with its consequences. Using the pretentiously scientific term (endorsed by most of those who wrote unending analyses of this case), Odysseus was propelled into a “familiar confusion” state of mind. This concept is usually elucidated by the belief that the human being, when going through a difficult situation (confusion), eventually gets used to it and even tends to struggle to keep it as it is (familiar). That is, no one ever wants to be expelled from their routine, even if the new routine that is being offered has evident advantages over the former. The time and dedication required to adapt to a new way of living are usually considered too consuming, in spite of the rewards, standing right in front of our nose.
When Odysseus finally decided he was prepared to leave his home, he did so without faltering. That tells a lot about the nature of his urge to reach the sea; it surpassed in importance the “familiar confusion” of his home. He had enough strength to wrench himself out of his family’s protection and to fall right into a new “confusion”: not being able to find out where the sea was. And he did get used to this new one, too; if he had been told where the sea was, he would have probably hesitated before following the directions. Not because he didn’t want to reach it (there was nothing he wanted more), but because the routine of being unsuccessful was so strongly solidified that it was almost comfortable. For at least a month he helplessly tried to collect information and directions in his own town. He asked mostly the older portion of the population, for they, supposedly, knew more about the sea and about how to get there. Unfortunately for Odysseus, it had been generations since the last foreigner had settled in that town, and he apparently had brought no relevant information, for the only thing that had been perpetuated throughout the years was that “it is impossible to reach the sea” or “the sea does not exist.” These were the replies Odysseus usually had to hear; if not, a sarcastic laughter. Odysseus failed to notice how different, in the broader sense of the term, two towns right next to each other can be, and that was his first mistake. All he needed to do was to ask one of those many persons whom he encountered on his way once he left his town. He would have been told that the sea was undoubtedly far away, but that the way to get there was widely known and not at all complicated. He could have probably bought a map (such a concept had not yet reached his town, despite the fact that all the towns located around there did have it for years) and even a catalogue with pictures and prices of the most modern speedboats! But he did not ask.
He became a victim of his own pragmatism: after a month of fruitless inquiries, he gave up because he thought there was a conspiracy trying to keep him away from the sea, which cannot be considered a bad conclusion, since it was unthinkable for him that no one would have any information. Then, he decided not to tell anyone where he was going to, so that there would be no attempt to stop him. His new tactics was to involve his listeners in a series of elaborate and seemingly innocent questions, hoping that his interlocutors would provide him with the needed directions without really noticing it. These questions never mentioned the sea or anything in any way related to the sea, except for the fact that he often started a conversation with “I’ve just come from the sea and...” or “I’m a sailor and I’d like to know...”, so that he wouldn’t convey the impression of wanting to know what he wanted to know. The persons to whom he directed the questions were always confused, for the questions were invariably too complicated for them, but one thing they knew for sure: Odysseus had just come from the sea, so there was absolutely no need to tell him how to get there.
I am certain that Odysseus would have been tremendously disappointed had he learned that miscommunication was the reason why he ultimately could not reach the sea. He had the needed persistence, the needed physical strength; he had an inexplicable urge (again, not exactly inexplicable. Be patient! It won’t be long until I discuss this), but he could not communicate with those who were willing to help, if only approached and inquired properly. He, who knew all the words (or so he claimed), who was as eloquent as a Greek poet (pardon my enthusiasm), could not address common people; could not make good use of his speech, which he considered to be highly efficient; could not establish any kind of link between himself and those who spoke his own language! It was as though he was mute. I assume some philosopher might have already said this, but, if not, I feel even more obliged to point out: knowing how to communicate, be it through oral or written expression, does not necessarily mean knowing how to communicate adequately in every possible occasion. This may seem a little simplistic, but many, especially certain writers, have a tendency to ignore it. An example: the already mentioned ancient man expresses himself through groans and moans. We can infer, then, that the ancient man is familiar with (let us put it this way) the groaning language. We can also infer that the ancient woman understands what he wishes to convey, for the groaning language is what she is used to hearing. Many, then, assume that this mutual understanding will always happen provided that every person involved in a conversation speaks the same language. But, if the ancient man's groaning starts to become too sophisticated, or too archaic (if that is possible), he will not be comprehended, not even by his fellow cavemen. This is what happened to Odysseus.
* * *
Now, Odysseus’ motives.
The same adventure-seekers who were warned earlier that this was not exactly the most exciting report (in light of their standards, of course) are about to, if they haven’t done it already, blame me for prematurely disclosing Odysseus’ journey’s outcome. He never reached the sea, never saw it, with the exception of the illustrations in fairy-tale books he enjoyed reading. I had two reasons for doing this: the plausible one and the real one. I obviously would not bother to tell the real one, but the commitment I made in the beginning of this text is still valid. It is, if my decision happens to be, for some reason, considered wrong, I will at least be able to say that it was intentional. The plausible one (which, even though it was not the one that influenced me most, cannot be said to be false, either) is that Odysseus’ journey’s outcome is not the keystone of my report. I actually consider it irrelevant, since I always knew the sea existed. I am sure that Tolstoy, who used to flatter himself by claiming that his novels were so complex that one could not decisively tell their main topic, would have approved of my consideration. One could argue, then, that Odysseus’ motives are indeed my main topic, but not even that I would be able to tell for sure. I will leave this issue for those who are always seeking worthless challenges.
It is known, too, that great portions of the books about Odysseus’ journey are dedicated to his motives. There are actually some that discuss his motives only, leaving personal details untouched. They tend to agree that the sea itself never had a great deal of importance; it just happened to be his objective because of circumstances under which he and his town lived. Had Odysseus been born in a town where there were no mountains, they argue, he would have pursued the mountains with the same disposition. There are some subtleties, though, that could lead us to think otherwise, such as Odysseus’ urinary incontinence. I am surely not trying to say that he avidly pursued the sea, for ten full months, until he could not possibly continue, just to go in the water and spare himself from possible embarrassments. He could have done that in his own shower, and he did. According to his parents, from whom most of the information in regards to his life was acquired, it would always be a struggle to get him out of the bathroom. Not that I believe that his disease was of crucial importance to the shaping of his behavior, but it serves as an example of how personal details (seemingly unimportant details) may influence one’s conduct, as well as it influences one’s writings. The author that is not influenced by personal events and beliefs is the one who conceals this tendency better; anyone who has the pen as an instrument of work will confirm this idea. Odysseus’ journey, it can therefore be said, was Odysseus’ “book”.
I should also add, now that suitable time comes, that I actually got to meet Odysseus, though it happened only a few days before his death. He approached me with his already described process of tortuous and apparently random commentaries. I must confess that I, for a moment, doubted his sanity, for he discussed, in no particular order, the importance of preserving the marine environment, the absurd bureaucracy involved in getting a fishing license, and the advantages of moving to a city in the country. He finished with an affirmation that still doesn’t seem to relate in any way to what he had just said: “Candide was not as ingenuous as Voltaire wanted us to believe.” Out of my huge pile of books that deal with Odysseus’ journey, none of them mention that quote, even though I made it public after his death. This is not an isolated decision: there are certain aspects of Odysseus’ life that, according to those involved in discussing them, cannot be explained; a logic to describe their pattern is something virtually unattainable. For the aspects that seem to follow an at least slightly coherent logic, they develop extensive analyses, theories and conclusions. I must say it has already become a scientific pursuit, and they are so meticulous and focused that I can’t help thinking that they, at times, forget the bigger picture, forget who they are dealing with and why they are doing it. There are actually, in many of the books, detailed graphics describing Odysseus’ emotions during the ten months he spent looking for the sea. Ascending lines on these graphics represent the periods in which Odysseus was allegedly seen with a relatively optimistic facial expression, also being possible for us to see, in these graphics, lines with different slopes, depending upon the degree of optimism he conveyed. Very steep ascending or descending lines, then, represent a sudden shift of mood, to the better and to the worse, respectively.
The period in which these lines reach their lowest point occurred right after Odysseus’ conversation with an older man named Estragon. According to the old man, he was filling bottles of water and turning them upside down so that he could fill them once more when Odysseus approached him. Our hero seemed exhausted, and, probably because he thought it wouldn’t hurt him to have a sincere conversation with an old man who could barely stand on his feet, he said: “I am having difficulties accomplishing my objective.” Estragon replied: “If you try hard enough, if you dedicate body and soul toward your goal, if you believe you can actually do it, then, when you least expect it, you’ll achieve it.” Odysseus said: “Couldn’t you have simply said ‘be persistent’?” Estragon replied: “Yes, but the way I put it is more eloquent. Many poets have done it for centuries and they’re hardly ever told that it’s excessive.” Odysseus said: “Still, my objective is not warning poets of their excesses, it is reaching the sea.” Estragon replied: “We always find something, eh my friend, to give us the impression we exist. You have the sea as an objective, some have God as an objective, others have no objectives. These bottles are my objective.”
Needless to say, the theory according to which the sea itself never represented much to Odysseus was originated from this event. Most of the books agree that Odysseus’ main motive was what Estragon exposed: filling his existence with something, with anything. There are, nevertheless, many other theories, and some of them are indeed plausible. Most, however, have their flaws and contradictions, in spite of the overwhelming effort that is often made on their behalf. My original intention, though, was not to assess their validity, but simply to lay them out so that the readers could draw their own conclusions. Here are, then, some alternative explanations for Odysseus’ urge to reach the sea: he could be trying to escape from the oppressing dictionary sessions of his father’s, and chose the sea because he would never be found there, considering his entire town thought it did not exist; he could be, though it still sounds a little excessive to me, trying to heal his urinary incontinence, for he had heard that certain waters had healing powers; he could be trying to prove to his family and town (and to himself) that the sea actually existed; and, my favorite, he could be simply curious, since he had never seen the sea, with the exception of the illustrations in fairy-tale books he enjoyed reading. Whatever it might have been, he died a few days after the first time I saw him, and his death was as complicated as his life, or at least as complicated as those who dedicated their lives to the study of Odysseus’ case wanted it to be.
* * *
I live in the town where Odysseus died; it is a coastal town. In fact, when Odysseus dropped dead, in the middle of the street, he had perhaps ten more minutes of walking to reach the sea. The reason why I leave such a basic information about myself to the end (I can already sense the fierce criticism that this might trigger), for my report is not to last for much longer, is not yet clear, not even to me. I certainly did not do it with the intention of making a surprise or an impression; I repeat, this text has no literary pretensions. One thing that comes to my mind, though, is that, in a mere exposition of an event, every piece of information should be revealed when appropriate time comes, even if it doesn’t follow a chronological or coherent pattern. Thomas Mann, for instance, has already done the same in his Doctor Faustus, with the difference that he had the advantage of disposing of a great amount of information about his hero, which justified the decision of not displaying this information all at once, for it would take pages for the actual narrative to commence. One could ask me, then, “Why do you think that this is the suitable time to reveal your geographic location?” And I would use Odysseus’ behavior immediately prior to his death as an answer: he seemed to have lost interest in reaching the sea. This is, obviously, merely one of my observations, and many disagree with it. He, for some reason, seemed to know where he was, seemed to know that the sea was not at all far away. This is perfectly believable, for, after ten months of traveling through non-coastal towns, it would be hard for him not to notice the difference in a coastal one; something different in the atmosphere of the place, in the general disposition of the people. He, moreover, when asked about his destination, would always answer: “I am going home,” though he was still moving away from his parents’ house. The word home (as it could be expected) is discussed exhaustively; but the interpretation that pleases me most (again, it is not one of the most popular ones) is that he had been at home ever since the day he left his parents’ house, and that he would still be at home for as long as he pursued his objective. That is, being at home is doing what one is meant to do. I like to think that I have some authority in this matter, for, besides knowing him in person (though it wasn’t for more than a few minutes of conversation; the rest was just me virtually spying on him), he died here.
Nobody really knows why Odysseus died; he simply did, dropped dead one day. My guess is that a detailed examination of his body could thoroughly elucidate the causes of his death, consequently refuting many of the theories created to explain the event. Furthermore, many simply do not seem to be interested in the truth: with truth there is no wondering, and wondering is what these people do best. And no, I don’t blame them.
Thus I conclude my report, which I hope will be helpful for those having trouble wading through the massive volumes pertaining to Odysseus’ life and death; but, just for the sake of chronology (let us make this concession), I’ll tack in a brief description of his death before putting the pen away. One day he was walking down the street and fell. A group of people rapidly approached him and surrounded him; I was one of them. He was clearly exhausted (his pants soaking wet), but of an exhaustion that resembled the tacitly satisfied exhaustion felt by someone who is content with finally being able to go to sleep, rather than the frustrating exhaustion felt by someone who still has a task to accomplish. Before closing his eyes, he said: “I feel rather tired,” or so it seemed to me, for his voice was already too weak to be clearly heard by any man.
