Book of a lifetime: ‘The Iliad’ by Homer

From The Independent archive: Homer’s epic masterpiece isn’t just a poem, writes Madeline Miller – it’s a glimpse behind the veil of war, grief and mortality

Homer, the eighth century poet, probably from a drawing by Raphael circa 1500 (Getty)

Every night at bedtime, my mother would read me a story. The books were classic and beloved: runaway bunnies, saying goodnight to the moon, a friendship between a pig and a spider. But one evening, the book she chose made me sit up with extra attention.

Maybe it was the serious cover, brick-red with a black drawing of a woman in armour. Maybe it was the thesaurus-sized heft of it, or the monumental font of the title. Most definitely, it was the first line: “Sing, goddess, of the terrible rage of Achilles.”

For several months, I had the pleasure of hearing the Iliad just as its first audiences did: out loud. Just like those crowds 3,000 years ago, the poem held me in thrall.

I loved the language’s swift rhythms, the story’s heaven-and-earth-spanning scope, and most of all the larger-than-life heroes. Its plot was deceptively simple: the best fighter in the Greek army quarrels with his commander, and refuses to fight; because of this, they begin to lose the war.

But its truths were complex, and startling. There was no euphemism here: guts, literal and figurative, were spilled on every page. I found myself holding my breath, afraid my mother would stop reading. I felt like I was being allowed a glimpse behind the veil of the adult secrets of war, grief and mortality.

When Patroclus died, I remember saying, “But the gods are going to bring him back to life, right?” Later, I listened in horror as Achilles tied Hector’s corpse to his chariot. “But Achilles is the good guy,” I said. “Isn’t he?” I don’t remember what answer my mother gave. But Homer’s answer was clear enough.

Never mind the sitcom buffoonery of the squabbling gods, or the magical interventions, this was no fairy tale. I had never heard a story so real. Years later, when I had the opportunity to learn ancient Greek, I jumped at the chance, eager to hear Homer’s voice in its purest form.

Would I still love the Iliad as much as I remembered? Even more. The epic story was just as gripping, but now it was the smaller touches that took my breath away: Patroclus’s face streaming tears like water over dark rock, the scene between Hector and his beloved wife Andromache.

Homer hadn’t created a poem, but a world, rich and sensual, from the savour of the searing dinner-meat to the bristling crest on a helmet. Since then, I have returned to the Iliad many times, and it never disappoints. There is always some piece of beauty that startles me, always a detail that makes me re-examine something I thought I understood.

It is the sort of book one returns to at every life stage, that one grows old with. And grows young, too. When I have children, I plan to pull out that old, red copy, and read it again, for the first time, with them.

Madeline Miller’s novel ‘The Song of Achilles’ is published by Bloomsbury