Experiencing Pathos: Humor, Heart, and Hubris in Stephen Fry’s Mythos (2017)
Echo and Narcissus, John William Waterhouse, 1903
By Alecsander S. Zapata
For Stephen Fry, the key is pathos. The concept was introduced to me (along with its siblings, ethos and logos) as a rhetorical strategy when I was a junior in high school and I haven’t thought of it much since then. I certainly never considered that it might be something a fiction author would use as a guiding light, as Fry does with his retelling of Greek mythology in Mythos (2017). The word pathos is Greek itself and translates to “suffering” or “experience.” While it’s true that every story should have a strong pathetic element, it’s of particular interest as a means of framing Greek mythology since its contemporary presence largely depends on history books, educational textbooks, and YA fantasy books (the Percy Jackson series, for example). Fry’s approach is historical and educational to a degree (thanks to pithy footnotes, but more on its narrative style later) but mostly fictional in the way it treats its source material as a collection of stories above all else. In Fry’s mind Zeus is not so much a deity as he is a compelling character. The same goes for Poseidon, Hades, Hera, Prometheus and the various other gods, titans, nymphs, and humans as he goes about compiling and retelling the tales from early Greek mythology, starting with the creation of the universe and going through to the end of the Golden Age.
Mythos avoids the didactic elements which constitute religious teachings, like the plague. Take Fry’s version of Eos (the Titan of the dawn) and Tithonus, her mortal lover, for example. As in the original, Eos falls in love with him (despite Aphrodite’s curse which would never let her find romantic happiness), they get married, and she goes to Zeus to request that Tithonus live forever. And just as in the original she is granted her wish to the cruel, cruel letter: he lives forever but does not stay young forever. The plot is the same but the story is not. Rather than focusing on the moral teachings of the importance of verbal precision or the dark side of wish fulfillment or the necessity of death, Fry spends his time building Eos and Tithonus’ relationship, providing meaningful characterization (for every character involved) and modern, believable dialogue. He is crafting short pieces of fiction instead of teaching us about Ancient Greek values. The question of “why?” which is so commonly associated with mythological tradition is completely erased.
Mythos is not concerned with why the Greeks chose Zeus as their chief deity over the universal Chaos, or the primordial Gaea and Ouranos, or the Titan Kronos (or any other member of the pantheon, for that matter). It’s not trying to explain the societal beliefs and conditions which chose the god of the sky as their sovereign over the god of the sea or the god of the underworld. This book aims to create a character arc, charting Zeus’ birth to his adolescence (on a cosmic timeline, of course) to his ascendancy to the throne, chronicling his relationships with his wife, siblings, friends, subjects, and lovers along the way. He changes, grows, and regresses much the same way that humans do. We see different sides of him, ones that we may detest and ones that we may admire greatly. In the story of Prometheus, his gifting fire to mankind and his subsequent punishment by Zeus is imbued with fantastic emotional depth. It’s a story of friendship and betrayal as much as it’s one of paranoia and jealousy.
With the two examples I’ve provided, I might be giving off the impression that Fry’s use of pathos draws primarily from its “suffering” definition, but this is not the case whatsoever. In fact, to describe it as such would be doing it an overwhelming disservice to the book’s greatest strength—its humor. This is one of the funniest books I have ever read, which can be credited to its dialogue and narrative style.
Fry’s dialogue is simultaneously faithful and modern. That is not to say that the characters use contemporary slang, but instead that they speak how a 21st century person would, regardless of whether they are a god or human, king or peasant. Characters interrupt, hesitate, stammer, insult, whine, and joke. They express embarrassment, impatience, incredulity. Even their thoughts can be hilarious, such as when King Midas gives a half-hearted smile as his honored guest tells the wine god, Dionysus, that he peed on the king’s pillows in between compliments. Midas learns this as it’s being said, of course.
When the humor is accounted for along with the suffering, we can see that Fry’s pathos is derived from creating an “experience,” which he also constructs through narration. It’s an odd choice, and one which is hard to pull off, but Fry has chosen to be his own narrator.As such, the book’s success hinges on the proper execution of his own style and voice. He has some idiosyncrasies (the tendency to use long lists, alliteration, and hesitate when choosing between two different versions of a myth), but for the most part his wit and emotional intelligence shine like the chariot of Apollo (or Helios… an inside joke for those who choose to read the book).
The author being the narrator of a book about mythology that utilizes footnotes (often historical, contextual, or etymological) also makes Mythos a genre-bending, unique project. All of these different elements make it difficult to categorize the work as a novel. At times it feels as if Fry is a conductor or a tour guide, so direct is his conversation with the reader. Make no mistake though—Mythos feels like a fictional piece and Fry makes genuine authorial contributions.
But because of its commitment to fiction and powerful storytelling, Mythos is able to extend its reach into the realm of genuine cultural distillation without relying on allegory or a didactic mode. Fry subtly nudges us towards the realization that the legacy and genius of the ancient Greeks is their understanding of a fundamental, societal, and theological truth––that man is not made in the image of gods, rather gods are made in the image of man (or mortals, to use their word). The gods most worshipped are the ones most human. If the Greek pantheon is recorded as being twisted, petty, horrible, even diabolical, it’s because the Greeks of old saw this within themselves. For this reason you might say that the Greek myths have more in common with contemporary fiction than they do with contemporary religious practice, even if it was originally used as a legitimate theological system.
To draw upon the tale of Narcissus (as Mythos does), it’s as if the Greeks of old also looked into the crystal-clear stream at the base of Mount Helicon. However, instead of seeing only the divine beauty of their reflections they saw in their visages base, ugly, and flawed humanity, too. The classical Greeks were no strangers to thievery, war, slavery, and oppression, but they were also familiar with self-awareness and the dangers of deification in the absolute. And with that knowledge they chose to create, above all else, stories. It’s what makes their mythos immortal—and outrageously fun to explore.
Alecsander Zapata has devoted his life to the storytelling craft as a writer, editor, and reviewer of fiction, . He follows two core tenets which frame his philosophy on literature: one, that it is the question minus the answer, and two, that it can be found anywhere. He is soon to graduate from the University of San Francisco with degrees in English and Spanish.