of what is now Turkey, and from the great Greek colony of Massalia far to the west, beneath what is now Marseilles. There were more epics than merely the Iliad and the Odyssey, filling in the gaps of the story which the poems we know only hint at. Homer was said to have written them all. Aristotle had a different version of Homer from Plato’s, and prepared another for his pupil Alexander the Great, to take with him on his world adventures into Asia. Homer ripples around the ancient Mediterranean, and even further afield, taking on local colour, not a man or a poem but flickering, octopus-like, varying, adopting the colours of the country he found himself in. None of these local versions survives as more than references in ancient scholarly notes, but they hint at a reality which would have made William Cowper’s or Alexander Pope’s hair stand rigid. Homer, before Alexandria, was multiplicity itself.
It’s as if in that Alexandrian moment Homer’s radiant, ragged beard and hair were trimmed and neatened for a proto-Roman world of propriety and correctness.
Roughness characterises the world before the great pruning. In this way Homer is unlike any historical writer. The usual idea – that copying makes a text increasingly corrupt through time – must be abandoned and the opposite assumption made. As Homer travelled on through time, passing in particular through the rigorous barbers’ salon of the Alexandrian scholars, the more regular he became. In the words of Casey Dué, Professor of Classics at Houston and editor of the Harvard Homer multitext project: ‘The further back in time we go, the more multiform – the more “wild” – our text of Homer becomes.’ Homer is not orderly. Hope to trace him back to his essence, to the tap root, and you find yourself lost among the tangle of his branches. Homer’s identity was in his multiplicity, his essence was in his lack of it, and he soon sinks back into the world from which he came.
Homer is never there. He is the great absentee, always slipping between the fingers, a blob of mercury on a bed of wax. Nothing reliable can be said about him: his birthplace, his parents, his life story, his dates, even his existence. Was he one poet or two? Or many? Were the Homers women? Samuel Butler, a great Victorian translator of the Odyssey, thought that its poet must have been a girl from Trapani in Sicily, ‘young, headstrong and unmarried’, partly because she was ‘so exquisitely right’ in her descriptions of ‘every single one of [her] women’, partly because she made such girlish mistakes. Would a man ever have thought, for example, that a ship should have a rudder at both ends? Homer does, twice, in the Odyssey, Book 9, lines 483 and 540.fn1
This Homeric unpindownability has inspired eccentrics. Craziness abounds. Medieval Italians, who could not read Greek, used to keep copies of the Iliad and kiss them for good luck. Lawrence of Arabia thought he was qualified as a translator of the Odyssey because, among other attributes, he, unlike most Greek professors, had ‘killed many men’. No point in trying to read Homer unless you had blood on your hands. One scholarly work in Italian has revealed that Homer was Swedish and what he describes as the Mediterranean was in fact the Baltic. Another has recently shown that the Iliad is an ancient guidebook to the stars. A careful and immensely detailed study has been written by a Dutchman to show that Homer was from Cambridgeshire, the Trojan War happened on the Gog Magog hills near Cherry Hinton, ‘Sparta’ was in Spain and ‘Lesbos’ was the Isle of Wight. Henriette Mertz, a Chicago patent attorney, has shown that Calypso lived in the Azores and Scylla and Charybdis was Homer’s description of tidal movements in the Bay of Fundy, Newfoundland. Nausicaa and her father lived in the Caribbean.
None of this is new. Plutarch (AD c.46–120) thought Calypso’s island was five days’ sail from Britain out in the North Atlantic, perhaps in the Faroes. Earlier still, many lives of Homer were written in the ancient world, some now preserved in precious early medieval manuscripts that are stored in some of the great repositories of Europe. They are rich in creative detail, but, like so much else to do with Homer, all of them were made up. In the library of the Medicis in Florence you will find a fourteenth-century manuscript which describes the way in which Homer lived and worked and sang his poems on Chios, the desiccated rusk of an island off the Aegean coast of Turkey. According to a ninth-century manuscript now in the Biblioteca Nazionale in Rome, he was born in Smyrna, on what is now the Turkish mainland. Others say in Ithaca, as the grandson of Odysseus, or so the Pythia in Delphi told the Emperor Hadrian when he enquired; or the Argolid, where Agamemnon had ruled in Mycenae; in Thessaly, in the harsh and half-civilised north of Greece, the northern zone on the edge of civility from where Achilles came; or, as a manuscript now in Rome claims, in Egypt, because his heroes had the habit of kissing each other and that was an Egyptian practice. Even, in time, the Romans themselves claimed him as one of theirs. An eleventh-century manuscript now in the royal library in the Escorial outside Madrid adds Athens to the list. Many claim he was born, or died, or at least lived for a while, on the island of Ios in the Cyclades. In other words, he came from everywhere and nowhere.
The life of Homer lurks in this way in the subconscious of the European imagination. He is present in the archives but mysteriously absent. And hanging over all the suggestions in these ancient lives, which are thought to draw on ideas of Homer that emerged in about the sixth century BC, is a deep air of doubt. Did Homer really come from any of these places? Homer, even in the tradition of the ancient lives, seems to exist as a kind of miasma, a suggestion of himself, more an idea than a man, a huge and potent non-being.
But from these muddled, uncertain texts one or two beautiful suggestions do emerge. In the ninth-century life of Homer now in the Biblioteca Nazionale in Rome, the author – himself anonymous – compiled the verdicts he could glean from the past, and quoted Aristotle from a book called On Poets which is otherwise now lost. ‘The people of Ios, Aristotle said, record that Homer was born from a spirit, a daimon, who danced along with the Muses.’ His mother, a girl from Ios, had got pregnant with the daimon. So it was as simple as that: like Jesus and Achilles, Homer was half human. And his flesh was infused not with mere godliness but with the spirit of poetry. Just as Aesop never existed but was a name around which traditional fables gathered, Homer was the name given to the poems they composed.
The word Aristotle used for this moment of fusion carries some wonderful implications. The Greek for ‘dance with’ is synchoreuo, meaning ‘to join in the chorus with’. The choreia of which the Muses and Homer’s daimon father formed a part was a singing dance – words, music and movement together. The same word meant both the tune they danced to and, by extension, any orderly circle or circling motion. Even the islands of the Cyclades, of which Ios is one, arranged as they are in a wide circle on the horizon around the sacred island of Delos, were thought to be a choreia. It was, in essence, any beautiful turning in motion together, especially of the stars. Buried in this half-mystical genealogy is the understanding that Homer’s poems are the music of the universe.
Another life, said to have been written by Plutarch, the Greek historian of the first century AD, and perhaps genuinely drawing on Plutarch’s lost books, says straightforwardly that Homer’s fatherland was nowhere on earth; his ancestors came from ‘great heaven’ itself: ‘For you were born of no mortal mother, but of Calliope.’ Calliope was the Muse of epic poetry. Her name means ‘beautiful voice’ and she was the daughter of Zeus, the all-powerful king of the gods, and of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. This is not the language we now use. It is even a little off-putting, too high, too reminiscent of murky paintings on ignorable ceilings, but it says what seems to be the truth. There was no human being called Homer: his words are the descendants of memory and power, the offspring of the Muse who had a beautiful voice. The myth itself identifies something that biography and geography can only grasp at. Homer is his poetry. No man called Homer was ever known, and it doesn’t help to think of Homer as a man. Easier and better is to see him abstractly, as the collective and inherited vision of great acts done long ago. The poems acknowledge that. In the first lines of both the Iliad and the Odyssey, they call on the Muse as their own divine mother, the source of authority and power, to tell the tales the teller is about to begin.
The name Homer – which is pronounced in Greek with a short ‘o’ and a long ‘e’, Homeeros,
