Circe: Similes 9 key examples

Prometheus is finally being punished for giving mortals fire long ago. Zeus is still enraged by the way Prometheus put more power into mortals' hands. After keeping Prometheus imprisoned for a long time, Zeus has finally decided to tie him to a rock where an eagle will tear into his side and eat out his liver every day for eternity. First, however, Zeus will make an example of him in front of the Titans. He wants all of the Titans to know that if they ever threaten his power, they too will face unimaginable torture.

Even though this scene shows Prometheus inside Helios's halls, being publicly tortured and humiliated, Circe's chosen similes draw on imagery from nature. It is almost as though Prometheus is already outside on the rock. There, he is accompanied only by the eagle and none of the spiteful gods who stand here gawking at his pain. The whip crack sounds like "oaken branches breaking," and the sharp breaths of the wincing crowd "[hiss] like water on hot rocks." The whip carves a "gash...in his side long as [Circe's] arm," an image that directly evokes the infamous daily punishment Prometheus has not begun to endure just yet. Prometheus does not look like a man being publicly humiliated, but rather like a man who is standing still and strong as nature rages brutally around him. Cruel whispers cannot knock him over.

Circe admires Prometheus's stoic manner throughout his punishment. She learns that he refused the opportunity to beg for a lighter punishment, preferring to quietly accept his lot and maintain his dignity. She defies the rules by speaking to him after the torture is over. She even brings him nectar. Their conversation, during which he tells her that "not every god need be the same," is formative to her. She remembers it often and tries constantly to imitate Prometheus's quiet strength and indifference to the cruelty inflicted on her. When Helios exiles her, she realizes that she, like Prometheus, was already alone in the wilderness even when she was surrounded by gods in her father's halls. However, it takes hundreds of years for her to learn the truth of her uncle's advice and become a person who can stand calmly by her own convictions, no matter how anyone tries to shake her.

In Christianity, the "great chain of being" refers to the idea that God is the ultimate, perfect being, followed by angels, then humans, then animals, then plants. Each life form is an inferior, less perfect imitation of the last, and the idea holds that the entire universe can be sorted into this hierarchy descending from God.

Circe imagines a similar system. However, instead of becoming less and less perfect on the way down the chain, the beings in Circe's world become more and more fearful of the beings further up the chain. The hierarchy is governed by Zeus and then Helios's practically unlimited power at the top, which they use to threaten and control other gods. The lesser the god, the more they have to fear from these almighty powers. Circe has always heard that she should be afraid of mortals because many nymphs have been physically or sexually assaulted by them. In the past, it has seemed to her that she is caught between two independent dangers: greater gods seek to control her from one side, while mortals seek to control her from the other. Seeing the fear on the mortals' faces, she realizes that they are not a separate threat at all. They are part of the same hierarchy Circe has always struggled with in her father's hall. Mortals and nymphs try to control one another because as low as they are in the "great chain of fear," making someone else afraid is the only way not to fall even further.

This simile becomes central to Circe's character development over the course of the novel. She carries great shame about the moments when she hurts others to protect herself, and yet refusing to hurt others only seems to result in harm to her. Circe spends centuries trying to find a way out of the "great chain of fear." In the end, her choice to give up her immortal power is a bold dismissal of the notion that freedom is to be found by fighting her way up the chain.

The idea that Circe's family moves around her "like water around a rock" draws attention to how Circe is already stranded on an island in her father's house, long before her exile. Her family wants nothing to do with her and is perfectly content to ignore her even when she is right in front of them. Eventually, on Aiaia, Circe will create magical shields to keep most gods and mortals at bay. Because of her defenses, she appears in many myths and stories as a bitter isolationist who is not to be trusted. This passage suggests that in a figurative sense, these barriers were put in place by her family long before she became a powerful sorceress; unable to break them down, Circe learns to turn them against others as a shield.

The simile also evokes Scylla's lonely fate, stranded in a rocky ocean cave and hoping for sailors to drift near enough for her to eat them. Circe, who has always hated Scylla, is responsible for this fate: hoping to get the coquettish nymph out of the way so that Glaucos might fall in love with her, Circe cursed Scylla to an immortal life of monstrosity and isolation. However, the curse transforms not only Scylla but also Circe into an irredeemable monster in their family's eyes. Circe's yearning for Scylla in this moment highlights the irony of the situation. Whereas Circe once thought of Scylla as the one person keeping her from a life of connection and love, the curse turns Scylla and Circe into the only people who might be able to understand one another. In an even more tragic twist of irony, Circe's curse has rendered Scylla senseless. The two women are bound together but will never be able to speak to one another again, even in anger.

Circe has been miserable her whole life because of the social norms and expectations into which she was "bred," like a bird. For all beings but especially for an unloved nymph like her, her father's opulent and hierarchical house is essentially a gilded cage that limits her to a narrow role propping up the most powerful gods. When Circe admitted to witchcraft, she introduced the idea that a nymph could have power unavailable to "higher" gods. She thus threatened the entire structure, rattling the bars of the cage. Helios and Zeus have exiled Circe to protect their beloved cage.

Circe realizes that if she hides in the house for the rest of her life, she will be "caging" herself. She does not want to be like a bird that stays in its cage out of habit, even when offered freedom. Her resolve to seize the opportunity before her helps her see the irony of her exile. What is intended as a punishment—a more secure cage—turns out to be anything but. Finally free of her father's court, Circe can make whatever she wants of herself. She has an entire island to make her own. As the novel goes on, she does struggle with loneliness and confinement from the rest of the world. However, she is able to build her own community and leverage her exile to make a path for herself that would have been unimaginable inside the "cage."

Prophecy is a rare "gift," Circe acknowledges. If she has inherited it from Helios, it is one more way in which her power measures up to or even rivals that of her father. However, she notes that it takes more than a god's innate power to see the future. Additionally, the person at the center of the prophecy must "wear their destin[y] like a noose." She compares the subject of a prophecy to a prisoner forced to walk straight to the end of a plank with a rope tied around their neck. No matter how they "twist" against their restraints and away from the certain death at the end of the plank, there is nowhere else for them to walk. Even if they were to step sideways off the plank, there would be no solid ground to catch them: they would fall until the noose tightened, just as if they had stayed on the board until the end. Most mortals and gods have far more chances to change the direction of their life. Even a gifted god like Helios can only ever make a prophecy about a person with an unusually predetermined fate.

There might be other, less negative ways for Circe to explain the idea of a fate fixed enough for prophecy. For instance, she might say that some people wear their destiny like a second skin that they will never shed. Instead, she uses a simile that emphasizes doom. She seems to think that, without fail, the kind of destiny that allows the future to be foretold is something no one would ever want. When she does see the Minotaur's future, Ariadne is part of it. She chooses not to tell Ariadne about what is to come so that the girl will be able to live her life without the horrible knowledge that she cannot control her own future. This decision demonstrates that Circe is more ambivalent about her power than Helios ever was. She understands that it comes at a cost, not only to herself but also to others. She tries to minimize the cost to others as much as she can.

The men are so transfixed by Telegonus that they barely eat the food that has been placed before them. Circe compares them to vines "growing towards" Telegonus as if he is the sun. Plants sustain themselves through photosynthesis, which requires sunlight. For them, sunlight is a source of nourishment; that is why it is common to see plants leaning in whatever direction affords them the most light. The men visiting Aiaia are human. Where plants need sunlight, they need food. Circe has made sure that a meal is placed before them, and yet they would rather dote on Telegonus than eat. It is as though his simple existence is more nourishing to them than food itself.

Circe is impressed with Telegonus's gift for entertaining, but she also finds it unsettling. She has never commanded attention in this way. By comparing Telegonus to the sun, she hints at similarities between him and his grandfather, Helios. Helios, too, always manages to command the attention of everyone around him. He expects them to neglect their own needs in order to admire and serve him. Telegonus is not intentionally cruel toward the men, nor is he trying to hurt Circe. Still, she is beginning to realize that she has raised a young man who will always enjoy privileges she will never have. He may also be blind to the effect he has on people.

It is especially difficult for Circe to see Telegonus fit in so well with the men when she has every reason to be deeply suspicious of these visitors. Other groups of men have visited Aiaia before, and they have usually tried to perform sexual violence. Their solidarity with one another is always greater than their instinct to protect her or the other nymphs from their companions. Circe sees Telegonus forming the same bonds of solidarity with these men, and she worries about what will happen if they turn violent. Her usual means of protecting herself is to poison the men's food and drink, but Telegonus is distracting them from their meal. She wonders how else she might be able to protect herself and her son. Implicit in this passage is an even more disturbing worry. Is it possible, she seems to wonder, that Telegonus could join the men in violence, or even rally them to it?

Penelope has thus far acted graciously with Circe. She knocks on Circe's door now because the polite thing to do as a guest is to thank her host. By comparing Penelope's cloak to "spider-silk," Circe indicates to the reader that she still does not trust Penelope. It is a strange situation, after all. Circe and Telegonus are the second family of Penelope's husband. For two decades, Penelope raised Telemachus alone and refused men's advances because she was so faithful to her absent husband. She could have been forgiven for writing him off, but she didn't. Meanwhile, part of Odysseus's delay was due to his affair with Circe. Even Circe feels that Penelope has every right to hate her. She worries that Penelope is using her good manners to lure Circe into a false sense of security, like a spider spinning a web to catch an insect.

Such deceptiveness is far from unheard of in the world of The Odyssey and Circe. Elaborate codes of hospitality mean that hosts and guests often must negotiate power struggles in indirect ways, while maintaining an air of politeness toward one another. However, the spider simile is unique to Penelope. As a motif, it turns into an epithet that gestures at something deeper about her personality. Penelope is a gifted weaver. She staves off suitors in part by weaving a funeral shroud for Odysseus's father; every night she undoes her work so that she must start again, delaying the moment when she will be free from her work and available to pick a suitor. Her skill at weaving cloth is thus associated with her skill at weaving complex deceptions. She is able to manipulate the fibers of truth and reality to get what she wants and needs.

While it may at first seem like an indictment on Penelope to call her a manipulative spider, Circe comes to respect Penelope for both her real and metaphorical weaving skills. Both women are able to work a loom, but Penelope is clearly the more talented. Likewise, Circe realizes that Penelope may be a better witch than she ever was because she is spider-like. Pharmaka is the magic of transformation. The gods have long believed that it is a new, threatening kind of divine power. But as Circe tells Penelope, it is not powered by divinity at all. Instead, it is fueled by determination to bring about an envisioned reality. No one is more determined than the woman who spent 20 years weaving a future where her husband would return home. Penelope's spider-like ability to bend the world to her will turns out to be her most admirable quality.

These images invite the reader's senses into the scene, which is a bit of a farewell to the beautiful island Circe has long thought of as her home. The similes emphasize not the sadness, but the possibility of the moment: Circe's world is expanding as she looks out to the ocean and up to the stars. On the ocean, Circe will have the chance to weave her own future. If she reaches up, she might be able to pluck a star from the sky like a ripe pear. The world is finally hers to do with what she will.

The exchange that follows immediately after the two similes adds another layer of complexity to them. Telemachus tells Circe that he is angry with her for failing to see how different he is from his father. Circe is taken aback. At first, her hopes for a fresh new life are dashed. All her attention is redirected from the expansive sea and sky to the uncomfortable sensation of conflict as "blood rose stinging to my cheeks." Her world shrinks once more to the mistakes she has made. However, she and Telemachus go on to have a vulnerable exchange. At the end of it, they decide that Telemachus will accompany Circe on her quest to free Scylla. This kind of relationship repair is new to Circe, and it is something she has always wished was possible for her. It allows her and Telemachus to get to know one another and themselves better than they ever have, eventually leading to her decision to become mortal and spend her life with him. The conflict that first brought Circe's hope to a crashing halt thus turns out to be the first ripe pear she picks off the branch of possibility that is bending down to meet her. With Telemachus, she deliberately weaves a future of their own making.

Circe compares her divinity (the quality that makes her a god) to a sunset. On the surface, this comparison appears to reinforce the idea that Circe's power comes from being a god. Plenty of people have remarked on the divine beauty in a Mediterranean sunset, but it is quite literally the essence of Helios within Circe that makes her a god. His powerful rays "shine" not only from the sky, but also from each of his children. Circe seems to be standing in awe of her own divine power just like someone else might stand in awe before an impressive sunset over the water.

However, the way Circe describes the sunset suggests that what she feels is more complicated than pure awe. The sun is not at its zenith, when it shines brightest and hottest. Rather, the "last rays of the sun" are "drown[ing] in the sea" inside of her. Given the way gods personify the natural world in Circe, this description of a sunset evokes the idea of a power struggle between gods. Helios's rays rise up and shine down on the sea every day, but every night Poseidon (the god of the sea) manages to drown them in his waves. This cycle of dominance between the sun and the sea is emblematic of the eternal tension between the Titans and the Olympians. Poseidon, brother to Zeus, is one of the original Olympians who overthrew Kronos and the Titans. Helios is a Titan who has conserved his own power by allying himself with Zeus, Poseidon, and the rest of the Olympians. Helios hopes that if Zeus stays complacent for long enough, the Titans might one day rise up again. The struggle between Helios and Poseidon every day as the sun sets and then rises represents the never-ending cycle of violence and fear into which the Titans and Olympians have locked themselves. Circe recognizes in this passage that the divinity within her is part and parcel of this eternal, exhausting battle for dominance.

Realizing that the gods will spend all their days for eternity fighting each other, Circe finally understands that she has been wrong about them all along: they are not living a life she envies. In fact, paradoxically, the immensity of their power—the fact that they can fight and fight and never die—makes them "more dead than anything" because they never have an impetus to grow, compromise, or appreciate what they have. They will always want more, and so they will never manage to simply be present with the life that is going on all around them. Circe chooses mortality not because she wants to die, but because she wants to live.