I am so delighted by The Odyssey that I keep praising it wherever I go and whoever I bump into the last fortnight or so. I relish its every word, and I marvel at the skill with which it was put together as I plough from page to page, from book to book. What is more, I shed a tear here and there, but at times I sob for quite a while. This evening, I could not stop sobbing as I read Book Sixteen of the epic saga about the sack of Troy and its aftermath. Here, Odysseus returns to Ithaka and meets his son, Telemachus, for the very first time. Their tears mixed with mine at long last. But there are eight more books to go, and I cannot but wonder how I will approach the end, which is already in sight. Will I slow down as I come closer the last page of the last book? Or will I stop in my tracks a few pages or even books before the end of Book Twenty-Four? In other words, will I have the guts to reach the last page and face eternal emptiness afterwards? This is how delighted I actually am by The Odyssey, which I am reading from cover to cover quite late in my life. Looking back, I feel truly lucky for having skipped it in the meantime.

Addendum (December 16, 2016)

I have not even started reading The Iliad, which my beloved got for me only a few days ago, but its Book Twenty-Four looms large already. Well in advance, I can imagine the mix of pleasure and pain upon reaching it. In retrospect, I feel lucky to have read The Odyssey first. Even though it is the sequel to The Iliad, I can well imagine the pain of going through the two books in proper sequence. This way, I already know what is behind the corner, as it were. Otherwise, the pain would have been too much to bear, I reckon. Come to think of it, one reads one’s own books in reverse, as well. They, too, would be nigh unreadable in proper sequence.