Essays on literary works - 2024
Heroes of Hellas in the Poem “Iliad”
Let’s be real: The Iliad is basically an ancient crossover episode between divine soap opera and rage-fueled battle royale. And the so-called “heroes” of Hellas? They’re not your Marvel-brand saviors. They’re messy, gloriously unhinged, very into honor, and—frankly—more emotionally volatile than a Tumblr thread circa 2013.
This isn’t about summarizing the Iliad. Please. Google has 900,000 starchy summaries for that. We're here to vibe with the ancient chaos. To deconstruct the warboys of the Bronze Age. To ask the real questions. Like:
“Why is everyone in this poem constantly screaming about honor and stealing girls like it's The Bachelor: Bloodshed Edition?”
Let’s dive.
Achilles: The Original Rage Quitter (and Also Maybe Bi?)
You open The Iliad, and boom. Page one. Mēnin aeide, thea... “Sing, goddess, of the RAGE of Achilles.”
Achilles doesn’t stroll into the epic. He explodes in, full-sprint, barefoot, yelling at management because someone took his war prize—a woman named Briseis—as if she’s an Xbox controller. His emotional range swings between “I’m too sexy for this war” and “I will slaughter every Trojan in your family line because I’m mad.”
This man is peak main-character energy. Achilles is:
- The best fighter in Hellas (read: Greek giga-chad, god-tier stats)
- Semi-divine (shoutout to his mom Thetis, a sea goddess and queen of guilt trips)
- Bad at group projects
Also—this is important—Achilles is probably bisexual. Or something. Don’t @ me, Iliad stans. His bond with Patroclus isn’t just “brotherly.” This isn't a “no homo” situation; this is “I will avenge you with such unholy rage the gods will need therapy.” The man goes full John Wick after Patroclus dies.
And when he dies? Achilles knows it’s coming. His own doom is part of the tragic aesthetic. Honestly, he’d thrive on Instagram with captions like:
“Dying young is aesthetic. #Fated #JustGreekThings”
Hector: King of Respectfully Dying
If Achilles is the fire, Hector is the hearth. He’s not flashy. He’s not a demigod. He’s... a guy with anxiety and a family. Like, literal dad energy. While Achilles is busy beefing with the chain of command, Hector’s out here defending Troy, holding down the fort like a middle manager during a layoff.
And look—Hector doesn’t even want this war. He’s like the dude in your group chat who keeps saying “Let’s not do this, guys,” right before getting run over by the testosterone truck. He fights because he has to. Because honor, family, tradition.
Hector’s core trait? Responsibility. And in The Iliad, that’s hot and deadly. The guy hugs his baby, kisses his wife, and then walks straight into death like,
“Gotta clock in. Might die. See you never, babe.”
His death at Achilles’ hands is brutal. Like, pulled-out-of-civilization brutal. Body-dragging brutal. But it’s also the most heartbreaking moment in the poem. Because Hector didn’t deserve it. And Homer knows it. And you know it. And Achilles eventually knows it. (Cue the existential dread arc.)
Odysseus: The Walking Reddit Thread
Let’s pivot to the guy who lies better than your ex. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, master of mind games, patron saint of “I’ve got a cunning plan.”
Odysseus is the Iliad’s resident rationalist. He’s out here using strategy while everyone else is smashing skulls. He’s the guy who actually reads the instructions before assembling Ikea furniture—or a Trojan Horse.
But here's the twist: Odysseus isn't just “the smart one.” He’s a survivor in a narrative that eats heroes for breakfast. He lies, cheats, manipulates, makes up entire personas on the fly. He’s basically a bard class DnD character with a dark side.
Odysseus would absolutely ghost you and win an argument in your Instagram DMs and steal your city while you’re sleeping. The man is cunning incarnate. Google “metis” (no, not the Canadian nation, the Greek concept of cleverness)—he invented it.
Agamemnon: War Crimes and Daddy Issues
If there were HR complaints in the Iliad, Agamemnon would be the reason they exist. He’s the king of Mycenae, commander of the Greek forces, and—how do I say this politely?—the worst.
Agamemnon starts the plot by stealing Achilles’ “prize,” Briseis, which is basically a diplomatic way of saying “I just pressed the nuclear button on my own army's morale.” He’s got the charisma of a DMV line and the ego of a tech bro who thinks he invented the wheel.
He’s the kind of guy who sacrifices his own daughter (Iphigenia) because the wind told him to. Like. Yikes. Someone call Child Protective Services: Bronze Age edition.
And yet... Agamemnon isn’t just a villain. He’s that terrifyingly realistic character who believes he’s right. He embodies systemic power. You hate him, but you can’t ignore him. That’s his whole point.
Paris: Human Disaster, Vibe Killer
Paris is hot. That’s it. That’s his resume. Man's got the face of a Calvin Klein ad and the moral compass of a damp napkin.
He starts the war by abducting Helen (or, depending on your myth canon, letting her run away with him)—a move that screams “impulsive situationship with intergenerational consequences.”
He’s not a fighter. He literally hides from duels. He has zero business being on a battlefield. But the gods love mess, and Paris is pure chaos wrapped in silk robes.
In Gen Z terms, Paris is the walking embodiment of that “he’s a 10 but starts wars for fun” meme. Troy burned because this man couldn't stop simping.
The Hero Aesthetic: Blood, Bronze, and Instagrammable Doom
The Iliad doesn’t do heroes the way Disney taught us. No neat arcs. No moral certainty. No sanitized violence. It gives us men—flawed, vain, reckless, scared. Men who cry. Men who rage. Men who die horribly and still think dying for kleos (fame) is a good idea.
Honor culture back then wasn’t just vibes. It was currency. Identity. Immortality. If you didn’t make your name echo in the halls of future bards, you were nobody. Worse than dead. Forgotten.
And that’s the core ache of the Iliad: these people know the world is collapsing. And they still fight like their name depends on it—because it does.
Why This Still Hits (a.k.a. Achilles Has a Twitter Account)
If you think The Iliad is just an old book about sword dudes, think again. This is a story about power and ego. About broken masculinity. About rage and grief and longing and the stupid, stupid beauty of humanity.
It’s about the trauma spiral of a man who loses his best friend and then loses himself. It’s about family loyalty vs. survival. About gods who treat humans like Sims. About the unholy cost of legacy.
In 2025, we don’t throw spears at each other (usually). But we do fight for attention. We do burn out in public. We do perform our pain for likes, for virality, for validation. Achilles would have loved TikTok. Hector would’ve deleted it in a week.
Final Thought (or, The Mic Drop): Heroes? Nah. Humans.
The so-called “heroes” of Hellas weren’t trying to be icons. They were trying to make sense of chaos. To build names out of violence. To look death in the face and say:
“I mattered.”
And maybe that’s the most ancient thing about them.
Not the swords. Not the gods.
But the screaming need to be remembered.