How (Not) to Grieve, a Helpful Analysis of Grief and Coping Mechanisms in Classics
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Today — rather, the day I began this paper — marks the first anniversary of my grandfather’s passing. My grandfather, who we affectionately referred to as “Papa” in true Ashkenazi fashion, helped raise me from childhood and acted as more of a third parent than a traditional grandfather. His death was sudden and unanticipated; although he was approaching the ripe age of eighty-three, his independent streak and well-renowned stubbornness invoked an image of invincibility that shattered only after a sudden decline in health just two months before he passed on. Not one to expose any sign of emotional vulnerability, I did what I do best by shoving my grief into a hypothetical box, crushing it down and tucking it into the furthest reaches of my mind to be unpacked at a later date (never).
Months passed, and although the pandemic left me isolated with more time to sort through my own thoughts, I remained dissuaded from revisiting my stash of suppressed emotions. And even as a longtime lover of classical mythology and epic, I did not suspect that the Iliad would be the trigger that caused those feelings to resurface. It was in the pages of ancient stories — the Iliad and the Aeneid in particular — that I saw the reflection of my own struggle with grief. Homeric heroes are not ignorant of loss; in fact, they embrace it wholeheartedly. Grief often drives the characters’ actions, which manifest as a series of irrational or (very rarely) healthy coping mechanisms with which they respond to emotional distress and trauma. They cry, hold lavish funerals, embark on dangerous quests, make overly dramatic speeches, and occasionally set off on murderous rampages where countless are killed and corpses are dragged behind chariots.
In a grim but relatable manner, classical texts portray grief as an intrinsic characteristic of the human condition. The realities of death are both inevitable and inescapable, especially when faced with the loss of those closest to us. In the Iliad, we see Zeus grapple with the knowledge of his son Sarpedon’s death. He laments,
“My heart is torn in two as I try to weigh all this.
Shall I pluck him up, now, while he’s still alive
and set him down in the rich green land of Lycia,
far from the war at Troy and all its tears?”
(The Iliad Book 16, p. 427 lines 518–520)
Even immortal Zeus cannot entirely escape death. Armed with the knowledge of his son’s fate, he describes that his “heart is torn in two”, showcasing the depth of his sadness. Furthermore, he is very clearly in a state of denial. Zeus contemplates using his godly powers to rescue Sarpedon from a gruesome end, but he is ultimately helpless to the forces of fate (unless he decides to give up on trysts with mortals). Denying the imminent nature of the event only serves to temporarily relieve his sense of powerlessness. This in turn indicates the anthropomorphic nature of the Greek gods. Although they are divine beings, they are not all-powerful; they have flaws just as humans do. They experience grief in the same manner, which endears Greek mythology to me and other modern audiences. If not even the gods can evade grief, then how can we mortals think that we are any different? Death is evidently universal, and we are better off facing it head on rather than trying to deny and bargain our way out of it.
Once the shock wears off and reality begins to set in, so does anger. The rage that results from loss can be pointed in a number of directions; in my case, it had no particular focus. I was resentful of the universe itself (if I weren’t agnostic, I might have blamed God), and at times I even found myself preposterously exasperated with the people around me because they did not understand my plight. Anger fuels irrationality, which often leads to unhealthy mechanisms. Classical texts are particularly excellent at illustrating this. Perhaps the most infamous instance of grief-induced mania is the Rage of Achilles in the Iliad — after losing his companion Patroclus to Hector’s sword, Achilles corners Hector on the battlefield. Refusing to bargain over the return of Hector’s body to his family, Achilles mocks,
“There are no binding oaths between men and lions —
wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds —
they are bent on hating each other to the death.
So with you and me. No love between us. No truce
Till one of the other falls and gluts with blood…”
(The Iliad Book 22, p. 550 lines 310–314)
After suffering the devastating blow of Patroclus’ death, Achilles loses all sense of reason. Completely blinded by bloodlust, he is determined to take his revenge by any means necessary — there is no room left for sympathy in his heart. He applies the metaphor “men and lions” to refer to the differences between them; Achilles has become almost animalistic in his grief, equating himself to a lion. Hector is a mere mortal challenging Achilles’ immeasurable power. Furthermore, Achilles declares that there will be no outcome to their encounter that does not involve death, where one “falls and gluts with blood”. Needless to say, this is an incredibly dramatic and unhealthy way to deal with one’s grief, but it is also strangely relatable (I promise that I do not condone murder in any context). While my reaction to my grandfather’s death was not quite so intense, I cannot help but feel empathy for Achilles in this situation in spite of his cruel and merciless actions. He is grappling with the loss of his most valued confidant (boyfriend?) but does not know how to channel his anguish outside of anger and vengeance. Achilles is perhaps the posterchild of emotional constipation, and as such I find him to be a sympathetic character.
The episode of Achilles’ rage is so iconic that it was mirrored centuries later in Vergil’s Aeneid. In the final showdown between Aeneas and Turnus, the former considers sparing his enemy after defeating him in battle until he is reminded of his charge Pallas’ untimely death by Turnus’ hand. Suddenly overcome with fury, Aeneas ends Turnus’ life with these words:
“‘Pallas strikes this blow, Pallas sacrifices you now,
makes you pay the price with your own guilty blood!’
In the same breath, blazing with wrath he plants
his iron sword hilt-deep in his enemy’s heart.”
(The Aeneid Book 12, p. 386 lines 1117–1110)
At this point in the Aeneid, Aeneas has had a pretty rough journey from Troy to Italy. He has lost his homeland, his family, and numerous comrades; Pallas’ death is merely the straw that broke the camel’s back. Upon meeting Turnus on the battlefield for the final time, Aeneas snaps. Like Achilles, his rage guides his actions and pushes him to choose vengeance over mercy. He screams, “Pallas strikes this blow,” as if personifying his fallen friend so that Pallas can avenge himself. Vergil then describes Aeneas as “blazing with wrath”, word choice that essentially equates him to Achilles. As a Trojan, Aeneas has allowed his sorrow and anger to transform him into the enemy rather than sorting through his emotions. Both Aeneas and Achilles’ revenge arcs serve as warnings not to lose ourselves in anger and instead focus our efforts on healthy coping mechanisms (such as therapy, which both heroes are in desperate need of).
Yet anger is oftentimes unsustainable, eventually giving way to depression. It is characterized by the realization that someone is gone from your life; that you will never see or speak to them again. And it is completely okay — healthy, even — to allow yourself the time and space to wallow in those emotions (if only I would follow my own advice…). This too is well-demonstrated in classical texts, which is almost surprising due to the prevalent role of toxic masculinity. In my opinion, the most heart-wrenching scene in the Aeneid takes place after Aeneas loses his beloved father Anchises:
“Here, after all the blows
of sea and storm I lost my father, my mainstay
in every danger and defeat. Spent as I was,
you left me here, Anchises, best of fathers,
plucked from so many perils, all for nothing.”
(The Aeneid Book 3, p. 126 lines 817–822)
This particular quote hit me very close to home, having recently lost a father figure. Aeneas speaks in second person, directly addressing Anchises even when he isn’t there to respond. “You left me here”, he accuses mournfully. This sentiment echoes the sorrow of being left behind by someone you love. When initially processing loss, we often wonder to ourselves, “where do I go from here?”. Aeneas refers to his father as “his mainstay”, for Anchises had always been by his side on their journey. Aeneas will now have to adapt to a world that does not have his father there to guide him. So, it is good then that he is voicing his emotions and acknowledging his distress. I find myself appreciating Aeneas’ character all the more because I can relate to his emotional vulnerability.
After experiencing the vast range of emotions that relate to grief, we can finally make peace with loss. However, reading classical texts has helped to remind me that we do not need to undergo the process alone. Empathizing and sharing with others who are experiencing the same hardships can be very healing, especially on the path to acceptance. In the final book of the Iliad, Priam supplicates Achilles to return Hector’s body. In a surprising turn of events, the two enemies find common ground and mourn together:
“Priam wept freely for man-killing Hector, throbbing, crouching
before Achilles’ feet as Achilles wept himself,
now for his father, now for Patroclus once again,
and their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.”
(The Iliad Book 24, p. 605 lines 595–599)
Even though the two are enemies, Achilles and Priam discover that they have more in common than not. They should despise each other; the King of the Troy and the near-invincible Prince of the Myrmidons, strongest of the Greeks. Both have caused one another nothing but harm, as Priam’s son murdered Patroclus, causing Achilles to kill Hector in retaliation. Yet once all is said in done, they find comfort in one another — after experiencing the horrors of war, grief is all they have left. So, as “their sobbing rose and [falls] throughout the house,” Achilles and Priam put aside their differences and share the burden of their misery. Nothing could possibly heal the wounds they bear, but by mourning together (even as they mourn for different people), both reach the final stage of acceptance before meeting their fate. This touching scene shows how coming together helps us work through tragedy in a much healthier and more productive manner than, say, dragging a corpse around a battlefield and sacrificing innocent soldiers to a funeral pyre. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the lowest slave, the wealthiest king, or aristos achaion; we all experience grief.
The people around me — friends and family alike — often wonder why I have always loved Greek mythology and classics when they are such ancient, distant stories (other than the fact that I am a complete nerd). It is about the connection that these tales foster between the text and the reader. Classical gods and heroes are inherently flawed individuals who are often steered by their emotions and make numerous mistakes, an honest picture of the human condition that persists to the modern day. After losing my Papa, I had to grapple with a number of emotions that I wasn’t prepared to deal with, so I shut myself away. Seeing similar experiences reflected in the pages of the Iliad and the Aeneid was a great comfort to me, as I’m sure it is to others. It’s a testament to the relevancy of classics today. Grief is a universal condition that transcends time, so you might find that seeking solace in Achilles helps you just as it did me.
Clara Schroepfer is a UW International Business student who really belongs in classics.
