Helen, Helen: A Conversation

I found myself sailing on the sea. Each moment seemed to dissolve into the next, leaving me perpetually suspended in the void between past, present and future. It seemed like I was a wanderer on a ceaseless voyage, never tethered, never anchored.

I crawled up. I saw a beam of light penetrating through the darkness, a torch, perhaps, and I followed.

The deck, as I ascended, greeted me with its warmth and dampness. And there, amidst the flickering flow, was her face eluding my conscious memory, yet her essence lingering like a half-remembered dream. I only felt her long hair and damp chiton caressing my cheek in tandem with the moist sea breeze.

She was weaving.

“So you are here.” I sensed a trace of familiarity in her voice.

“Where am I?”

“You will find out.” she laughed. Her laughter was light as a feather, “Let me ask you a question, who are you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember everything.”

“You are Helen, Helen of Troy.” she declared with a sharp directness. I was startled

“I expected there would be more questions,” she mused, stopped the work in her hand and turned around, “You truly have forgotten everything, haven’t you.”

“Most people do not know who they are. It matters less when I am one among the countless. ”

“But you, Helen, you are different. People perceive you as the ideal image of themselves. That’s why you matter more. You are the answer to their ceaseless questing.”

“But they are ultimately chasing something that they can find internally. To them, Helen is nothing more than an illusion, a phantom. The more they desire, the more unattainable Helen is. What drives them to behave like morons?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself ?” she suggested with a mischievous gleam. “And once again, you are Helen.”

In her company, our footsteps almost synchronised on the dampwood deck. Slowly, she inclined and uncovered the linen shrouded upon the floor, beneath which I saw three mirrors cast in bronze. Their surfaces were veiled by a thick fog, obscuring the passage of light.

Her voice was floating back to me, like a ghostly whisper, “Each mirror holds a passage to someone who might reveal the mysteries that entwine you. But be warned, the Helen reflected in their gaze is not the truth of who you are. It is easy to get lost.”

I leaned forward to the mirror next to the edge. In an instant, the luminosity of our vessel vanished. My body was enveloped by shadows dense as freezing mist, as though I was thrown into a pond of freezing water, sapping all the warmth from my body. Then, I heard voices, myriad and haunting, echoing around me: men and women, young and old. It suddenly dawned on me that the shadows were not mist, but legions of departed souls, swirling and drifting on the empty land that I found myself in.

“Why are you here?” I heard a voice coming from behind me.

A young soldier’s ghost materialised. He loomed tall, half-shield in armament, but his face was pale and mild, framed by messy light chest-nut coloured hair, which makes his expression less intimidating, more solemn and sorrowful.

“You know me? ”

“Everyone knows you, Helen.” he replied, and, as if guided by an unseen current, I began walking by his side. In lieu of a spear, he was carrying a golden lyre.

“Why?” I pressed, bewildered.

He laughed incredulously: “You see, everyone here,” he gestured toward the sea of wandering ghosts before us, “they died in a war, a war wrought by your name, Helen, or so the belief holds. ”

“Even you?”

“I met my fate in that war. ” he murmured, bitterness interwoven with the tremble of his voice.

Silence hung heavy between us. I sought his eyes, searching for a response but only saw emptiness. A torrent of latent memories surged forth.

“Listen… I’ve lost much of my memory, and though I cannot recall the specifics, I am…God I am such a bitch. Call me whatever names you must…”

“No Helen, I never subscribed to the belief that my demise was a consequence of your existence or your action, nor do I perceive you as the reason behind the strife that consumes thousands of lives.”

“Still, they are fighting for the idea of Helen, aren’t they ?”

“No, it was never truly about you.” he signed, weariness climbing onto the contour of his being, “What propels people into the throes of war always originates from themselves. Some for the insatiable hunger of avarice, others for reclamation of honour, and a few merely for the pursuit of vengeance. To them, you are just a convenient pretext, a veil shrouding their unspoken ulterior motives. You, Helen, including the idea you may believe you represent, are not entwined in the substance of their conflict. Therefore I harbour no blame for you, nor should you bear it upon yourself.”

“What about you?”

“I made a choice,” he responded with a bitter smile, “Death has been hanging over me from the day that I was born, but god offered me an escape, or a reprieve, if you will. My eternal glory, however, was the coin demanded in return. I went to the war knowing the consequences, but I am honoured in the land of death you see.”

“You don’t seem very happy here.”

“I’d rather return to the land of living, yes. Every day, I rue the self I crafted with my decision — the invincible warrior died young, and the echoes of that choice haunt me still. ”

“So you believe, ultimately, I am nothing.”

“Shouldn’t that be a relief for you?” he responded rapidly, his voice carrying a note of detachment, “The version of you that is in endless bloodshed is a hollow vessel. The real you was absent from the violent pursuit for glory from the very beginning. You did nothing wrong because you did nothing.”

Somehow, I am not relieved. His words trouble me more than ever.

“Then, who am I?”

“Does it truly matter? I wish I were nothing. It would afford me the chance to witness my son growing into a strong warrior.” his words dipped into a contemplative resonance, “how was your daughter? Have you given even a thought to her ?”

“I have no memories of my daughter. I am sorry.” I confessed.

“But you care so much about your story, about the war, don’t you?” he paused theatrically, “I see, Helen, that’s why you are different from other women. You are never remembered as a mother, just like I am never remembered as a father. It is a choice we’ve made on our own. Let me ask you a question: do you know where you are?”

“The underworld.”

“I mean, do you truly know where you are?” he pressed.

Confusion again clouded my thoughts. After a momentary silence, I recounted the encounter with the weaving woman on the ship and her mirrors.

“Be cautious of what you see in dreams, Helen. Dreams can be deceptive. More so when they involve the departed. I had a similar dream in my living days, where reality and hallucination blurred. However, learn to decipher your dreams. They often unveil your deepest desires and troubles that weigh upon you. That’s the best advice I can offer you.”

He smiled at me. His smile was as pure as a child.

I found myself returning to the deck, and there she stood; her fingers still intricately entwined in the delicate dance of weaving, and the fabric stretching further, unveiling an elaborate pattern. Upon noticing my presence, she greeted me with a nod.

“How was it?”

“I am dreaming?”

“Who told you that?”

Recollections of the young soldier’s cryptic last remark surfaced, but she, with a perceptive gaze, penetrated my hesitance.

“I see…So you’ve met Achilles. Well, even if this is a dream, I entered your dream or you entered my dream? You will never know.”she paused her handiwork, “What else did he tell you?”

“I thought he would hate me to death.”

“But he was somehow sympathetic?” she remarked in a light giggle, “Death changes people, after all, Helen. The Achilles you encountered differs greatly from the one you once knew, but I agree, you two have a lot in common. He has many reasons to feel pity for you as he feels pity for himself. Congratulations, by the way. Your memories are beginning to rekindle, aren’t they ?”

“I used to believe people hated me as terribly as they loved me. But now I am confused. I am certain they don’t perceive me with complete indifference. But what if they do?”

“If the fervour to possess beauty wanes, if love and hate dissipate together, does beauty still endure? Well, clearly you see the flaw in his argument, right? After all, Helen, even when you forgot everything, you did not forget the fact that you are the object of everyone’s desire, because you are the measure of beauty, and beauty exists in immortality. You could be everything but nothing.”

“But why did he say that?”

“Heroic figures like him always sought to cast you as a mirror. Whatever people desire about you, you always reflect the exact thing back. This renders the ultimate goal of desire empty. Only in this way, the desire can be harmless to their heroism.”

“So Achilles, despite his remorse, clings to his reverence for heroic glory, even in the underworld?”

“That’s how they distinguished themselves from us women. Therefore there will always be violence accompanying kleos, death accompanying eros, destruction accompanying beauty.”

“So am I the desirer or the desired, lover, or the beloved?”

“There is someone more qualified to answer the question.”

She showed me the second mirror, and I stepped forward.

The ground beneath me transformed into the firm embrace of an island, the cerulean sea stretching out into an expanse that mirrored the soft, golden sunlight. Maybe it was because I spent too much time in the darkness, the intense warmth, almost tangible, paralysed me. In the distance, a group of young girls were dancing with the uninhibited charm of Sirens. Their laughter sipped through the air, carrying with it the invigorating scent of sea salt and olives. Intrigued, I walked towards them, and they waved back. Their dresses flipping in the wind like giant butterflies.

And that’s when I noticed a woman on a marble staircase behind them. She was slightly older than the girls. Her dark hair was tied at the nape of her neck, sparkled with delicate pieces of gold. She sat there, a poised observer amidst the exuberance.

The sun-drenched air bore the scent of antiquity as she regarded me; her gaze unwavering, “You are a very pretty, young lady, but I do not recall that I have met you before. What’s your name?”

“I am Helen. ”

“You are indeed as beautiful as Helen of Troy.” She did not seem to know me, and I decided to let it be.

“What do you know about Helen of Troy, beyond the war?” I tested.

“She was blinded by love. Love was the genesis of everything, and Helen, she is both the lover and beloved.”

“And how did love itself come into being?”

“Some attribute it to the power of Aphrodite, but truth be told, love emerges from loss,” she intoned. “Eros, the force that binds, blossomed the moment Helen departed from Menelaos and embraced Paris. Helen desired Paris as Menelaos yearned for her. Thus, my dear Helen, the Trojan war was always nothing but an erotic quest.” She pointed at the marble staircase beside her, “ Why don’t you sit with me for a while?”

I acquiesced. We were facing directly to the undulating sea. The sunlight reflected off the sparkling waves, momentarily blinding me. My body dissolved into an urn of honey — warm and sweet.

“Is loss, then, the essence between the lover and the beloved ? ” I posed, and my gaze lost in the hypnotic rhythm of the sea.

“You are very smart, young Helen. What makes Helen eternally desirable is her betrayal, is the fact that she can never be owned, is because she is also a lover and nobody ever truly owned her love.”

Her eloquence, unnaturally profound, intrigued me. “You seem to know a lot about love.”

“That’s what I do.”

“To teach people how to love?”

“Oh, more than that. I teach people everything about love — what it feels like when falling in love and losing your love. I’ve experienced them all, and, of course, I will keep experiencing them. For I believe that love, in its entirety, infuses my life with living. ”

“So you see yourself as Menelaos, the lover who is chasing the lost love?”

“I see myself through Helen and the people who loved Helen. We all do.” Her thoughts drifted, and her eyes went momentarily blank, “Forgive me. I get lost in my own thoughts quite often. Do you have any more questions? Time is our ally, and your company is a pleasure. ”

“Well, I do have some confusion…”

“I am here to help you.” Her voice was like a gentle stream.

“Well, initially I thought people fight for an illusion of Helen, which turns out to be just an imaginary image of them that they can find in themselves. Then someone told me that Helen is never relevant. However, the desire of Helen is always real and never an illusion. How do you reconcile that?”

“You are very much right, young Helen. It’s not people chasing the part they are lost from Helen. Eros emerges right from the very first moment of Helen’s absence, and part of them is lost with Helen. That’s what makes Helen desire itself. Eros is immortal, therefore Helen is immortal.”

“But why is eros always associated with violence, war and disaster?”

“Some may argue it’s the result, like the war occurring because of Helen. However, I always believe that eros is stronger than violence. The conscious loss of self, in the end, is not a comfortable experience. It is a struggle between your mind and body. ”

“The struggle and the loss of self ? ”

“It extends beyond the confines of our mortal flesh. It is a bargain between the divine and the mortal. Aphrodite allows eros to assail, and in the struggle, eros inhabit the very being of the lovers. You, Helen of Troy, are a victim of love, as are we all.” she declared, her eyes penetrating mine with an intensity like a cosmic vortex.

“When did you know I am Helen of Troy?”

“From the very moment I met you.” she replied rapidly, her voice was soft and tender, “I have talked to so many people, and they all have a mission to fulfil, an honour to achieve, and self seems to be a burden to all of them. But only you, Helen, only you care so much about who you really are.”

“Will I ever find out about it?”

“Ask yourself. Only you know who you are.” She extended her hand and her fingers traced softly through my hair.

The world around me shimmered with an ethereal glow.

“Is this still a dream?”

“I hope not.” She said, “But dreams often hold more truth than reality. ”

She whispered as her form gradually faded.

“Wait! I still don’t know your name…” I shouted, but her response lingered in the dwindling echoes.

“Your questions are answered. I am nothing but a guide,” she murmured, and her last presence remained, a silent witness to the passage of an eternal moment, but only for a short while “Again, my young Helen, only you know who you are. Ask yourself.”

The boat, now a silhouette against the encroaching darkness, seemed to have anchored itself in a realm where the constraints of time relinquished their hold. She remained seated in profound stillness and silence. The fabric draped around her like a cocoon, its loose folds gently embracing the enigma she embodied.

“You look like you have learned a lot.” she observed scholarly, as the boat sailed through the shadows.

“Do you know what is behind each mirror ?” I ventured.

“I can’t know everything, can I ?” She giggled, her laughter resonating like elusive echoes in the night.

“That woman I just met, I can tell she does not belong to our time. ”

“Well, do you like her?”

“I do, a lot.” I confessed, “I never had a conversation with any woman before. I thought they all would treat me as a threat, an enemy, a seductress who steals love away. But it was never like that in her time, and I never got to know who she was. She treats me as an equal, as a being capable of both love and being loved, as if everyone would make the same mistake as me.”

“That’s the truth. Everything you did could be done by everyone. We are equally vulnerable in the presence of love.”

“But people in my time and space never think that way.”

“You are a demigod, Helen. Immortality shouldn’t be restricted by time. You can talk to anyone and everyone,” she said, her tone suddenly becoming cool and measured.

“But I can’t talk to myself.”

“We still have a mirror left. Why don’t you go and find out?”

The mirror awaited my touch, a silent witness to the reflections it had witnessed throughout time. As my fingers made contact with its surface, a palpable chill radiated through them, akin to the frosty touch of forgotten ages.

“Is it really a good idea to find out who I am?” The coldness lingered.

“You are hesitant.”

She was right. This was the first time I felt a tremor of fear. Truth seemed less essential, and I found myself yearning for the anonymity Achilles once dreamt of.

But still, I lean forward.

Nothing happened. My surroundings remain still.

“How can I still be here? ” The inexplicable stasis bewildered me.

“You are finally ready to talk to me.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Helen.”

“How can it be? I have the memory of Helen. Achilles recognised me as Helen. That woman recognised me as Helen. If you are Helen, who am I ?”

“You are Helen. I am Helen as well. Helen is perceived in so many ways, and there are countless versions of us. You are always in conversation with yourself, Helen. You are gazed at by so many people, yet in unconsciousness, you are always perceiving yourself.”

Talk to yourself, only you have the answer to your question. The woman’s voice lingered.

In the loom of fate, she unfolded her creation — a tapestry woven with threads of time’s intricate narration. The fabric, as I found out, a mirror reflecting every part of my soul, whispered so many tales. I saw people loving me, being obsessed with me. I saw people being indifferent, busy with their own business. I saw people being intoxicated by my beauty till death. I saw people living through my beauty. I saw scholars, sophists, and philosophers engaging in countless discourse, their debates weaving through the fabric, intertwining with the mystery of my identity. I heard the laughter from children, from ancient Greece to foreign lands, echoing through the ages, their footsteps leaving imprints on my story.

And in the end, I saw so many women. Women like me.

I saw that I was used to representing so many things. Everyone gets a share of me and everyone inevitably loses a part of me.

But at least my story will be remembered.

Explication

In this prose, I aim to depict intricacies of Helen of Troy’s introspective journey, drawing inspiration from the concept of duplication of Helen’s identity originated in Euripides’ Helen. My narrative, however, doesn’t serve as a means for Helen to absolve herself of blame by portraying extreme polarities of purity or evil in Greek Tradition. Instead, I capture Helen engaged in an ongoing dialogue with herself, the mysterious “she” on the boat. In my interpretation, what sets Helen apart from other Greek heroes is her persistent self-awareness and the continuous quest for her identity, constituting the primary motivation behind her actions. Unlike heroes like Achilles, driven by the pursuit of “kleos”(κλέος) and adhering to the societal values of ancient Greece, Helen’s narrative revolves around her exploration of self. While others are indifferent to the concept of personal identity, Helen in Homeric epics is fervently engaged in a relentless search for herself, and her character even became a symbol of the quest for personal identity and agency for the Greeks.

The heightened awareness Helen possesses is attributed to the perpetual gaze she endures from the external world, from the original homeric epic to people’s continuous recreation of her identity and stories. This extreme objectification compels her to seek agency internally, leading to a process of self-blame that allows her to carve a place for herself within the overarching narrative, even if it takes on a predominantly negative form (the infamous quote “Bitch that I am” from the Iliad. ) The mirrors in the story represent three distinct gazes that Helen endures in the discourse surrounding her — the heterosexual/heroic gaze, the female gaze, and her self-gaze.

Achilles embodies the heroic male’s viewpoint. This perspective can also be demonstrated by Alcaeus of Mytilene, a male lyric poet whose work primarily showcases military and politics in Symposia, a male-dominated drinking activity. They diminish Helen’s agency in the Trojan War with a rational and stoic approach, as especially seen from Alcaeus 41. Despite Achilles noting his similarities with Helen, she rejects his perspective, prioritising her agency. This conflict arises as the heterosexual gaze seeks to discredit her, underscoring the societal tendency to diminish her role and cast her purely as an object of desire.

The encounter with the women in the second mirror, highlights Helen’s role in love. The woman’s character embodies both the romanticist view of Eros from Sappho, the female lyric poet from Lesbos with her poetic symbolisms in my writing: Aphrodite, honey, youth etc. However, her philosophical and sharp language is inspired by Diotima, a character in Plato’s Symposium teaching Socrates what love is. The deliberate avoidance of a debate on right and wrong accentuates the inevitability of desire — an uncontrollable force. Helen emerges from this interaction with a clearer understanding of herself as both the loved and the beloved. My intentional choice to have the woman feign ignorance about Helen generates a deliberate confusion of identity, blurring the lines between Helen of Troy as the subject of their conversation and the Helen within the story. This implies an interchangeable nature of Helen’s identity, adding complexity to her self-perception.

In the story’s conclusion, Helen’s identity remains elusive, and it is not explicitly suggested that she has found it. However, there is a sense that she consistently navigates her own narrative with clarity, actively shaping her story as an immortal transcending time and space. Her hyperconsciousness becomes a tool for storytelling, fulfilling her ultimate desire as a poet — to perpetuate her story throughout eternity.