Did Persephone Love Hades?
From the Homeric Hymns to the Rise of Lore Olympus
Trigger Warning for discussions of sexual assault and abuse
With 5 million subscribers, a television spin-off in the works, and nominations for the prestigious Eisner and Ringo awards, Rachel Smythe’s Lore Olympus may be the hottest Greek myth this side of the Common Era. Who’s surprised? If the romance, intrigue, and beautiful illustrations don’t grab you, the layers of mythology are sure to do the trick. Tying past and present together, Smythe creates something truly timeless: a classic in its own right, worthy of its rich, classical heritage. Yet with success comes controversy. As in ancient times, Drama follows closely after Myth. Though ardent fans may praise the series, enamored with its idyllic love story, outspoken critics abound, incensed by its liberties. Consequently, despite the comic sitting #1 atop Webtoons’ rankings, many on social media still argue if it even ought to exist. What causes this discrepancy? How has the Persephone myth grown to be so polarizing? To answer this, we must look to history––from ancient times to the dawn of the Internet.
According to Herodotus, it was Hesiod and Homer who first “taught the Greeks the descent of the gods (theogoniā), and gave the gods their names, and determined their spheres and functions, and described their outward forms (Histories, 2.53, trans. Godley).” Hence, where mythology is concerned, our first reference is usually the Archaic period (c. 800–480 B.C.E), and the great poems that define it. In Homer, at least, the Persephone story receives little attention. He references the goddess only thirteen times in the Iliad and Odyssey, of which six are passing mentions alongside Hades (Il. 9.457, 569; Od. 10.491, 534, 564, 11.47) and the other seven relate only a cameo appearance in Odysseus’ descent to the underworld (Od. 10.494, 509; Od. 11.213, 217, 226, 386). Whether invoked beside her husband in prayer or welcoming guests to their nether abode, the Homeric Persephone seems to have found her place in death. But how exactly did she get there––what of her famous Taking?
For this episode, we must turn to Hesiod and the goddess’ three appearances in the Theogony. Two, again, are trivial matters (Theog. 768, 774), but with the third comes a basic account of her origin story:
Notable here is the key tension of this scene, that Hades takes what Zeus gives. As her father, the king of gods and men has the authority to consecrate this marriage; ultimately, the objection of Demeter or Persephone is immaterial. Yet still, an insidious subtext of her taking remains, even more so when we realize that the verb here, hārpazō, may have a sexual connotation. From these lines alone, the exact way to parse the term is unclear, but consider the opening of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter from a century or so later:
With strikingly similar verbiage, the Hymn recounts this story, again in the dichotomy of taking (hārpazō) and giving (didōmi). But where the Theogony stops short and leaves us to wonder, the Hymn continues in horrific detail:
Not only are we told she is taken, but that she cries out for help all the while, explicitly unwilling (aekōn), as she is frequently described throughout the text (eg, Hymn 30, 72, 432). Thus, hārpazō must at least constitute abduction, though a later scene heavily implies sexual assault as well:
In the English, this may be hard to intuit, but the Greek is rather clear, though euphemistic. The goddess who was referred to as korē (maiden, girl) till this point is now called parakoitis (wife, spouse, lit. “she who lies beside”). Her position on the bed is unlikely coincidence; as classicist Helene Foley puts it, here she “may have consummated her marriage (The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, 63).” On the matter of her consent to this, the text is even less ambiguous. Not only is she unwilling (aekazomenōn, related to aekōn) but completely so (poll’)––not to mention that aidoiē, which I render as “bashful,” might in context mean “having a claim to compassion” or even “pitiful.”
To be clear, there is debate as to Persephone’s eventual acquiescence to her captor. By promising to be a worthy husband (Hymn 363–9) and with some sly pomegranate magic (Hymn 371–4), Hades might finally win her over. Yet even if the Homeric Hymn ends in conjugal accord, its traumatic course en route is undeniable — and this, in fact, is the key point. Though the Hymn alone recounts the tale’s horrors in full, an audience of every performance would be expected to know the major details; this is the presumable “resonance between the singular moment and the traditional context,” what John Foley terms the principle of traditional referentiality (Homer’s Traditional Art, xiv). Hesiod, in mentioning the highlights, conjures these scenes. Homer, no doubt, is playing off them as well. After all, when Odysseus encounters Persephone, he has just escaped Circe’s island, spurning her advances. The goddess’ seemingly random importance is suddenly poignant if we recall her own captivity––she reminds us our hero might never have escaped.
So where does all the confusion come from? If the Archaic sources agree — or at least do not contradict one another — on the myth’s core features, how do we get romantic interpretations like Lore Olympus today? Well, it’s a complicated process that, like all matters of reception, happens over many centuries. Authors of later antiquity recount the myth with their own flourishes; Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Fasti (c. 8 C.E), for example, have Aphrodite set Hades into motion via Cupid’s arrow. Yet, despite the Roman poet’s changes, the central themes of transgression and assault remain. When the goddess of love begins the story proclaiming “Demeter’s daughter will be a virgin if we let her!” (Cereris quoque filia virgo/si patiemur, erit; Ov. Met. 5. 376–7), it is difficult to say Persephone has gained any agency. Throughout ancient literature, unfortunately, we find much of the same.
Still, like all great stories, Persephone’s endures. In the 19th century, American author Nathanial Hawthorne identifies it and other myths as “very capital reading for children,” and with his Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys (1851) and Tanglewood Tales (1853) begins a resurgence of the material in children’s literature. This causes a renewed focus on the myth, which becomes nigh archetypal of the female adventure genre (see Blackford’s The Myth of Persephone in Girl’s Fantasy Literature). Simultaneously, it forces fundamental changes to the piece’s tone, since a child audience demands it. In Hawthorne’s rendition, The Pomegranate Seeds, this is done by leaning into the more fantastical, cartoonish idea of kidnapping, while avoiding the darker and more realistic implications of sexual assault. The story heavily moralizes the message that little girls should not stray from their mothers, and even humorously uses the pomegranate to promote healthy eating. Meanwhile, throughout, any insidious subtext is removed. Even before consuming the fruit, Persephone tells Hades “I love you a little,” assuaging fears of impropriety. When Demeter bemoans that her child must return to the underworld, the girl promptly admonishes her mother, noting her husband’s good points. As later picture books like D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths (1962) succeed this trend, they reinforce Hawthorne’s choices, cementing myth as children’s fare and tweaking it to fit child sensitivities. Consequently, this resurgence of classics does more than popularize the story of Persephone; it serves to sanitize it, as well.
As the 20th century comes around, the move toward seeing classics as “entertainment, rather than a source of information” only gains further support (Childhood and the Classics, 13). Myth, alongside fairytale, becomes a central inspiration for children’s media––just in time for its greatest renaissance, to boot. After all, with the advent of new technology, story begins migrating from the pages of books to the seats of the cinema; movie theatres crop up in every town and film soon becomes a fixture of American life. Chaplin, Hitchcock, and other famous directors of Hollywood’s “Golden Age” might cater more to the adults in the room, but the kids will have a virtuoso of their own soon enough––a man by the name of Walt Disney.
In 1923, his juggernaut of children’s entertainment opens and begins reimagining classic stories as motion pictures. By the late 30s and 40s, this means full-length feature films as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (1937) and Pinocchio (1940). Less well know, however, is the collection of seventy-five Silly Symphonies that precede them, a series of earlier shorts that build the foundation for later work.
The forty-eighth in this series, The Goddess of Spring (1934), is Disney’s rendition of the Persephone myth. It follows a young maiden who is crowned “Goddess of Eternal Spring” and shows her abduction by a certain horned assailant. This lord of the dead––Hades in name, Satan in appearance––brings her to his realm, showering her in gold in hopes to appease her. But, as the girl continues to weep and the world grows cold without her, he relents a little. Allowing her to leave half the year, finally, he secures a happy queen. And so we learn “the reason, why there’s a winter season, instead of eternal spring.”
This “strangely Demeter-less version of the [myth] by way of Faust,” as media critic Lindsay Ellis puts it, is by far the most peculiar rendition yet. Certainly, prior expressions of the narrative in children’s literature are not obsequiously faithful; Hawthorne begins his projects explicitly defending the creative right to break from tradition. Yet, while the author adds flavoring here and there — cutesy descriptions of Cerberus, details about the underworld cuisine — nevertheless The Pomegranate Seeds follows the main plot of the Homeric Hymn rather closely, from the wanderings of Demeter to the story of Demophoon. Goddess of Spring, on the other hand, can do less in its 10-minute run time than Hawthorne achieves in thirty-two pages. It abridges aggressively, leaving a husk of the original story.
In the context of this extreme reduction, thus, the choices that the film does make stand out starkly––none more so than the syncretization of Hades with the Christian devil. This “Satan Hades” as Ellis terms him is perhaps the greatest legacy of the film, a conceptualization of the god which will dominate the coming century and, quite literally, demonize him. Now, against the backdrop of the Hymn to Demeter, it is somewhat difficult to do this unfairly; by modern standards, Hades' actions are reprehensible, and any slander, however inaccurate, is at least somewhat deserved. But as the god shows up in other popular narratives, his constant role as the evil figure intent on doom and destruction wears thin. We become tired of Hades the villain. So, we attempt to move past him.
By the 21st century, artists begin grappling with the “Satan Hades” trope, seeking to revitalize the lord of the dead and repurpose him in new, more colorful narratives. In Disney’s later run-in with mythology, the animated Hercules (1997), actor James Wood tries his hand at the challenge by bringing humor to Hades’ gloom––tempering his melancholy with charisma and glib. For many, what results is the perfect balance: the ideal blend of antagonism and comedy, of severity and mirth. But, as kids of the early 2000s grow up falling in love with black clothing and My Chemical Romance, the door remains open for even more transformative changes. Why settle for a better villain? Why not a hero instead?
Out of the desire to see the good in evil––to bring the shadows to the light––new renditions of the myth appear, none so prolific as Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series (2005–8). Instead of an antagonist, they cast Hades (or some stand-in) as a deep, brooding hero. In place of abduction, they tell a story of intense and passionate love. These adaptations, later known by the term Paranormal Romance, take a more comprehensive approach than Hercules (1997) in undermining the “Satan Hades” trope. Rather than changing the god’s severity to soften his character, they challenge the underlying evil which pollutes him. Finally, the god is not some super-villain constantly bent on world domination. In turn, he strangely becomes a teenage heartthrob with sparkly abs. Somewhere in between is a more faithful representation of his historical functions. But, where the pendulum should swing back, it instead goes further forward––Hades has one final transformation to make.
Two years after the release of Twilight, a new media emerges that will forever leave its mark on mythology: the social media, Tumblr. Immediately, it establishes itself as an ideal spot for discussing pop culture––the place to confer about those sparkly abs. But, beyond creating space for reaction, it further ushers in a culture of more active engagement––of fan fiction, speculation, and other transformative manners of response. Thus, its advent does more than allow fans to ooh and aah together at this new romantic Hades. It lets them shape him in their image, whether that be as nerdy, awkward, doting, or shy. To keep pace with her husband, Persephone, too, begins evolving. No longer a damsel in distress, she grows fierce and feisty. Far from the victim, the young goddess becomes assertive, commanding, even sexually dominant. Of course, such character development breaks with the fundamental thrust of the story––what abduction can result when Hades is harmless and Persephone potent? Yet, in this impasse comes Tumblr’s answer; the site abandons the narrative of abduction entirely, and instead explores consensual or even “reversed” alternatives.
From the start, this move is controversial. As early as 2013, users begin the same fights that still flourish today over these “revisionist Greek myth[s].”
But, as a phenomenon grows it self-legitimizes. Soon posts square the discrepancy between past and present by claiming there is none whatsoever, arguing these interpretations stem from some long-lost original. Of course, these claims are dubious to say the least. The same dusty-purple who posits as much admits embellishment when pressed. Still, the Internet is much like oral poetry in one regard: all that matters is what survives. By the mid-2010s, belief in “True Myth” theories becomes widespread. The debate shifts from asking what the story can be, becoming fixated on proving what it was.
This is the state of our present: a tangled mess of interpretations so precariously strung together, even whispering the word “Persephone” is sure to start an argument. This is the impossibility of Hades today: a figure at once dreamy and villainous, simultaneously goofy and stern. What shall we make of it? How do we square the tv shows, the musicals, the webcomics all drawing inspiration from different sources? How do we process it? What does it mean that the quintessential tale of abduction is repurposed as a story of love? These and many other questions will remain so long as the story of Persephone continues to captivate us. As you all come to your own answers, I hope this history will be of use.
Thanks to the friends and colleagues who helped with this project. A review of Lore Olympus is coming shortly––I wanted to keep it separate to avoid providing any spoilers. (This is your final warning to go read it!!)
