Monday, October 15, 2012

Summary of Omeros, Books I and II





Omeros is an epic based loosely and generally on the Homeric epics. Unlike Homer, however, Walcott does not believe in heroes and does not posit heroic value(s) to the actions of any characters.  All stories, settings, and characters reflect flawed humanity; none takes primacy, unless we conclude that Helen, both person and island, somehow requires more of our attention than others.  All deeds are to be judged on their own merits rather than in light of a predetermined set of values. One example of how this works is that the British narratives of History and Empire are deprived of their privileged status, while the non-historical narrative of St. Lucia becomes a story worth telling. This shift is not a simple reversal of traditional western values, although that reversal is one effect of Omeros ; rather, the reduced stature of the British narrative and raised stature of the island narrative sets them side by side, nearly as equals.
Omeros in its first books has several stories we need to attend to.  For the moment, we need not be concerned overly with the specifics of the Homeric narratives themselves, except for its broad theme about the identity and meaning of “home.” The Odyssey does provide both foundation and insight (depth) to our understanding; the point here, however, is that a close knowledge of the Odyssey is not necessary for an understanding of Omeros.  The stories we do need to know are, in no significant order, the islanders’ love story (Helen, Achille, Hector), the Island love story (Helen-St.Lucia, Major (Sgt.) Plunkett, Maud), and the Homeric narrator’s story (Omeros, Seven Seas, Walcott, Afolabe).
The story of the Island fishermen (Achille and Hector) and their love interest, Helen, is a troubled romance.  It is a common human story in which a woman of great attractiveness but no particular virtue allows two men to compete for her affections and favors.  She is not apparently in love with either man.  She is simply trying to do the best she can, given her circumstances; survival and sustenance are the sum of her ambition. Achille and Hector fight over her in various ways; individually they go to unusual lengths to get money for her support or to make her happy.
The Island love story, which refers to love of the “paradise” that is St. Lucia (or Ireland), is the Plunketts’ story and, by extension, the story of European (Britain and France especially) love for St. Lucia (or, more broadly, the Antilles). In this way the Plunketts’ personal story has resonance in the larger story of colonization that played out for centuries with regard to European powers and non-white continents (Africa, the Americas, Asia).  Just as Achille and Hector find ways to compete for Helen, so the European powers found ways to fight over their colonies. Sometimes they just fought each other, which is one way to describe the World Wars that began in and engulfed Europe. Plunkett’s “wound” is a consequence of one such fight, and the “reward” for his loyal service to country is to enjoy the now somewhat diminished “fruits of empire” in the form of retirement (pension) in St. Lucia.
The story of the narrators is both complex and singular.  In one admittedly reductionist explanation, Walcott, who speaks with the same voice as his father, is telling the same story as Homer told; he is doing the same thing.  The Odyssey is a complicated story, told in a way that assumes listener-readers are working from a particular frame of reference; listener-readers are expected to know the references, the backstories, and the implications of particular actions. Modern readers don’t generally have this frame of reference so they (we) benefit from reconstructing that world of references; nevertheless, they (we) clearly find the narrative complicated and incomplete rather than familiar.  The point here is that all the story tellers speak with a common voice.  To say this expresses a view about literature; it asserts that the human story, which is a fundamental impulse and component of literature, is essentially one story.  All writers contribute their voices to it but these voices join the narrative rather than create new narratives.
This singular view of literature is not the only view, of course, but it should help us with Omeros. As the text shifts from one story line to another, from one teller to another, from one setting to another, from one kind of language to another, the shifting allows Walcott to overlay the stories and, thereby, to allow their uncomfortable proximity (their confusions) to create a form of “accidental” or coincidental commentary. This is the essential task of the palimpsest as it is used in contemporary literature. It is a frequent technique of what we think of as “post-modern” writers, although like many aspects of post-modernism it employs some very old things. What Walcott is doing then, essentially, is what writers have always done. There are many strands to the Omeros narrative, but they form only one rope.