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.
