"Psappha, as she called herself in her soft Aeolian dialect, was born at
Eresus, on Lesbos, ...Pittacus, fearing her maturing pen, banished her...
"After five years of exile she returned to Lesbos and became a leader of the island's society and
intellect ... Eager for an active life, she opened a school for young women, to whom she taught
poetry, music, and dancing; it was the first 'finishing school' in history....
"Her verse was collected into nine books, of some twelve-hundred lines, six-hundred survive,
seldom continuous."
From these fragmented lines, Ms. Bell has created a novel rich in the textures of ancient Greece, yet modern as tomorrow's fashions.
Bell has incorporated the fragmentary words and phrases still available into the novel in a way that makes them vanish into the fabric of the story like golden threads woven into an intricate tapestry so delicately that it becomes impossible to distinguish the imported threads from the weaver's own.
Readers familiar with the myriad of translations may recognize a word or a phrase here and there but, as one expert in antiquities discovered, the author has herself become the voice of The Poetess Sappho to the extent that invented passages seem like newly discovered wonders from the past.
A
SUPERB HISTORICAL FICTION Page
after page of glittering description gives the reader a true taste of
what Psappha's world was like in her lifetime. We watch her grow from a
headstrong opinionated girl into a graceful, reflective woman, and to
become one of the few great Greek poets of the ancient world.
A
must read for those who love poetry, and for those who do not. Ms Bell
serves her readers, an engaging Psappha along with a vast assortment of
friends, a most tantalizing and fulfilling meal.
Psappha took exception to Alkaios' opinion of the Trojan War.
"You are a greater fool than I thought, you insufferable sot.
Do you actually believe that men fought for ten years over a silly
king's faithless wife, and nothing more? Look at the story! What
do you have? As men tell it, you have supposedly intelligent men,
of all cities, dying to defend the honor of one minor king who was not
man enough to keep his wife at home, while quarreling among themselves
for the privilege of despoiling women other men thought they owned.
"I tell you, Helen was a woman in love, nothing more. Menelaus
and his greedy brother wanted control of the Hellesport and used her as
an excuse, as if men ever need an excuse for their bloodthirsty games of
grab and grovel."
"Surely you aren't saying that Helen had no part in it,"
Alkaios slurred.
"Of course she had a part," Psappha admitted, accenting with a
wave of her arm that sent wine slopping onto the hearth without her
notice. "Of course she had a part, but who are we to say what
that part was? Who are we to judge her? Who are we to
pretend to know what those who knew her thought of her? History is
a plague if you take it without question.
"Homer was a man, or men, no one is sure. What can a man know
of a woman's mind? Can you claim to comprehend the many facets of
mine? No. Of course, you can't. Nor I yours. But,
I ask you, Kios, how might the story read if written by a woman's hand.
How would the years of battle sound if told by Helen or
Klytemnestra? What might Penelope have had to say about Odysseus'
adventures? In her version, might not her troubles exceed his
in import? History is written, and oft revised, by men, Alkaios,
and men, when it comes to their precious honor, are unmitigated
fools."
"Ah, Spha, you make me glad I'm dishonorable." Alkaios
laughed. Four empty flagons flanked the one with which he had
originated the discussion.
Born into aristocracy in 7th
Century BC, married to an affluent merchant, Psappha
(suh-PHAH,) went on to become renowned as The
Poetess of Lesbos, one of the greatest Greek poets and lyrists. Her
many honors included her images minted onto the coins of her home
island of Lesbos, and being chosen by Plato as the “tenth muse.”
Unfortunately,
only remnants of her vast genius exist today. Some lost to time,
natural disaster, the majority destroyed by small-minded censorship
hungry critics.
Here
is how one author, Peggy Bell describes her thirty-five year love
affair with this timeless muse.
BH:
For her time, Psappha was quite a unique and fascinating woman. What
was it about her that drew her to you?
PB: My belief that men
destroyed her words because they feared her.
PB:
I wish I knew. She was not alone. Pope Gregory attempted to destroy
the work of all the major Greeks. However, the works of Socrates,
Plato etc. stayed safe in the area ruled by the Eastern Church.
Psappha was not so lucky.
BH:
In your story, she so wanted her work to be remembered. I wonder how
she would have reacted to this destruction.
PB:
If the vibes I felt while working on her story are any clue, she's
furious but that could have been an echo of my own feelings.
BH:
Historical fiction, not many authors succeed in writing this form
well. Did you consider this a challenge once you decided this was the
route you were taking?
PB:
The major challenge was in dragging myself out of the research to
actually write the book.
BH:
Well, it's obvious you've spent many hours researching Psappha, both
in English and Greek. And like English, some Greek words have multiple
meanings. When your friends translated these for you did you notice
great differences in the translations?
PB: Yes,
I had help with the Greek. The difference were vast between his and
her interpretations, and they changed from week to week depending on
their mood at the time. They both kept coming up with new
possibilities. His [were] military and mercantile. Hers [were]
romantic and mundane in the sense that she read the everyday things in
Psappha's words. The difference was particularly noticeable in regard
to the fragment that mentions Anaktoria. He felt it referred to
military action of some sort while his wife was convinced Psappha was
talking about the fallacies in social mores--the dangers of hubris and
the obligations of hospitality.
PB:
I'm really not sure. I do not read Greek, but I have seen both
interpretations touched upon in the translations published prior to my
first draft. I have read none that have been published recently.
BH:
If
you had to drag yourself away from the research, which not many
authors enjoy, where did you find the joy in yours?
PB:
When asked “What do you do?” I usually answer “I learn.”
BH:
Excellent answer.
PB:
I am always researching no matter what else I may seem to be doing.
BH:
The learning is often more fulfilling than
the writing?
PB: I wouldn't say that. With the learning comes the drive to
teach--to share. I want the world to know Psappha as I know her. To
love her as I do. To love Gongyla as she and I both do. And, most of
all, I want the world to know her, that her name is PSAPPHA.
BH:
People not familiar with Psappha may not realize she was a lesbian.
With these strong loving relationships portrayed throughout your novel
did you find difficulty locating a publisher?
PB:
Yes, very much so. Although I had a contract with a lesbian publisher
in the mid 80s, they went out of business six months after I signed.
The problem with finding a major publisher was more a problem of my
being an unknown. I am, however, glad for all of this because the
publisher I did find is great.
BH
“Upstart” is the publisher for Psappha. What was it that attracted
them to this work?
PB:
Paul Harris, who IS Upstart Publishing, liked the resemblance between
my style and that of
Mary Renault.
BH:
There isn't an abundance of varied
documentation left on Psappha, only scraps of her work remain. With
the little you had to work with, how did you decided where to begin
and what to include in her story? How did you know how to fill
in the blanks of what is known about Psappha?
PB:
Would you believe me if I said she told me?
BH:
Who told you?
PB:
Psappha told me what she wanted in her story. Or, at least I came to
believe that as I worked. I could feel her approval and disapproval as
I went along. I do not mean The Poetess herself was looking over my
shoulder, although I refuse to rule out that possibility. What I mean
is that MY Psappha is so real to me that she wrote her own story. I
just did the typing. Sometimes our characters do become that real. You
have to remember that I have loved her for 35 years.
BH:
Oh,
yes. I've heard that from many authors. You are not alone!
BH:
Two hundred years after her death, Plato referred to her as the “tenth
muse.” In your novel, Psappha spent much time praising and cursing
the Gods. How do you feel she would have reacted to this tribute?
PB: I
think she would have thought it no less than her due.
BH:
With all this need for recognition, wanting to be remembered, etc. Was
she egotistical?
PB:
I don't think of her as egotistical. I believe she was a teacher and
as such she needed to be remembered. It was later that men compared
her to Homer. The great statesman, Solon, who was her contemporary, is
said to have refused to die until he heard Psappha's latest work.
BH:
While I don't want to give away the ending...One legend speaks of her
leaping to her death over unrequited love for the fisherman, Phaeon.
Any reason for changing this in your story?
PB:
Probably because I cannot imagine any intelligent woman jumping off a
cliff over any unrequited love--regardless of the gender of the lover.
BH:
Dramatic either way. Her way. Could you imagine her death in any other
form?
PB:
For that you'll have to read the book. :)
BH:
Even more drama!
PB:
Thank you.
BH:
Psappha invented the poetry form “Sapphics”...Have you used this
in any of your work?
PB: That is an excellent question that I can't answer. When the
chair of ancient history & philosophy at the University of
Arkansas @ Little Rock read the draft, he thought I had found a new
fragment--one he had not yet seen. However, the passage that he
thought was genuine Psappha was actually my own creation. It is quoted
at the bottom of my
Poetry
page
if you'd like to take a look.
BH:
So you did use Sapphics at least once. Inadvertently or purposely?
PB:
I think what might have happened is that, in the process of hearing
the fragments read to me repeatedly in both Greek and English gave me
a “feel” for the meter which became reflex.
In my loneliness, I feel her kitten
fingers on my breast and wonder what sweet fragrance tempts me now. I
feel your web entrap me, as my fingers tangle in your raven hair. My
lips reach, dry and flaking, to taste her pungent flavors and wander, oh
so lightly, across the ebon satin of your thighs.
With each passing moment, I can hear your
languid whisper, 'Let me love you, My Lady.' And gently did you carry
me, on waves of sensation, to volcanic peaks of feeling then tenderly
escort me safely down, while all the while I watched her dance behind my
eyes.
Tomorrow is as nothing. Yesterday is gone. There is
only here and now and dreaming to fill my empty hours. Though people
crowd around me, demanding my attention, I still float, within my soul,
into your arms. She is. I am. We are. All else is mere charade. Why
was I not born singly, like others that I know? Duality lies heavy on
my soul.
