The Most Powerful Lines from
Homer's Odyssey

Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, oh daughter of Zeus, from whatsoever source you may know them.

The opening invocation of the entire epic. The poet calls upon the Muse to tell the story of Odysseus, immediately establishing the poem's central tension: a hero who cannot save his own men from their folly. These lines have been the gateway to the Odyssey for every reader in history.

See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to Agamemnon's wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Hermes to warn him not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Hermes told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for everything in full.

The very first divine speech in the poem. Zeus, king of the gods, complains that mortals blame the gods for their own suffering. This speech sets the Odyssey's theological framework: mortals have free will, and when they ignore divine warnings, the consequences are their own fault.

Father, son of Cronus, King of kings, it served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Odysseus that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends.

Athena's response to Zeus, immediately pivoting from the fate of Aegisthus to the plight of Odysseus. Her passionate advocacy for the stranded hero sets the entire plot in motion. Without Athena's intervention in this divine council, Odysseus might remain on Calypso's island forever.

My child, what are you talking about? How can I forget Odysseus than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven? Bear in mind, however, that Poseidon is still furious with Odysseus for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes.

Zeus's reassurance to Athena, confirming that the gods have not forgotten Odysseus. But the caveat is crucial: Poseidon is still angry, and the sea-god's wrath explains everything that has gone wrong. The domestic conflict between gods mirrors the domestic conflicts of mortals below.

King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a bard with such a divine voice as this man has. There is nothing better or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together, with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded with bread and meats, and the cup-bearer draws wine and fills his cup for every man.

Odysseus addresses the Phaeacian court before launching into the tale of his wanderings. This opening captures the Greek ideal of civilized pleasure: music, food, wine, and good company. It is also a masterful rhetorical move, flattering his hosts before asking them to listen to a very long story.

I am Odysseus son of Laertes, and I am known among all men for the subtlety of my craft. My fame ascends to heaven.

The moment Odysseus reveals his true identity to the Phaeacians. After concealing himself for two full books, he finally declares who he is—and he does so with a boast that defines his character. He is not known for strength or beauty but for "the subtlety of my craft." This is the hero of the mind.

Cyclops, you ask my name and I will tell it you; give me, therefore, the present you promised me; my name is Noman; this is what my father and mother and my friends have always called me.

Trapped inside the Cyclops's cave with a boulder blocking the exit, Odysseus gives a false name that will save his life. When the blinded Polyphemus screams to the other Cyclopes that "Noman is killing me," they dismiss his cries. This pun—a play on "nobody"—is the most famous trick in Western literature.

Cyclops, if any one asks you who it was that put your eye out and spoiled your beauty, say it was the valiant warrior Odysseus, son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca.

Having escaped the Cyclops's cave, Odysseus cannot resist shouting his true name from the ship. It is a moment of fatal pride—hubris—that allows Polyphemus to pray to Poseidon by name and brings ten more years of suffering. Even the cleverest man alive cannot always master his own ego.

Goddess, do not be angry with me about this. I am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so beautiful as yourself. She is only a woman, whereas you are an immortal. Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing else. If some god wrecks me when I am on the sea, I will bear it and make the best of it. I have had infinite trouble both by land and sea already, so let this go with the rest.

Calypso has just offered Odysseus immortality if he will stay with her forever. His response is one of the most human moments in all of literature: he freely admits Penelope cannot compare to a goddess, then says it does not matter. He would rather age and suffer and die as himself than live forever in someone else's paradise.

Dogs, did you think that I should not come back from Troy? You have wasted my substance, have forced my women servants to lie with you, and have wooed my wife while I was still living. You have feared neither God nor man, and now you shall die.

The disguise is over. Odysseus has just killed Antinous with an arrow and now stands revealed before the stunned suitors. This speech—cold, furious, absolute—is the moment twenty years of suffering has been building toward. The word "dogs" strips the suitors of their humanity before the slaughter begins.

Wife, I am much displeased at what you have just been saying. Who has been taking my bed from the place in which I left it? He must have found it a hard task, no matter how skilled a workman he was, unless some god came and helped him to shift it. There is no man living, however strong and in his prime, who could move it from its place, for it is a marvellous curiosity which I made with my very own hands.

Penelope has told a servant to move the marriage bed outside the bedroom, knowing that the bed is built around a living olive tree and cannot be moved. Odysseus's indignant reaction—describing how he built the bed himself, detailing the construction only the real Odysseus would know—is the proof that finally breaks through Penelope's caution.

Wife, we have not yet reached the end of our troubles. I have an unknown amount of toil still to undergo.

Even after reclaiming his home and his wife, Odysseus knows the journey is not over. Teiresias prophesied that he must travel inland carrying an oar until he reaches a people who know nothing of the sea. This quiet admission, spoken in the marriage bed, is a reminder that no homecoming is ever truly final.

My good nurse, you must be mad. The gods sometimes send some very sensible people out of their minds, and make foolish people become sensible. This is what they must have been doing to you; for you always used to be a reasonable person.

Eurycleia rushes upstairs to tell Penelope that Odysseus has returned and killed the suitors. Penelope's response is extraordinary: she does not jump for joy. She assumes the nurse has lost her mind. After twenty years of hoping and being disappointed, Penelope's first instinct is to reject good news. Her caution is itself a form of intelligence.

I have no wish to set myself up, nor to depreciate you; but I am not struck by your appearance, for I very well remember what kind of a man you were when you set sail from Ithaca. Nevertheless, Euryclea, take his bed outside the bed chamber that he himself built. Bring the bed outside this room, and put bedding upon it.

The test of the bed. Penelope casually orders a servant to move the unmovable bed, and watches for the reaction. This is her version of the Noman trick: a stratagem disguised as an innocent statement, designed to reveal the truth through the other person's response. Penelope is every bit as cunning as the man she married.

Do not be angry with me Odysseus. You, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us. Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you. I have been shuddering all the time through fear that some one might come and deceive me with a lying story.

The dam breaks. Having confirmed Odysseus's identity through the test of the bed, Penelope finally embraces her husband and explains her caution. Her words are devastating in their honesty: she has been afraid—not of attackers or suitors, but of hope itself. This is one of the most emotionally raw speeches in ancient literature.

Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty, whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions which heaven rains upon me.

Penelope speaks to the disguised Odysseus without knowing who he is. She attributes her lost beauty not to age but to grief, and not to grief in general but to one specific absence. The irony is crushing: the man she is mourning is sitting right in front of her.

If the gods are going to vouchsafe you a happier time in your old age, you may hope then to have some respite from misfortune.

After Odysseus tells Penelope about the further travels Teiresias has prophesied, she responds with quiet hope. It is the final words of a woman who has spent twenty years enduring, now looking forward to whatever remains. The understatement carries enormous emotional weight.

You know a great deal, but you are quite wrong here. May heaven above and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx—and this is the most solemn oath which a blessed god can take—that I mean you no sort of harm, and am only advising you to do exactly what I should do myself in your place. I am dealing with you quite straightforwardly.

Calypso swears the most solemn oath in the Greek pantheon to prove she is releasing Odysseus in good faith. There is genuine tenderness here: a goddess who has loved a mortal for seven years, letting him go because Zeus commands it, but also because she understands that he can never be happy with her.

Odysseus, noble son of Laertes, so you would start home to your own land at once? Good luck go with you, but if you could only know how much suffering is in store for you before you get back to your own country, you would stay where you are, keep house along with me, and let me make you immortal, no matter how anxious you may be to see this wife of yours, of whom you are thinking all the time day after day.

Calypso makes her final offer: immortality, eternal youth, and the end of suffering. She is not threatening; she is genuinely warning him of what lies ahead. The tragedy of the speech is that she is right—Odysseus will suffer terribly—and it still does not change his mind.

You have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades, and you will have died twice, to other people's once; now, then, stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning.

Circe greets Odysseus upon his return from the Underworld. Her acknowledgment that he has "died twice" underscores the extraordinary nature of what he has accomplished—no living mortal visits the land of the dead and returns. She then offers practical advice about the dangers ahead: the Sirens, Scylla, and Charybdis.

Say not a word in death's favour; I would rather be a paid servant in a poor man's house and be above ground than king of kings among the dead.

Odysseus tries to comfort the ghost of Achilles by praising his glory. Achilles' reply is one of the most famous lines in all of ancient literature: glory means nothing to the dead. The greatest warrior in Greek mythology would trade all his fame for a single day of life as a servant. It is a devastating rejection of the heroic ideal that the Iliad celebrated.

My poor Odysseus, noble son of Laertes, are you too leading the same sorry kind of life that I did when I was above ground? I was son of Zeus, but I went through an infinity of suffering, for I became bondsman to one who was far beneath me—a low fellow who set me all manner of labours.

The ghost of Hercules recognizes a fellow sufferer. Even the son of Zeus, the strongest man who ever lived, was forced into servitude and endless labor. His sympathy for Odysseus is the sympathy of one hero for another, both trapped by forces larger than themselves.

When you get home you will take your revenge on these suitors; and after you have killed them by force or fraud in your own house, you must take a well made oar and carry it on and on, till you come to a country where the people have never heard of the sea, and do not even mix salt with their food.

The blind prophet Teiresias delivers the prophecy that haunts the rest of the poem. Odysseus will reclaim his home, but he must then journey to a land so far from the sea that the people mistake an oar for a winnowing fan. Only then will he find peace. Even in the house of the dead, the journey extends further.

Thrice I sprang towards her and tried to clasp her in my arms, but each time she flitted from my embrace as it were a dream or phantom.

Odysseus encounters the ghost of his mother Anticlea in the Underworld and tries three times to embrace her. Each time she slips through his arms like a shadow. The image of a son reaching for a mother he can never hold again is one of the most heartbreaking moments in the poem.

He must be indeed a shifty lying fellow who could surpass you in all manner of craft even though you had a god for your antagonist. Dare devil that you are, full of guile, unwearying in deceit, can you not drop your tricks and your instinctive falsehood, even now that you are in your own country again? We will say no more, however, about this, for we can both of us deceive upon occasion.

Athena reveals herself to Odysseus on Ithaca and cheerfully calls him the greatest liar alive. What is remarkable is her tone: she is not scolding him. She is admiring him. The goddess of wisdom recognizes that Odysseus's instinct to deceive is the same quality she values in herself. They are kindred spirits.

Noman is killing me by fraud; no man is killing me by force.

The blinded Cyclops screams for help, but his words work against him. The other Cyclopes hear that "no man" is attacking him and walk away. The entire scheme hangs on this wordplay, and it is one of the purest demonstrations of cunning over strength in all of literature.

Madam, who on the face of the whole earth can dare to chide with you? Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness, as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues, and his people do good deeds under him.

Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar, flatters Penelope with one of the most extravagant compliments in the poem. He compares her fame to heaven and her virtue to that of a perfect king whose land flourishes under his rule. It is both sincere praise and a masterful piece of rhetoric from a man who needs her trust.

The mighty contest is at an end. I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to hit another mark which no man has yet been able to hit.

Odysseus has just strung the great bow and shot an arrow through twelve axe-heads. He tears off his beggar's rags and stands revealed. The "other mark" is Antinous—and the audience knows, even if the suitors do not, that every man in the hall is about to die.

Wake up Penelope, my dear child, and see with your own eyes something that you have been wanting this long time past. Odysseus has at last indeed come home again, and has killed the suitors who were giving so much trouble in his house, eating up his estate and ill treating his son.

The old nurse rushes upstairs with the news, her aged knees made nimble by joy. It is the simplest announcement in the poem and the most emotionally charged: after twenty years, the waiting is over. That Penelope responds with disbelief only deepens the pathos.

Then Odysseus in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and faithful wife to his bosom. As the sight of land is welcome to men who are swimming towards the shore, when Poseidon has wrecked their ship with the fury of his winds and waves; a few alone reach the land, and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find themselves on firm ground and out of danger—even so was her husband welcome to her as she looked upon him.

The most celebrated simile in the poem. Homer compares Penelope's relief at seeing Odysseus to the relief of shipwrecked sailors who finally reach land. The comparison is breathtaking because it reverses the expected analogy: it is not the wandering Odysseus who is like a shipwrecked sailor reaching shore, but the waiting Penelope. She, too, has been at sea for twenty years.

When Odysseus and Penelope had had their fill of love they fell talking with one another. She told him how much she had had to bear in seeing the house filled with a crowd of wicked suitors who had killed so many sheep and oxen on her account, and had drunk so many casks of wine. Odysseus in his turn told her what he had suffered.

After twenty years apart, Odysseus and Penelope lie in bed and tell each other everything. Homer does not give us the content of their conversation—he summarizes it in a few sentences. The restraint is masterful: some things are too private even for an epic poem. The real reunion is not the embrace but the talking, husband and wife becoming known to each other again.

So you are come, Telemachus, light of my eyes that you are. When I heard you had gone to Pylos I made sure I was never going to see you any more. Come in, my dear child, and sit down, that I may have a good look at you now that you are home again.

The loyal swineherd greets Telemachus with a father's love, kissing his head and hands. Eumaeus has faithfully tended Odysseus's herds for twenty years, and his affection for Telemachus is undiminished. Homer addresses Eumaeus directly in the second person—a mark of singular intimacy given to no other character.

I am not mocking you. It is quite true as I tell you that Odysseus is come home again. He was the stranger whom they all kept on treating so badly in the cloister. Telemachus knew all the time that he was come back, but kept his father's secret that he might have his revenge on all these wicked people.

Eurycleia insists to the doubting Penelope that Odysseus has truly returned. The old nurse who recognized her master by his scar now serves as the witness who bridges the disguise and the truth. Her joy is uncomplicated by caution—she has no doubt at all.