Review of The Hymn to Dionysus by Natasha Pulley
When I first caught wind of Natasha Pulley’s latest novel, The Hymn to Dionysus, a thrill of anticipation bubbled within me. As a devoted fan of her previous works and an unabashed classicist, the prospect of her diving into the rich waters of Classical Greek epic felt irresistibly tantalizing. Upon holding this book, I didn’t just see a cover—I saw a labyrinth of character, myth, and deep emotion waiting to unfold, much like the intricate maze that plays a pivotal role in its pages.
Pulley expertly invites us into a world defined by its complexities, where the medley of ancient myth and modern sensibility find a remarkable balance. At its heart lies Phaidros, our protagonist entangled in the turmoil of duty, identity, and passionate entanglements with another man, set against the vibrant backdrop of Ancient Thebes. Pulley’s reimagining of Dionysus, traditionally surrounded by female Bacchæ, shifts into uncharted territory with male followers, creating a fascinating exploration of masculinity and madness. This blend of mythology and queer representation could have seemed like an uphill climb, but Pulley makes it feel natural and needed.
One of the novel’s most captivating aspects is its pacing. Yes, it’s leisurely, but much like a fine wine, it invites you to savor each moment. The characters come alive through Pulley’s lyrical intimacy; lines like “whenever my heartbeat was loud, it sounded like where are you, where are you, where are you” resonate, echoing that deep human need for connection. Here, Pulley’s trademark style flows seamlessly—her prose fluctuates between the poetic and the raw, capturing the essence of her characters with every carefully chosen word.
However, it’s impossible to ignore inherent themes that circle around representation. While I embrace Pulley’s exploration of queer relationships, I find myself slowing down on the concerning tendency to center exclusively on male-male love stories while often sidelining female characters. I can’t help but wish for more diverse portrayals, especially in a canvas as expansive as ancient myth. Yet, paradoxically, I also acknowledge the sheer brilliance of Pulley’s storytelling. It’s a conundrum that colors my admiration for her work.
This brings me to the profound interplay between identity and the narrative. Pulley entangles us in a tapestry of confusion akin to the classics. The novel plays with identity in a way that feels both familiar and disorienting; even as a reader well-versed in Greek mythology, I found myself blissfully lost, thrust into unexpected twists and turns. Pulley’s deft intertwining of references—from Homeric calls to the complexities of identity—makes this book a mesmerizing maze.
The closing lines encapsulate Pulley’s genius: “Even if there is some terrible place three thousand years from now where nobody remembers any gods at all, there will still be the sea and love […] and madness.” It is a haunting reminder that, even in the vast chaos of existence, these fundamental experiences persist.
I wholeheartedly recommend The Hymn to Dionysus to fellow lovers of myth, those yearning for stories that embrace queer narratives, and anyone willing to luxuriate in a narrative rich with depth and atmosphere. Pulley once again captures the essence of what it means to be human, to grapple with love, identity, and the ghosts of our past. For me, this reading experience has been nothing short of enchanting, a testament to Pulley’s unique ability to make the ancient feel vibrantly alive today.