What It Means to Come Home: Reading The Odyssey on Agistri

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I’ve been reflecting on a recent trip to Greece, where I joined the London Literary Salon to read Homer’s Odyssey on the island of Agistri. I keep returning to the question: why a travel study?

Something shifts when we step away from the familiar. The ferry across the Aegean marked the beginning of that shift, old friends and new chatting in the wind, all of us quietly wondering what we were heading toward. When we arrived at Rosy’s seaside sanctuary, it became clear: this wasn’t a holiday. It was an immersion.

Each morning began with gentle yoga by the sea—our plank pose held for the span of a Shakespeare sonnet in call-and-response—then voice work with Jane to ground us in breath and sound. Evenings were for sharing food, ideas, and laughter. And in between, we read. Two-hour sessions with Toby guiding us through The Odyssey, supported by Caroline’s curated contemporary poems and insights.

Together, we travelled with Odysseus, Penelope, Telemachus, and Athena. We discussed betrayal, resilience, grief, longing, hospitality. And always, we circled back to the question: what does it mean to come home? We read The Odyssey because its themes endure, and because we endure. Penelope waits and weaves; we know what that feels like. Odysseus is clever, flawed, and longing for home, and so are we.

I had the chance to facilitate a writing session and some casual weaving. We wrote in response to the theme “I Am From”, tracing the threads of our own stories of home. We wove yarn onto rocks, creating patterns from whatever materials we had to hand.

We climbed to old churches, tasted pistachios, swam in the cold, cold sea (yikes!). We weathered wind and rain, and stood under the sun to share poems: Sappho, Cavafy, Homer, the Pope’s final letter. The youngest among us, a recent classics graduate, read in ancient Greek. The oldest read aloud from her own work.

I stood before the group to read my Penelope monologue, a piece begun for my MSc dissertation and shaped anew by the island. The sea stretched out behind me like a quilt of blues. I heard my voice—its uncertainty, and its emerging strength.

This is the kind of experience I never want to underestimate. The richness of connection, to story, to self, to nature, to each other, is something to return to, again and again. Increasingly, research supports what the Greeks knew all along: art is good medicine. And during this week, the poetry of Homer brought us together.

We walked, read, made, wrote, listened, shared. We disassembled and reassembled stories, our own and Homer’s. And by the end, I realised I hadn’t just travelled away. I had travelled toward something. Toward the part of myself that is most at home: in language, in community, in curiosity.

So, coming home isn’t always about returning to where you started. Sometimes it’s about recognising yourself more fully when you get there.

See more images from Agistri on our Gallery page.

In fond memory of Pamela Johnson, 1 April 1949 – 27 April 2025

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Photographs of Pamela Johnson courtesy of Janet Minichiello

I write this blog post with a heavy heart and a keen sense of the inadequacy of words. The Salon community has lost one of its stalwart members, the wise and witty Pamela Johnson. Pamela learned about the Salon through Salonista Denise Field in 2016, and immediately jumped in with both feet to study Ulysses. From there, her always hungry mind brought her to studies of Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, Kate Chopin and many others. Some of our most expansive times together were on travel studies – specifically reading multiple Virginia Woolf works in St Ives. She was a grounding force in the Woolf Journals group and, as I look through my emails, there are plenty of resources she has forwarded to me that I will peruse with her in mind—the strange way that electronic communication keeps someone present after they have died. 

We remember Pam with great fondness. The Salon will host a small gathering in London mid-June to share thoughts and memories and honour her with a few readings. Please CONTACT US if you would like to be included. 

Why it’s time to read Pessoa!

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Photograph of monument to Fernando Pessoa in front of cafe “A Brasileira” in Lisbon by Nol Aders, via Wikimedia Commons

If you are Pessoa curious, now is the time to read him. Let me explain why.

The name Pessoa means person. It is related to ‘persona’ which has an etymological connection to ‘mask.’ One of the things that Pessoa’s work does for us is to put pressure on our understanding and to make us think about the nature of the self and identity. His work seems to show that the self is not necessarily a unity, but can be multiple.

Pessoa is not just one, but several unique voices in European modernist literature. Contemporaneous with Joyce and Proust, Pessoa’s unique literary universe is simultaneously intriguing and exciting, illuminating, humorous and unsettling. In our upcoming introductory study we will meet Álvaro de Campos, futurist Whitmanesque poet, Ricardo Reis the stoical neo-pagan classicist, Pessoa the experimental modernist, and Alberto Caeiro, their master, the almost anti-poet (for whom metaphor itself is an anathema), along with Bernardo Soares, the Lisbon book keeper and author of The Book of Disquiet. All these identities resided within one individual.

So, what can we get from reading Pessoa in 2025?

Pessoa’s work is above all a deep exploration of identity – indeed, it is in many ways a shattering of it, of the idea of the single, stable self. Pessoa fascinates because of the method of self replication, represented by his heteronymous writing.

With Pessoa there is a lot to take in. In a group study we can grapple together with the meanings and implications of this unusual group of authors: is this an elaborate literary hoax? What does it mean that one of the heteronyms denied that Pessoa exists? What does it mean that another of the heteronyms, Bernardo Soares, gave to Pessoa, one evening in a restaurant where the two regularly dined, a bundle of papers, journals and aphorisms, philosophical musings and thoughts and dreams, which was to become The Book of Disquiet?

Pessoa lived through a time of incredible political turmoil to which he both did and did not remain immune. To read Pessoa’s many personas – his heteronyms – is to come to terms with a complex coexistence of different philosophies, world views and aesthetic sensibilities. Pessoa was an experimenter and an innovator, perhaps a revolutionary. As such he produced some of the most astonishing and unique writing of his age that continues to speak to our lives today.

Our six week Introduction to Fernando Pessoa begins on Tuesday 13 May (12.00 noon – 2.00 pm BST). If you are interested but uncertain about joining the study please email us and we will arrange for you to try the first session without charge!

The Odyssey continues . . . join us in Greece!

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Gods and monsters are notably absent from the first of two new films based on Homer’s Odyssey, which focuses on the end of the poem as Odysseus finally returns to Ithaca to find Penelope besieged by suitors. Out in the UK today (it was released in the US at the end of 2024) Uberto Pasolini’s The Return reunites Ralph Fiennes and Juliet Binoche for the first time since the multi-Academy Award winning dramatisation of Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, and it’s hard to avoid reviews and comment in print, online and broadcast media. Here is a link to Peter Bradshaw’s Guardian review (which includes a brief trailer for the film).

Meanwhile, preparations are afoot for the 2026 release of Christopher Nolan’s “action fantasy” interpretation of the epic, apparently described by Universal Pictures’ US head of distribution as “a visionary, once-in-a-generation cinematic masterpiece that Homer himself would quite likely be proud of.” Aside from the Trump-style hyperbole, The Odyssey does seem to be having a moment more than two-and-a-half thousand years after it was first written, so we are taking the opportunity to remind the Salon community (and friends and family) that there are still two places available on our week-long study on the Greek island of Agistri. It will be an amazing trip, email us if you would like to know more!

What Homer’s Odyssey can teach us in 2025 – and why Donald Trump won’t be reading it . . .

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Our annual Salon trip to the sun-drenched island of Agistri to study classical literature is always one of the year’s greatest highlights. Each day we wake to a different sunrise. We dip in the sparkling sea, embrace Jane’s heart-led yoga and savour the deliciously fresh and healthy food offered by Rosy’s village. Above all we relish the utter luxury of entering an enduring literary world with a group of bold fellow voyagers, for a week during which our reading is further expanded by Caroline’s illuminating poetic responses and Jane’s skill in realising dramatic possibilities. 

What is different for me this year is the clanging backdrop of global politics, louder than ever, and in particular the destruction of democracy in the United States. Our study of Homer’s Odyssey always reveals profound insights into the world we find ourselves in today: Oxen of the Sun gestures to the degradation of environmental balance, the encounter in Circe can be understood in terms of gender power dynamics seeking resolution, while the absolute struggle of Odysseus to survive and find his way home – not just for his own sake but for the men he leads – will open up our discussion about leadership. What makes a true leader? What does a leader owe those who follow? How does a group respond when leadership can no longer be trusted? Homer strips events back to their bare bones – in the Homeric world there is no interior narration, all happens on the surface and in the moment. 

The other predominant consideration in the Odyssey, and for us in the present day, is that of xenia – the relationship between guest and host. How do we treat the stranger arriving on our shore? How do we want to be treated when we are that stranger? What does this say about our culture, our home, our values? Homer makes us aware of how central this relationship has been to our humanity from the very earliest times of recorded history. 

In past years this rare escape into literature has provided context and perspective for the challenges of the modern world. It has given me renewed strength to oppose inequality and to encourage open and inclusive teaching practice for all. I come away from our Salon study experiences heartened by the many beautiful minds I have been privileged to encounter through shared exploration of these complex texts.

This year, I know it will not be easy to escape the horrors of the world, I will carry my worries with me. I have people in my community who are directly impacted by the destruction in the USA – I know people who have already lost their jobs and others who fear losing them, I know authors whose books have been banned, I know people in humanitarian aid around the world whose work is threatened daily – and I also know that this is just the beginning of direct, negative impact on the lives of so many. And yet, nearly three thousand years after it was first written, Homer’s Odyssey reminds me that with courage and persistence it is possible – eventually – to overcome adversity and return to rebuild one’s home and community.

We still have a few places available on our Odyssey study. If you are interested in the idea of sharing this experience with a group of keen and humane fellow readers and would like to know more, you are very welcome to email us.

Return to The Odyssey

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In interesting news for lovers of The Odyssey, cinema seems to have caught the Homeric bug, with not one but two major films on the way.

In May, Ralph Fiennes and Juliet Binoche will star in The Return. Director Umberto Pasolini tells the story of the final books set in Ithaca, thereby eliminating the need for special effects, monsters and turning his actors into pigs. Given that the glorious stop-motion visual effects produced by Ray Harryhausen for the 1963 epic Jason and the Argonauts made that the definitive visual version for so many, it may be wise to tell the story on screen as a purely human struggle (there is no Athena in the cast list, so there won’t even be an appearance by the goddess).

Meanwhile, Christopher Nolan is also working on a film version of The Odyssey with a release date in 2026. Cast members are being announced as I write, and it will be interesting to see how the director of The Dark Knight, Dunkirk and Oppenheimer tackles the challenges of bringing this foundational epic story to life. 

The idea that there is no one way to experience or connect with The Odyssey is again in my mind as Toby, Jane  and I start to prepare for our fifth trip to the small island of Agistri. Even though this will be our fourth time tackling The Odyssey in this unique setting, I don’t have the feeling of returning to a familiar groove. Each morning on Agistri I walk out to a headland to watch the sunrise, and I have never had the same walk twice: every day there is something new or different that catches my notice. Similarly, our subject may be the same but, as no two groups are alike, the discussion will always be as individual as the colours of the sunrise or the number of alpine swifts that swoop to catch insects as the heat warms the cliffs. 

From ancient times, Homer has been praised for his vividness. As readers we can see, hear and feel every corner of his world. So we have not just the sweep of the narrative and the big themes of honour, hospitality and homecoming, but the texture and details of life – and it’s those details, impossible to absorb all at once, that for me make repeated readings so satisfying.

In the past, some participants have come to the study via the novel Ulysses, seeking a deeper understanding of the origins of James Joyce’s masterpiece. And this idea of The Odyssey as a deep well that has nourished and inspired writers since its beginning is central to our work with the text. I bring with me to the island a series of Odyssey poems written over time, by poets from Sappho to Terrance Hayes who, like other readers of The Odyssey, have found many ways to dip into the source and find something that they can make their own. Sharing these poems with the group opens up the text, bringing it into focus in our daily lives.   

Our study space on Agistri is open to the calm waters of the Saronic Gulf and part of the rhythm of the day is watching the boats arrive and leave from Skala port, every type of vessel from car ferries to sailboats chartered for a day trip to the island. To me they are all beautiful – at least as we watch from a distance – and it’s Tennyson that I recite most often to myself as one of them leaves the dock and glides silently away from us:

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices.

I am looking forward to sharing these experiences and more with another group of enthusiastic readers in the warm embrace of Agistri and the Greek sunshine.

Our 2025 Odyssey study on Agistri runs from 28 April to 5 May, there are still places available if you are interested in joining us.

Why read Faulkner now?

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Portrait of William Faulkner by Carl Van Vechten, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

“. . . the twilight-coloured smell of honeysuckle . . .”

William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

Why read Faulkner today? A difficult, old, white, long-dead male writer – one who lied about his military experience, whose mind was ravaged by drink and disappointment – who was also a Nobel laureate, a dreamer, a lover of beauty, a seeker of what shimmers in human relationships and who believed, against the violence and prejudice surrounding him, that human beings can strive for meaning and truth. 

Faulkner peeled back the skin of his life and allowed his art to feed on his exposed self. While it is true that at times he reflects the racial and gender prejudices of his time and cultural space, it is equally true that from the same space he also interrogates racism, misogyny and inequity through his own experience. His writing – sultry, tragic, comic and deeply philosophical – brings the reader utterly into his world and its agonies. But in the midst of the howling and rage, there is always the energy of seeking hope – whether it be in the form of a young woman who escapes her terrible inheritance, the endurance of the statuesque Dilsey, or the howling of the final inheritor of Sutpen’s magnificent dream – we see the human spirit fighting for integrity. 

Now – right now – I feel the need to find means to resist external forces that feel overwhelming. I am talking about political corruption, environmental degradation, disasters of fire and war, wilful ignorance, xenophobic power structures, and feelings of helplessness in the face of these monstrosities. Faulkner and other writers I revere help me to not turn away, reminding me that even in a cataclysm, a single act of bravery or resistance matters.  Language – words, rhythms, lyric content, jagged images – can give me a model for living within an indigestible world. 

William Faulkner’s Address Accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature

As originally delivered 10 December, 1950 in Stockholm, Sweden

This is an excerpt—the whole speech is worth reading.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear, so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man, young woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he lives under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he releases – relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will still endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

We are currently offering studies of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury and Absalom, Absalom!

Why read Ulysses?

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Top of many ‘best novel’ lists, Ulysses also heads countless lists of great novels abandoned or never read – even by accomplished readers and writers. What is it about this huge book that makes it so daunting, so hard, and so valuable? Why read it at all?

The book offers an ever-widening perspective. From an intimate view of one relatively unremarkable man’s walk around Dublin on a summer’s day, the linguistic journey ripples outward to encompass a dazzling range of quirky local characters, visions of the Far East, critiques of Empire, references to Irish politics, ancient and modern philosophical theories, gender dynamics, operas, innards, sexual hallucinations, cross-dressing, dogs (alive and dead), cats, the history of food, lemon soap that sings, a treatise on water, death rituals and the decomposition of the human body, pornographic books, Shakespearean theories . . . Ulysses is packed with rich intellectual enquiry, the compelling rhythms of a hungry mind exploring the wonders of the world.

Then there is the writing itself. To grapple with the words and linguistic pyrotechnics of James Joyce – to enter into his exploration of the body, mind and street-life, to sit in awe of his allusions, musicality, interweaving structures and thematic developments – is to expand the possibilities of the written word. To do this with a diverse group of other curious readers who are sharing the struggle and process of discovery allows each participant to enrich their own understanding many times over. Together we laugh, we express our frustrations, we query meaning and purpose, and we discover great depth in the language and vision of an extraordinary writer.

Our next Ulysses studies – two options: 11.30 am – 1.30 pm or 5.30 – 7.30 pm (UK time) – begin on Tuesday 21 January. If you are tempted to sign up we have a very few places remaining and you are welcome to join the first meeting without charge or obligation to continue. Please email litsalon@gmail.com using the subject line ‘Ulysses 2025’ if you would like to try a session before you buy!

Ten good reasons to read Ulysses . . .

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Six months seems like a long commitment and reading this 933 page masterpiece can be a daunting prospect. There will be literary, historical and classical references you may not know (yet), but I promise you it will be worth it! Here are ten reasons why:

  • Ulysses teaches you to be a better reader.
  • Reading Ulysses helps you to understand your own interior thoughts and language.
  • Ulysses is frighteningly pertinent to today’s climate of xenophobia and tyranny.
  • Ulysses is funny.
  • Ulysses features a dancing, singing bar of soap.
  • Everyone who reads Ulysses finds references, allusions and images that resonate.
  • Once banned for obscenity, Ulysses is up-close and personal to the body.
  • The language of Ulysses can be breathtakingly beautiful: “The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit . . .”
  • The vivid and seductive response to ignorance and injustice in Ulysses will inspire you.
  • Ulysses is the story of one man, but a woman (Molly) gets the last word!

What past Ulysses readers in the Salon have said:

“I must thank you for a most wonderful study of Ulysses. I couldn’t imagine that I would actually make it through.  Occasionally I felt inadequate, but always eager and always willing to reach. And what a reward in the end: to have read a brilliant novel, and to have made a connection with a group of fellow voyagers that I cannot praise enough. How fortunate we have all been. It is never really over though is it? Bloom will be with me forever, pulling me back to Dublin and the streets therein.”

“Those of us who have done Proust and Ulysses with Toby are longing for her to take us on another read . . . We all love the long read.”

For more on this join my lecture and discussion Why Read Ulysses? (Tuesday 24 November on Zoom), the cost is redeemable against our next Ulysses study starting in January 2025.

Reflections on this day, and those to come

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Photo by Mike Cox on Unsplash

In a murderous time
the heart breaks and breaks
and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
through dark and deeper dark
and not to turn.
I am looking for the trail.

Stanley Kunitz, The Testing Tree

I knew in these last few weeks, that I was refusing to even countenance a Trump election victory. 

Now that it seems clear that is what will happen, I am shattered. 

My husband and daughter obsess on a very difficult puzzle that is a map of the world. 

I sit with my Spaniel who demands attention and find a clean and brief joy in rubbing his belly. 

My disbelief in what has transpired in the United States feels privileged and ignorant. I know people from countries who have watched with horror as their country turns to tyranny and fascism. And they keep finding reasons to hope, to fight. 

I want to say to my daughter ‘I am so sorry’. How can I apologise for this country of mine that I no longer understand? How can I apologise for who we are?

The thought that really cleaves – in both senses of the word – is all those who, with shining hope, worked for Harris-Walz and all the positive candidates across the USA. The candidates who spoke out against greed, against misogyny, against racism and hate in all its forms. How do you go on when you have put your heart and soul into what is right and you lose? So many people joined together to push against the grotesqueness of the MAGA crowd—what happens to their activism, their commitment to turning the USA towards progress and compassion? 

So this is what I will try to nurture in the coming days: the energy to keep fighting, the capacity to believe in a different vision of the future than the one just voted into power. Broken, battered and despondent, I will join with communities across the world to advocate for a better world against this horrific monster of hate. This man represents our worst instincts—now we must nurture our best. I am also aware that I speak from the luxury of living outside of the USA. I am familiar with the writings of some exiles whose love of their old, broken country fired their imagination. May we all find a voice to express our pain, outrage and, ultimately, hope. 

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