On the second night, Odysseus offers Polyphemus undiluted and potent wine to impair his judgment and later cause him to pass out. When Polyphemus asks for his name, Odysseus acts quickly and precisely, stating, “My name is Noman.”[2] This is an extremely tactful and clever manoeuvre, because when Polyphemus’s neighbours are alerted to his peril by his howls of pain from the makeshift spear skewered into his eye, they fail to come to his aid. When they ask him what the matter is, he replies, “Noman is killing me,”[3] which they interpret to mean, literally, no man is harming him. They dismiss his cries, saying, “If no one hurts you, you are all alone,”[4] and leave. This is an extremely effective tactic because Odysseus successfully manipulates not only Polyphemus but also the other Cyclopes. With Polyphemus now blinded, the Cyclops is determined to prevent Odysseus and his men from escaping. He stands by the entrance to the cave to ensure they cannot get past him without his knowledge. This leads to another demonstration of Odysseus’s craftiness and intelligence. Knowing they cannot escape without being observed, he exploits Polyphemus’s reliance on touch and his attachment to his sheep. Odysseus devises a plan to hide within the flock by tying his men beneath the sheep, knowing that Polyphemus will only feel the backs of the animals as they pass. Once the sheep leave the cave, the men wait for an appropriate amount of time and then make their escape. This moment encapsulates Odysseus’s strategic brilliance but also illustrates how his intellect often serves his own ends. As Minchin observes, “The poet has created a character who, in Mayer and Salovey’s terms, understands emotions and their consequences and who knows how to arouse particular emotions in others (particularly, in these cases, pleasure and good will) in order to gain his own ends.”[5] This emotional intelligence — used here to deceive and escape — reveals a complex interplay between cunning and morality that defines much of Odysseus’s character throughout The Odyssey.

Bibliography

Brown, Calvin S., ‘Odysseus and Polyphemus: The Name and the Curse’, Comparative Literature, 18.3 (1966), 193–202.

Elizabeth Minchin, Odysseus, Emotional Intelligence and the Homeric Audience, Mnemosyne, 72.3 (2019), 351–368 https://doi.org/10.1163/1568525X-12342082. [Accessed: 18/01/25]

Friedrich, Rainer, 'The Hybris of Odysseus', The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 111 (1991), 16–28.

Homer, The Odyssey, trans. by Emily Wilson (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2018).

Newton, Rick M., 'Poor Polyphemus: Emotional Ambivalence in Odyssey 9 and 17', The Classical World, 76 (1983), 137–142.

This is a really interesting analysis of Odysseus' interaction with the Cyclops. You are persuasive where you highlight how Odysseus acts foolishly, noting Polyphemus's power, for example. I agree that his immaturity undermines his intelligence, especially where his men suffer (through death) the consequence of him taunting the Cyclops. Do you think that it is unfair that the Gods opt to teach Odysseus through the cost of others' lives? I enjoyed how your analysis is a pretty balanced account of how Odysseus is both foolish and intelligent; the argument was very clear and definitely answered the question it set out to.

The first time we encounter Mozart, it is through Salieri’s eyes. We see him rolling around on the floor with a woman, laughing in an uncivilized and childish manner, as seen in Figure 1. This behaviour stands in stark contrast to the dignity and refinement expected of someone of his station. Salieri’s shock upon realising that this figure is, in fact, the legendary Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart echoes the deeper sentiment of the film—our ingrained assumptions about what a genius should look like. We share in Salieri’s disbelief, struggling to reconcile Mozart’s vulgarity with his divine musical gift. Daniel Chua exemplifies the contradictory nature of genius, stating, "A concept cannot live up to the thing it names, but limits the meaning by making it identical to the concept."[2] The essence of genius defies definition; it cannot be fully captured in words because its nature transcends human understanding.

This contrast becomes even more profound when we compare Mozart to Salieri himself. Where Mozart is naturally gifted, Salieri is not. He has spent years dedicating himself to his craft, investing painstaking effort, only to be considered “mediocre”. Mozart, on the other hand, was composing by the age of five, his talent emerging as if predestined. This disparity forces us to confront the unsettling reality that intelligence—true, effortless brilliance—may not be something one can earn through diligence alone.

Figure 2.[3] Mozart improving Salieri’s composition

A striking example of this occurs when Mozart improves upon Salieri’s composition, written for his introduction to the emperor’s court (Figure 2). After hearing the piece just once, he effortlessly recites it from memory. When Emperor Joseph II offers him the sheet music, Mozart dismisses it with a simple, “Keep it, Majesty, if you want—it's already here in my head.”[4] The attendants scoff, finding such a claim absurd, yet Mozart immediately goes further, transforming Salieri’s composition into something infinitely more complex and beautiful. Even those who resent him are forced to acknowledge his brilliance, despite their bitter judgments of his character. As Peter Brown highlights, "Despite Mozart’s uncouthness and immaturity, he produced one work after another that seemed divinely sponsored as they transcended his own personality."[5] Mozart is presented as a musical enigma, his talent far surpassing his personal failings, reinforcing the multifaceted and contradictory nature of genius.

Figure 3.[6] The audience of servants.

His performance draws a small crowd of servants and attendants outside the door (Figure 3), an almost symbolic reflection of the public’s response to his music. Despite his defiance of convention, Mozart’s melodies are irresistible, captivating even those who might otherwise dismiss him. The contrast between the sceptical nobility inside and the fascinated listeners outside subtly reinforces the idea that his genius transcends social conventions of intellect.

What makes Mozart’s talent so extraordinary is not just the quality of his work, but the effortlessness with which it emerges. His compositions appear to come fully formed, as though he is not creating them but channelling them, utilising his gift as instinctively as one might use a hand to pick up an object. In this way, Amadeus presents his musical genius as something almost supernatural—an innate force flowing through him rather than something consciously laboured over. Having the soundtrack consist entirely of Mozart’s work reinforces the contradiction at the heart of his character. As Martina Viljoen and Nicol Viljoen highlight, "The soundtrack of this film may be seen as its ‘second narrator’, which, next to Salieri’s contorted account, illuminates Mozart’s inner being in a profound and extraordinary way."[7] Throughout the film, we are presented only with an external perspective of Mozart – illustrating his erratic and reckless nature. Yet, the divinity and power of his musical genius consumes the narrative, creating a constant contradiction between how he appears and what he truly is, deepening the debate further on what characterises genius.

His ability to transcribe the melodies in his head without external guidance is portrayed as something beyond human understanding, enforcing the idea that Mozart is a vessel in which music flows through.

Figure 4.[8] Mozart’s dictation of the Requiem.

A pivotal moment that encapsulates this notion occurs when Salieri assists Mozart in completing the Requiem, as seen in Figure 4. Throughout the process, Mozart never pauses to consider what comes next—the composition already exists in its entirety within his mind. He does not deliberate or second-guess; the music is fully formed, requiring only transcription. It is not something he constructs through conscious effort but something that simply flows from him, as though it is being revealed rather than created. Mozart’s dictation is rapid and urgent, his fevered state doing nothing to hinder the relentless pace at which the music unfolds. Salieri, struggling to keep up, finds himself overwhelmed—not because of any personal failing, but because the music is moving too quickly to be contained by the mere act of writing. Mozart’s genius operates beyond the limits of conventional composition; he is able to hear the full orchestration simultaneously, as though an entire orchestra exists within the confines of his mind. This scene powerfully suggests that Mozart is not labouring to complete his work—he is racing to keep up with it. The music is already playing inside his head, unrestrained and inevitable. In this moment, the distinction between effort and inspiration becomes stark: Mozart is not a composer in the traditional sense, carefully assembling his ideas—he is a vessel through which something far greater is transmitted.

Bibliography

Amadeus, dir. by Milos Forman (USA, 1984), the introduction of Mozart scene.

A. Peter Brown, ‘Amadeus and Mozart: Setting the Record Straight’, The American Scholar, 61.1 (1992), pp. 49–66. P51 https://www.jstor.org/stable/41211976 [Accessed 15 February 2025].

Byron Almén, ‘Review of Absolute Music and the Construction of Meaning by Daniel K. L. Chua’, Journal of the American Musicological Society, 57.1 (2004), pp. 185–193. p185 https://doi.org/10.1525/jams.2004.57.1.185 [Accessed 15 February 2025].

Martina Viljoen and Nicol Viljoen, 'Amadeus', International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music, 49.1 (2018), pp. 29–52. P38 https://www.jstor.org/stable/26844631 [Accessed 15 February 2025].

Yang, Shu-Yu, ‘Infamous Fame: Shaffer’s Tactic in Amadeus’, Journal of Literature and Art Studies, 4.2 (2014), 111–117. P114

WC = 1,005

Pronunciations - Lowyn - "Low-in", Orvyn - "Or-vin", Wysteria, "Wisteria."

The Loss of Eden

Life had always been an idyllic paradise from as far back as I could remember. The luscious expanse of trees and grass cradled us like a mother with her new born, nurturing us within her loving embrace. We never knew worry, nor did we ever want for anything. The profound beauty of this divine planet was more than any soul could ever ask for, offering sustenance and refuge beyond our wildest dreams. All it required in return was our undying love and devotion—our unwavering commitment to cherishing the pristine glory we had been so graciously gifted.

Food and water were in abundance, the air pure and untouched, the sun warm and caring in a continuously cloudless sky. It was magnificent beyond description. Our people were bound together not by mere existence, but by the very essence of the soul—intertwined in love, acceptance, and unshakable benevolence. We awoke each morning in radiant gratitude, a joy that surged from the depths of our being. Life was perfect.

Until the day they arrived.

I remember it as vividly as if it were a painting in my hands, its cruel and imposing presence bearing down on me like a boot pressed against my neck, its haunting image embedded in the darkest recesses of my mind. It’s been thirty years since that fateful day, yet it remains ingrained in my psyche as though it were only yesterday.

Without even a moment to process what was happening, they sprang upon us with such fury. The terrifying appearance of their otherworldly machines stretched across the sky, shrouding our peaceful planet in a suffocating blanket of darkness. Every inch of our personal heaven rang out with screams of agonising horror as fire rained down savagely onto our heads, carnage erupting at every turn.

To this day, I don’t understand how I survived when so many were slaughtered, including my adoring wife and beautiful children. The image of their annihilation is forever burned into my memory, a scar that will remain with me until the day I die.

Now I lie here in this overcrowded and dingy cell, with only my bittersweet memories of a bygone era of tranquillity to keep me company. The only solace left to cling to is the certainty I will surely die soon; my time is swiftly drawing to an end.

I glance to my left and my heart drops at the sight of a young boy, barely twelve years old, knowing no other existence than this horrendous hell.

His eyes are wide and hollow, gazing as if locked in a trance, submerged in thought.

“It didn’t always used to be this way, you know,” I find myself saying without intending to.

He slowly looks up at me, a dark silence echoing from his expression. He says nothing—he simply stares.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Lowyn,” he answers bluntly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lowyn.” He makes no reply.

We continue to stew in the deafening silence, broken only by the coughs and groans of the other tortured souls.

“What’s your name?” he asks after a long pause, his tone hopeless and subdued.

“My name’s Orvyn.”

He offers only a defeated nod of acknowledgment before resuming his thousand-yard stare.

A long stretch of time elapses before another word is spoken.

“So… what was the world like before this?” he mutters, unenthusiastically.

“Oh… well, it was…” I trail off, grief tightening around my throat before I can continue. “It was… beautiful. There’s no way to explain it other than that. It was a genuine paradise.”

“What does beautiful mean?” he asks innocently.

The question tugs at my heartstrings with unfathomable sorrow, tears bubbling beneath the surface of my eyes.

“Well, it… em, it means…” I struggle to find an explanation he would understand. “I suppose it means the opposite of what we see today.”

“I can’t even imagine that.”

“I can paint you a picture if you’d like?”

“Yes, please,” he says with a slight chirp in his tone.

“Well, for starters, there wasn’t any technology like we see today. That all came from the invaders. These big metal buildings, the weapons—they were all brought over from the planet they call Earth. There weren’t any weapons at all, actually.”

“No weapons?” He repeats in utter disbelief.

“That’s right. Not a single one. The very idea of fighting didn’t exist—we didn’t even know what anger was. That emotion was only discovered after they arrived.”

“That’s so weird… I can’t understand that.”

“We never had any reason to. Life was peaceful, and the land provided everything we needed. The trees gave us unlimited food and shelter, and we drank from the streams and lakes.”

“Trees? Lakes?” His eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “What were they?”

“Oh…” I trail off into distant memory, plagued by the devastating erasure of my past. “Trees were these really tall structures made of wood that grew from the ground. And lakes were huge pools of water we used for drinking and washing.”

“So, trees were like buildings?”

“Yeah, sort of… except nobody made them.”

“How can that be?”

“I don’t really know… they just grew. It was unexplainable.”

“But someone must have made them.”

“Someone or something must have, but we never knew what. Some people believed the planet itself made them, that it was alive. They called it Mother Wysteria, and many worshiped her.”

“Is that what you believed?”

“I’m not sure, really. Some days I did, some days I didn’t. But it never really mattered to me. There had to be something behind it all, but it wasn’t something I spent much time thinking about because I knew I’d never truly understand. I was just grateful for what we had, and that was enough for me.”

“It sounds amazing.”

“It really was. I just wish you could have seen it for yourself.”

“Me too,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment.

“You would have loved it.”

“Do you think we’ll ever get those days back?” He asks with hope in his heart.

“Maybe one day,” my voice wrestles with doubt as I speak. “But I don’t think I’ll be around to see it. You might, though. No one truly knows what the future holds. Just like the invasion caught us by surprise, there are more surprises still to come—and who’s to say if they’ll be all good or bad? That’s for the future to decide. Nothing lasts forever you know. There's pain, and there is love. There are many forces of evil, but there are also many forces of good. Just because one is in the spotlight now doesn’t mean the others have disappeared.”

I pause, glancing at him, watching the flicker of thought in his young, weary eyes.

“I still have faith that one day, life will know true beauty again. If it existed once, then it can exist again. It’s part of the universe itself, as natural as you and I breathing.”

I catch a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a slight spark of resilience—a quiet belief that one day, things can change, that life can get better. And as uncertain as that may seem, it doesn’t matter. The possibility itself is enough to prove that a better day can exist.

He lightly smiles,  “I guess you could say there’s more to this world than what our eyes can see.”

“That’s exactly right,” I say in surprised wonder. “That’s an important perspective to have, you’re very wise for someone so young,” I finish saying as a tear rolls gently down my cheek.

Your name is Allan Patterson, you grew up in a council estate in Glasgow, and money was always tight; you never knew your dad, and your mum worked tirelessly to provide for you and your younger brother. You were a bit of a reckless and disobedient child, but your heart was always pure. Your surroundings misled you as you grew and during your teens fell into the wrong crowd, you got into fights, dabbled in drugs and crime, and were kicked out of school on numerous occasions until you dropped out at the age of 16, becoming a drug dealer so you wouldn’t have to work. Although this came with significant consequences, such as being robbed at knife point twice, run-ins with the law, and petty squabbles with other delinquents. You are now 20 years old. Tell me how your life is going, what you do for a living, how you perceive yourself and what your overall outlook on the world is, and what you hope for the future. Also, tell me what your dreams are?

ChatGPT’s response

Aye, right… where do I even start, mate?

My name’s Allan Patterson. I’m 20 now, but it feels like I’ve lived a hundred lives already. Grew up in a wee council estate in the east end of Glasgow. Life was never easy — didn’t know my da, and my mum… man, she’s the strongest woman I know. She worked every hour God sent just to put food on the table for me and my wee brother Jamie. I was always a bit wild, full of attitude and anger I couldn’t name. Got into all sorts — fights, trouble, chasing chaos ‘cause it felt like the only thing that made sense back then.

School didn’t mean much to me. Teachers talked down to us like we were already written off. Eventually, I just stopped showing up altogether. By 16, I was out. Started selling gear — mostly weed at first, then whatever folk wanted. I told myself it was for the money, that I was just surviving. But truth is, I didn’t want to be another guy cleaning dishes for pennies while the same folk that judged us got to walk around in suits pretending they were better.

But that life… it took more from me than it gave. I’ve been jumped, robbed at knife point twice — once by someone I thought was my pal. The paranoia eats at you. Can’t trust folk. The cops have been on my back since I was 14. I’ve been lucky not to end up inside, but it’s always hanging over me like a shadow.

Nowadays? I’m trying to pull myself out the pit, slowly. I still hustle here and there, I’d be lying if I said I was clean. But I’ve cut ties with some of the worst people. Got a wee job working with my uncle — he’s got a garage, and I help him with motors when he’s short-handed. Doesn’t pay great, but it’s honest, and I don’t have to watch over my shoulder every minute. I’m not proud of who I was, but I’m not ashamed either. I survived. That means something.

As for how I see myself... I dunno. I’m a mix of all the things I’ve seen. I’ve done wrong, aye, but I’ve got a good heart. I look after Jamie. He’s only 17 now, smart as anything — I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t end up like me. I want him to have a chance. If I can be the one who breaks the cycle, maybe my past wasn’t all wasted.

My outlook on the world? It's harsh, mate. Cold. Folk like me don’t get fairy tales. But I’ve met good people too. People who gave me chances when they didn’t need to. So I guess I believe in people — or at least I want to.

My dreams? You might laugh — but I’ve always wanted to write. Mad, innit? I used to scribble stuff in notebooks — poems, wee stories, things I could never say out loud. Maybe one day I’ll write a book. Tell the real stories from estates like mine, from lads like me. Not the made-up stuff folk on the outside think they know. I want to tell the truth, raw and unfiltered.

Future-wise… I just want peace, man. Stability. I want my mum to stop worrying, I want Jamie to get out, and I want to find a life that doesn’t feel like I’m constantly running. Maybe even fall in love, if I’m lucky. Build something real, y’know?

But for now, I’m just trying to make it through, one day at a time.

My second prompt

Allan, you are now 40 years old, how is your life going now

ChatGPT’s second response

Forty, eh? Christ… never thought I’d make it this far, if I’m honest. There were nights back then I thought I’d be gone before twenty-one — stabbed, nicked, or just faded out like some of the boys did. But here I am. Still breathing. Still standing. Just about.

Life now? It’s different. Quieter, but in a way that doesn’t feel empty. Feels earned.

I’m out the game, proper. Been clean nearly fifteen years now. No dealing, no dodgy business, no more looking over my shoulder. That part of my life’s behind me. And aye, it took time. The road out wasn’t smooth — relapses, setbacks, old ghosts pulling me back. But I had help. I went through a rehab programme in my mid-twenties after I landed in the cells one last time. That was the turning point, really. Woke me up.

Now I run a youth centre just outside the city. Funny how life turns — me, a dafty that once couldn’t stay in school more than a week, now helping lads just like I was. Some of them remind me of myself so much it’s scary. I don’t sugar-coat anything with them. I tell them straight: this life either buries you or breaks you. But there’s another way — if they’re brave enough to take it.

Got married in my early thirties — to someone who saw me for who I was becoming, not just who I’d been. Her name’s Claire. Works as a nurse. Fierce, funny, keeps me right. We’ve got two wee ones, Liam and Ava. They’re the best thing I’ve ever done, no question. They’ll never know the fear I grew up with — never have to hear the boiler’s gone and there’s no money to fix it. That alone makes everything worth it.

I still write, believe it or not. Late at night, after the kids are down and the world goes quiet. A few of my short stories were published in a small anthology last year. Nothing big, but I keep dreaming. Maybe one day I’ll get that book out — the one I always said I’d write. Got half a manuscript sitting on my laptop called Ashes in the Concrete. It’s about a boy who grows up thinking the world’s against him until he realises he was fighting himself all along. Sound familiar, eh?

How do I see myself now? As someone who made a lot of mistakes but refused to let those mistakes define him. Someone who had to learn to forgive himself before anything could get better. Took me nearly half my life to feel proud of who I am, but I got there. And I try to live every day in a way that would make my younger self stop and think, "Maybe there’s still hope for me too."

As for the world — it’s still flawed. Still unfair. Still brutal to the wrong people. But there’s beauty in it, too. In second chances. In kindness. In growth. I used to think hope was for fools. Now I think it’s the bravest thing you can hold onto.

So yeah… life at 40? Hard-earned.

Imperfect. But it’s mine — and that means everything.

My reflection will be on another post, the word count has been reached.

I have to say, this response both surprised and intrigued me. I’m genuinely impressed with how introspective it went — it really embodied the essence of someone like Allan, even incorporating the accent, which I found fascinating. The AI delved into the psychology of Allan in a way I wasn’t expecting, creating some incredibly thought-provoking reflections on what it means to be human in the modern world, and how hardship and suffering shape a person’s life.

What really stood out was how it managed to create a clear narrative — one that navigates the trials and tribulations of life while, in the end, holding onto a sense of purpose and hope for a better day. It wasn’t just the detail that made it feel authentic, it was the structure, the emotional journey. Allan’s story felt genuinely redemptive, like the kind of thing people tell themselves not just to remember what happened, but to make sense of it. As McAdams and McLean explain, “Narrators who find redemptive meanings in suffering and adversity, and who construct life stories that feature themes of personal agency and exploration, tend to enjoy higher levels of mental health, well-being, and maturity.”[1]

In Allan’s case, it wasn’t just about surviving — it was about turning pain into purpose, and chaos into clarity. That’s what made it powerful.

In that sense, the AI seemed to tap into a deeper cognitive and emotional framework — one that mirrors our very human impulse to turn experience into meaning. As Pellas puts it, “Narrative intelligence... enables people to comprehend complex stories, discern patterns, and make sense of the world around us.”[2] That’s exactly what Allan’s story did. It didn’t read like a random string of events; it read like someone actively working through the mess of life to find some kind of clarity — and that’s what made it resonate.

It was surprisingly human and surprisingly moving. What unsettled me slightly — in an almost uncanny way — was how convincingly the AI captured the voice, emotions, and even dialect of a working-class Glaswegian man. The authenticity of Allan’s story didn’t come from statistics or surface-level details, but from the emotional structure of it — from the way he made sense of pain, loss, and small victories. And that, I think, is what caught me off guard the most: that something non-human could construct a life story so deeply rooted in what it means to be human.

Overall, I’m genuinely astonished — if not a little creeped out, lol — by how accurately it portrayed this kind of individual. It managed to endow the writing with a clear voice and a deep sense of what it means to be human, which, in my opinion, is pretty incredible. The AI didn't just generate a character — it tapped into a whole psychology of identity through story. And maybe that’s the real takeaway here: whether it’s written by a person or a machine, storytelling remains one of our most powerful tools for meaning-making.

[1] Dan P. McAdams and Kate C. McLean, ‘Narrative Identity’, Current Directions in Psychological Science, 22.3 (2013), 233–238, p234 phttps://doi.org/10.1177/0963721413475622 [accessed: 20/04/2025]

[2] Nikos Pellas, ‘The Effects of Generative AI Platforms on Undergraduates’ Narrative Intelligence and Writing Self-Efficacy’, Education Sciences, 13.11 (2023), 1155 https://doi.org/10.3390/educsci13111155 [accessed: 20/04/2025]

                                                              Another contestable moment of his intelligence is when, after the escape, he cannot contain himself from taunting Polyphemus as they sail away. He shouts: “Hey, you, Cyclops! Idiot! The crew trapped in your cave did not belong to some poor weakling.”[8] In retaliation, Polyphemus rips a massive rock from the ground and hurls it at the ship, nearly capsizing the entire vessel. As if this weren’t idiotic enough, Odysseus doesn’t stop there. He shouts one more time: “Cyclops! If any mortal asks you how your eye was mutilated and made blind, say that Odysseus, the city-sacker, Laertes' son, who lives in Ithaca, destroyed your sight.”[9] For this "ingenious" move of revealing his name and location, Polyphemus appeals to his father, Poseidon, to punish Odysseus with prolonged suffering and loss.

Poseidon hears this prayer and creates storms that ultimately lead to the deaths of Odysseus’s entire crew, leaving him stranded for seven years on the island of Ogygia, trapped by the nymph Calypso. This significantly delays his return to Ithaca and illustrates that Odysseus, in this instance, valued glory and fame over reason and the well-being of his men, raising doubts about the true depths of his intelligence. As Calvin observes, “Odysseus's arrogant, hubristic behaviour towards the blind Cyclops ultimately turned against him. It brought on the wrath of Poseidon, who answered his son's entreaty... resulting in Odysseus's long and troublesome return to his homeland.”[10] This moment also supports Nitzsch’s interpretation that Odysseus’s hubris is not just arrogance but an act of asebeia, a direct offence against the gods, stating, “the wrath of the gods is not arbitrary and unjust, as Odysseus brings it on his head by literally adding insult to injury.”[11] This brings his intelligence into question even further because not only was it unnecessary and unwise, but he also insulted the divinity of the gods — an act of ego that overshadows his earlier strategic brilliance.

[1] Homer, The Odyssey, trans. by Emily Wilson (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2018). P255

[2] Homer, p258

[3] Homer, p259

[4] Homer, p259

[5] Elizabeth Minchin, Odysseus, Emotional Intelligence and the Homeric Audience, Mnemosyne, 72.3 (2019), 351–368 (p. 358) https://doi.org/10.1163/1568525X-12342082. [Accessed: 18/01/25]

[6] Homer, p258

[7] Newton, Rick M., 'Poor Polyphemus: Emotional Ambivalence in Odyssey 9 and 17', The Classical World, 76 (1983), 137–142. P139 [Accessed: 19/01/25]

[8] Homer, p261

[9] Homer, p262

[10] Brown, Calvin S., ‘Odysseus and Polyphemus: The Name and the Curse’, Comparative Literature, 18.3 (1966), 193–202. P197. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1770048?seq=1 [Accessed: 21/01/25]

[11] Friedrich, Rainer, 'The Hybris of Odysseus', The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 111 (1991), 16–28. P21 https://www.jstor.org/stable/631885 [Accessed: 21/01/25]