Anne Carson has such a beautiful grasp on language that she manages to translate stories that would have grasped the hearts of listeners at their first creation, and spins them to continue to grasp the hearts of readers in this modern day and age. In perfectly capturing the emotions that Euripides aims for, we, the audience, are handed four tragic tales of suffering, loss, and despair, and are forced to look directly into the face of grief itself. All while quietly wondering to ourselves, "Why did this happen", and "Where could this have come from." A beautifully tragic book. 10/10 would recommend.

the preface alone rewired my brain

"Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief."

Carson begins her preface to this collection with a seemingly naive question. But Euripides begs the question; I mean, my god! Upon returning from HELL, Herakles, a man who might be immortal, he's not sure, murders his city's usurper and then, struck stark raving mad by a jealous Hera, murders his wife and children. Immediately after committing this carnage, he snaps back to sanity, forced to come to terms with what he has wrought, which is an entirely new kind of hell. Death is not tragic enough for Herakles--after all, he might be immortal, and hey, he's already been dead! Instead, he's doomed in a much more complicated way. He renounces the gods--at this point, why not?--which is slightly weird since Zeus is his dad, sort of. The only recompense is friendship--his friendship with Theseus, in fact, saves Herakles from murdering himself.

And it continues from there. Hekabe, the fallen queen of Troy, watches her last child get slaughtered in the still-smoking ruins of Troy. Instead of entering a life of slavery and gang-rape by the Greeks, she gets turned into a dog. Which was apparently really awful, but, frankly, sounds like the better option to me.

I recommend these plays--there's nothing quite like them. And, frankly, I'm filled with rage, and a release occurs when you witness people acting out rage. You don't have to act it out, because they are doing it for you. This might explain why I'm filled with extra rage after watching a banal "we're okay, you're okay, la la la" American movie. These plays spit in the eye of anyone who claims, "It all worked out for the best," or "There's a reason for everything."

thinking about how in all four of these plays, someone is always reaching out a hand, reaching out to or for help. in herakles, theseus says stop. give me your hand. i am your friend. and then later, put your hand on my neck, i shall lead you. and in hekabe, she says take hold of my old woman’s hand. and i, leaning on the curve of someone’s arm, shall press my slow foot forward. or her later proclamation of, you touched my hand once—you confess—you touched my face and fell on the ground before me. so i touch you. i do the same. in hippolytos, this conversation takes place: no, i will not give up on you / what then—force me? cling to my hand? / your knees too, i will not let go. lastly, the cry of alkestis’ son as he watches his mother die before him: look at me, look at my eyes, at my hands reaching out! the recurring themes here are not just grief, not just mourning and misery and death, but the help that comes after it. the innate human desire to touch and to be touched, to hold and to be held.