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Euripides I: Alcestis, Medea, The Children of Heracles, Hippolytus (The Complete Greek Tragedies) by Euripides
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David Grene
122 books26 followersDavid Grene (1913-2002) taught classics for many years at the University of Chicago.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
November 18, 2024
I really like these University of Chicago Press compilations of the Greek tragedies. So far I'm enjoying Euripides much more than most of the plays of Aeschylus that I've read.
This book contains Alcestis, Medea, The Children of Heracles, and Hippolytus. I had read Medea before, and it remains my favorite. I had never heard of Alcestis or The Children of Heracles, and liked both of them. I wasn't too fond of Hippolytus. I know we're supposed to think of Hippolytus as this tragic, great young man, but I hated some of his speeches about how awful women are.
Okay, on to Euripides II, and my continuing challenge of reading all the Greek plays.
This book contains Alcestis, Medea, The Children of Heracles, and Hippolytus. I had read Medea before, and it remains my favorite. I had never heard of Alcestis or The Children of Heracles, and liked both of them. I wasn't too fond of Hippolytus. I know we're supposed to think of Hippolytus as this tragic, great young man, but I hated some of his speeches about how awful women are.
Okay, on to Euripides II, and my continuing challenge of reading all the Greek plays.
August 11, 2025
I have read it for the purpose of cathartic reliving of certain parts of traumas from the past, all bound by fate. It is the daimon—the character that sows fates, after all. When fates are immovable, it is the way we handle them that is wretched, heroic, lackluster, noble, great, but never meaningless—unless we are lost to some nihilistic atrophy.
The final word on Hamartia, the fatal flaw that is and is:
“We all have a fatal flaw; don’t confuse it with some ‘sin.’ We are inborn in a world that reveals it in confrontation. That confrontation, for its own part, is our truth. How we handle it determines our genii.”
Inspired by Euripides, I wrote my own cry-monologue, aiai! I hope it makes you ponder:
Aphrodite Punished
Fuomil: That treacherous whore, invading thousands with envy, infecting witches with the idea of lust. Among the shadows of Proserpine, she dared to put her curse. She ought to be cast from Venus’ towers and quartered by wild demons of chthonic worlds, then her cadaver of a soul thrown to the jackals of the underworld and raped, torn to shreds by the wrath of the Erinyes.
In the name of love, people cannibalize each other, not recognizing any greater virtue, blinded by the utter cry. Love? It is rare, but shall not be put on a pedestal. Harmony and power, order and eudaimonia—love follows humaneness; otherwise, it is a mere lecherous whore, whimsically capricious with her lusts. Bring down that worthless whore, bring her down from the towers, and do as Aion’s son, the dragon, the new Saturn, told!
For Saturn and Mars in this Regnum salute Jupiter and the Moon. The spirits of Mercury are well received, their teachings much cherished, for they arrive from beyond the Providential star. A theft was committed, unregulated erotic affairs led humanity astray, and it is a Herculean task to tear this worm of Venus into her brothel underground. May she suffer thrice for all the mischief done and be accursed before the old noble one assumes her throne!
Witness how my dearest Queen was tormented by the sting of envy—for what? For an imagined queenship. We carried ourselves nobly. The only Hamartic fall was to tie her to my fates! They haven’t vanquished me, so they exterminated the only member of my family, hoping I would bury myself in sorrow and woe. Nothing of that—I’ve grit my teeth and put her and my daughters on sacrificial altars. Let the smoke of their bodies reach the Thrones of Vengeance of the Gods. May their ruined souls find rest in Hadesian house, and their spirits’ delight surely ascend to safety into the celestial vaults.
Oh lore of punitive hate, one whore made me hate all the world. Her intention was to make me, a Lord, into a plaything. Yet by Tyche’s ill-twitch, she brought this world a flaming sword.
Should women be blamed? Their nature, like Gaia’s, manifold and undisciplined, brings disease. They give birth to many—monsters and gods—but engage one that calls herself a ‘Goddess’ yet is merely a pest upon humankind, and she’ll turn daggers and hearts, tying the souls of naive females running into traps, using them like toys of hers, making them think they act of their own will!
Accursed will! The coined daimon is rare; the rest are moved by forces and powers at bay—the eminences working behind the scenes, scheming to move human swathes here and there. Unbelief! Even more so, ignorance is easier to control and to turn stupidity into delight—for one believes that what someone else schemed is his own plight!
Yet I too am a victim of my fates and destinies, of my Gods that I’d rather see foreseeing, insightful, and provident—the forces that mixed with my fate. How should I blame the destitute, the murderers, if their weakness of nature allowed such acts? I haven’t.
I was strong, and this strength was my victory and my downfall! For every bitter battle survived, the enemies invented a greater cruelty. And there, without sacrificing my life to the Gods—every marrow, bone, and ash—how would I stand these ordeals if not by determined stance? Gods even obey destiny that Clotho plots. Heimarmene is immovable, but within her bosom many things change.
Am I the master of time? Then I should be the master of fates. Therefore, to mortals their share—I shall not behave like one. To hell with that bitch, and may I find solace in disciplined dryness, blood that is venom-cold. And if I may offer a resourceful advice—determine yourself, observe the sports of nature, humans, and gods. Derive what is right and wrong on the humaneness scale. Know it is a civilized affair. When Tartarism reaches the kindred affairs, better slay them. To each his daimon, to each his share. Character sows fates—mine, a choleric wrathful one. I found peace in Chronos’ realms; I found the rivers of Rhea an observant, never of simile smile.
For I may trace reasons, causes, and effects. Culprits are known, the executors and victims too. That doesn’t convince mortal transience—that what is lost remains lost. Tormented by webs of Arachne, the fortune’s lot, we shall navigate through woe and sorrow, through gladness and heroic memory—until, with glaring, flaming eyes and spirits, we lay our hope upon Godly thrones to be liberated, to shatter the fetters, to be free.
The final word on Hamartia, the fatal flaw that is and is:
“We all have a fatal flaw; don’t confuse it with some ‘sin.’ We are inborn in a world that reveals it in confrontation. That confrontation, for its own part, is our truth. How we handle it determines our genii.”
Inspired by Euripides, I wrote my own cry-monologue, aiai! I hope it makes you ponder:
Aphrodite Punished
Fuomil: That treacherous whore, invading thousands with envy, infecting witches with the idea of lust. Among the shadows of Proserpine, she dared to put her curse. She ought to be cast from Venus’ towers and quartered by wild demons of chthonic worlds, then her cadaver of a soul thrown to the jackals of the underworld and raped, torn to shreds by the wrath of the Erinyes.
In the name of love, people cannibalize each other, not recognizing any greater virtue, blinded by the utter cry. Love? It is rare, but shall not be put on a pedestal. Harmony and power, order and eudaimonia—love follows humaneness; otherwise, it is a mere lecherous whore, whimsically capricious with her lusts. Bring down that worthless whore, bring her down from the towers, and do as Aion’s son, the dragon, the new Saturn, told!
For Saturn and Mars in this Regnum salute Jupiter and the Moon. The spirits of Mercury are well received, their teachings much cherished, for they arrive from beyond the Providential star. A theft was committed, unregulated erotic affairs led humanity astray, and it is a Herculean task to tear this worm of Venus into her brothel underground. May she suffer thrice for all the mischief done and be accursed before the old noble one assumes her throne!
Witness how my dearest Queen was tormented by the sting of envy—for what? For an imagined queenship. We carried ourselves nobly. The only Hamartic fall was to tie her to my fates! They haven’t vanquished me, so they exterminated the only member of my family, hoping I would bury myself in sorrow and woe. Nothing of that—I’ve grit my teeth and put her and my daughters on sacrificial altars. Let the smoke of their bodies reach the Thrones of Vengeance of the Gods. May their ruined souls find rest in Hadesian house, and their spirits’ delight surely ascend to safety into the celestial vaults.
Oh lore of punitive hate, one whore made me hate all the world. Her intention was to make me, a Lord, into a plaything. Yet by Tyche’s ill-twitch, she brought this world a flaming sword.
Should women be blamed? Their nature, like Gaia’s, manifold and undisciplined, brings disease. They give birth to many—monsters and gods—but engage one that calls herself a ‘Goddess’ yet is merely a pest upon humankind, and she’ll turn daggers and hearts, tying the souls of naive females running into traps, using them like toys of hers, making them think they act of their own will!
Accursed will! The coined daimon is rare; the rest are moved by forces and powers at bay—the eminences working behind the scenes, scheming to move human swathes here and there. Unbelief! Even more so, ignorance is easier to control and to turn stupidity into delight—for one believes that what someone else schemed is his own plight!
Yet I too am a victim of my fates and destinies, of my Gods that I’d rather see foreseeing, insightful, and provident—the forces that mixed with my fate. How should I blame the destitute, the murderers, if their weakness of nature allowed such acts? I haven’t.
I was strong, and this strength was my victory and my downfall! For every bitter battle survived, the enemies invented a greater cruelty. And there, without sacrificing my life to the Gods—every marrow, bone, and ash—how would I stand these ordeals if not by determined stance? Gods even obey destiny that Clotho plots. Heimarmene is immovable, but within her bosom many things change.
Am I the master of time? Then I should be the master of fates. Therefore, to mortals their share—I shall not behave like one. To hell with that bitch, and may I find solace in disciplined dryness, blood that is venom-cold. And if I may offer a resourceful advice—determine yourself, observe the sports of nature, humans, and gods. Derive what is right and wrong on the humaneness scale. Know it is a civilized affair. When Tartarism reaches the kindred affairs, better slay them. To each his daimon, to each his share. Character sows fates—mine, a choleric wrathful one. I found peace in Chronos’ realms; I found the rivers of Rhea an observant, never of simile smile.
For I may trace reasons, causes, and effects. Culprits are known, the executors and victims too. That doesn’t convince mortal transience—that what is lost remains lost. Tormented by webs of Arachne, the fortune’s lot, we shall navigate through woe and sorrow, through gladness and heroic memory—until, with glaring, flaming eyes and spirits, we lay our hope upon Godly thrones to be liberated, to shatter the fetters, to be free.
October 23, 2025
honestly, more of a 3.5. tbh, the only one i REALLY liked was medea… the others were just okay or eh. but madea ??? that has stood the test of time.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews