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352 pages, Hardcover
First published March 31, 2026
A thought occurred to me. I found my notebook and looked at the four lines from the Ashmolean ostraka: I am here because of Psoas of Midea son of nobody I read them now in a different light. There was no insult here, after all. The speaker, that Mount Hymettos scribe and teacher, was “here” not because he was in a vengeful mood, but because he had heard, and been transported by, an epic about a son of nobody, and he wanted to praise him by a holy act of presence in a temple. This Ashmolean ostrakon, I now realized, was quite possibly the oldest fan letter in Western literature. I had made a great discovery: I had unearthed an unknown Greek epic, or, at least, the hint of it. Being alone in the Work Room, I turned off the lights and sat there in the dark, in a daze. I felt stirring within me deep elation—and aching loneliness. My wife’s last words at the airport still echoed in my head. A daughter missed, a wife aggrieved, but a treasure to be found—how strangely my fate seemed to echo King Agamemnon’s.
Troy: Jerusalem; Psoas: Jesus. Contrary complements. Stories that are at the start and heart of Western culture, our founding myths, the first, the oldest, offering redemption through poetry, the second, the latter, salvation by faith. For both, we have mere wisps of evidence, then stories, then the Greeks and the Christians. The creation is of the same form: wisps, stories, a people. And so the conclusion: life is a walk, and while our bodies are solid, our joints are strong, and our vision is clear, yet we walk on feet of dreams.
The reconstruction of this Greek epic was a personal affair, which I share in this thesis not because I want to draw attention to myself, but to show that the past is never done with, that always there are parallels and returns and repetitions, always the song continues.