A flawed jewel of a novel - but a jewel nonetheless, very much worth your time
“Only Hephaistion could be trusted to pursue him for himself, not for the favors he could grant, or from some perverse desire to conquer a prince.”
Dancing with the Lion: Becoming tells the tale of Alexander the Great as a boy when he first meets Hephaistion, and follows the course of their friendship as it grows towards love. In many ways this is a remarkable, if flawed, book. At its best, it approaches the incandescent beauty of Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles. After finishing Miller's book, an obvious comparison for this one, I floated for a few days, having been made weightless and free, as if temporarily shifted into a different reality, the novel having infiltrated every cell of my being. Dancing with the Lion doesn't reach this level, mostly because it doesn't maintain a consistent tone (as I describe in more detail below). But it's a work that has its own beauty, its own compelling gravity, and is very much worth your time.
The author uses her considerable knowledge of Ancient Greece to fill her scenes with intriguing details, developing a picture of the values, emotions, and behaviors that make the Classical age so different from our own. Her portrait of the teenaged Alexander, already a skilled court politician, is an effective mixture of immaturity and bravado with glimpses of the warrior king to come. Her Hephaistion is a lost, quiet, and brooding cynic who is returned to himself by Alexander, who in turn finds in the older boy someone who grounds and anchors him. The two together are clearly conceived here as complementary forces, each finding its completion in the other.
After the first chapter, the writing takes off. The author displays a skill for fully conceiving each scene, accounting for emotions, conflict, setting, the feel of the environment, and even the quality of the light in great detail. She moves from small details like “Dried blood made his arm itch, and he wiped it on his leg,” to metaphors like “He was a weathervane swinging in the wind of his father’s moods; he knew when to make himself nondescript and small.” Or again: “Alexandros had two sorts of anger. One was sharp and bright, bursting out only to melt away like snow on sun-warmed stone. The other froze hard and dirty like old ice. Implacable.” We get convincing images of the boys’ time with Aristotle, of the baths and stadiums of the Olympiad, and of deeply disturbing rituals, all keenly and, at times, elegantly described with literary precision.
As for the flaws, perhaps we get an indication of what is to come from the dedication, which is to her father, an academic like the author herself. Indeed, the novel begins with the tone of a professor lecturing down to dullard pupils. By insisting on the use of Greek names and terms, she creates a situation where these names constantly have to be interpreted for the reader. Providing the interpretation ends up feeling like a lecture, at worst, or disrupting our belief in the world she's trying to bring to life, at best. For instance, why exactly is it important that the reader to know the Greek name for safety pins? Moreover, how is a reader to know how to sound out these names mentally? If we can't mentally hear the words we read, the words just become ink stains on a page. Further, why is it so important to use the Latin spelling of the Greek terms only to mix in British slang - e.g. shite, arse - along the way? It adds up to a strange verbal meringue. Am I being transported back to Ancient Greece or into a BBC drama?
Beyond the irritating Greek terms and lecturing tone, the author finds other ways to annoy. Perhaps going for a Homeric tone, we’re treated to phrases such as “Morning had grayed the hill-breasted skyline.” (I’m assuming this is a reference to Homer; I’m not a Greek scholar, as is the author, and the book drops quite a few names of thinkers, playwrights, generals, and artists that span several hundred years. But, yes, there is at least one reference to rosy-fingered dawns in these pages, a reference few can miss). There are other moments when the writing justly deserves the eye-rolls it inspires. For instance, there is scene with “farmers goading balking donkeys burdened with produce like improbable hedgehogs.” Donkeys as improbable hedgehogs? That’s stretching an analogy beyond it’s limits. Then there is “the brassy taste of humiliation sympathetic on his own tongue.” I didn’t know humiliation was brassy, nor would I know how it combines with sympathy on my tongue. There is also a reference to someone “whose cynical wit he seemed to regard as the solemn antiphon to any Lydian chorus,” or the time when “the question riddled in the wool of his own lassitude.” Riiight. Got that. These passages suggest a pretentious contempt for the reader - a tone that disappears (mostly) after the first chapter. Even the over-the-top use of typeface, graphic dividers, and page borders (not original but torn from a clip-art catalog) echoes this pretentiousness.
Especially in the opening chapter, the author struggles with tone. Her writing is in a three-way tug of war, at once trying to sound mythic and grand, as if to live up to its subject matter, and also erudite and academic, as if to prove that she knows her topic, while trying to wrap it all up in the easy, wise-cracking repartee of everyday language, perhaps to prove she's hip. It falls flat. It’s hard to predict the near-majestic sweep of storytelling and the astonishing moments where her writing soars in its acute sensitivity to emotional nuance, physical sensation, the moods of nature, and the thinking of Ancient Greeks that follows.
After the book’s striking epilogue, the author provides study questions for the book. While it's presumptuous to assume that this book will be studied, they helped me reflect on the thoughtfulness and occasional elegance achieved in this novel. It’s a flawed jewel that has a promise of a brilliance it doesn’t quite achieve. But it’s a jewel nonetheless.