Book Review – Circe

Reading Circe by Madeline Miller felt like discovering an ancient scroll that somehow speaks directly to modern hearts. As someone who grew up devouring mythology books in my local library’s dusty corners, I wasn’t prepared for how this retelling would completely transform my understanding of this misunderstood goddess.

The story follows Circe, daughter of the sun god Helios and the nymph Perse, as she navigates life as the black sheep of her divine family. Born with neither the power of her father nor the alluring beauty of her mother, Circe possesses only a mortal-sounding voice that makes her an object of ridicule among the gods. But it’s through this perceived weakness that Miller crafts something extraordinary – a tale of someone finding their own kind of power in a world that never made space for them.

Miller’s writing is absolutely exquisite, like honey dripping from ancient amphoras. Her prose captures both the grandeur of the divine and the intimate humanity of Circe’s journey. The way she describes Circe’s discovery of pharmaka (herbal magic) made me feel like I could smell the crushed herbs and feel the tingling of power in my own fingertips. There’s this one scene where Circe first realizes her ability to transform men into pigs that sent shivers down my spine – not because of the transformation itself, but because of the quiet way Miller shows us Circe’s dawning understanding of her own strength.

What really struck me was how Miller manages to weave together all these famous mythological moments – the Minotaur’s birth, Odysseus’s visit, Medea’s schemes – while keeping Circe’s personal story at the heart of it all. It’s like watching history unfold through a uniquely feminine lens, one that questions the traditional heroic narratives we’ve inherited.

The character development here is masterful. We witness Circe’s evolution from a naive goddess desperate for acceptance to a woman who crafts her own definition of power. Her exile on Aiaia transforms from punishment into liberation, though Miller never romanticizes her solitude. Instead, she shows us both the freedom and the cost of standing apart.

I particularly appreciated how Miller handled Circe’s relationships with mortals. Her growing fascination with humanity isn’t just about romance (though those elements are beautifully done) – it’s about understanding what it means to live a life that has meaning because it has limits. The way she grapples with her immortality versus human mortality raised questions that kept me thinking long after I’d finished the last page.

This book is a triumph not just as a retelling, but as an exploration of power, womanhood, and the price of becoming yourself. Miller has done something remarkable – she’s taken a character often relegated to a footnote in Odysseus’s journey and revealed the rich, complex story that was there all along.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Whether you’re a mythology buff or someone who’s never picked up The Odyssey, Circe offers something profound. Just be warned – you might find yourself looking up flights to Greece and buying herbs in bulk after finishing it.