In the great oral tradition of the Greeks, I first encountered C.P. Cavafy’s “Ithaka” as it was read aloud by an eccentric art historian; a late-stage rhapsode, a Homeric inheritance for these modern times. It was a moonlit night in Athens and the stars shone overhead as the Acropolis shimmered in the distance.
I remember the evening in brushstrokes, like a Renaissance painting: indulgent wine, stumbling into the next bar, and, of course, the poem (read it here). I was a sophomore in college and had spent spring break on a pilgrimage of sorts in Greece, hence the art historian—plus a professor and a priest, for good measure.
Long after the trip, “Ithaka” remained suspended in the hazy memories of that night in Athens. It became my favorite poem, not that I’m reading many of those (to my discredit). But for all the ancient allure of wild Poseidon and the suave descriptions of mother of pearl and coral, I didn’t notice that I was missing out on a key realization.
I had no idea what Ithaka even was. I never had to read Homer’s Odyssey in school, and I have yet to make the effort on my own. I figured Ithaka was some kind of Valhalla in Greek mythology, and I must have thought I was getting the full picture without the specifics. It was only thanks to Christopher Nolan’s rendition of “The Odyssey” that I figured this out. Beyond the initial embarrassment, it’s kind of funny.
It’s also kind of insightful. While I concede that a general familiarity with a poem’s central reference is, of course, helpful in shaping our understanding of it, it’s worth noting that Cavafy doesn’t offer a definition of Ithaka either; in fact, quite the opposite. Throughout the poem, Ithaka remains distant and amorphous, something that spurs us onward without the contours of promise: no mention of a paradisiacal Eden, no tales of the mythic Odyssean homecoming.
I don’t think the road to Ithaka is any more defined, despite Cavafy’s allusions to fine perfumes and Egyptian libraries. The paths we chart on that age-old quest, the same hero’s journey that led Odysseus through the Mediterranean millennia ago, are just that: ours. However winding, however slow.
We’re compelled to be stirred along the way by a rare excitement, to take our time, to appreciate these marvelous journeys and all they bring us: summer mornings, colorful markets. Some of these jaunts will be as brilliant as the clever slip from Polyphemus’s cave, others as seemingly pointless as those seven marooned years on Calypso’s island. All the while, we remain tethered to our ever-present companion, change.
As we navigate these experiences, Cavafy reminds us that it is alright, even advisable, to Keep Ithaka always on your mind, just like Odysseus. But Cavafy does not assure us that Ithaka will be some paradise. Indeed, he warns that it might quite be the opposite: poor, with nothing left to give us. The prospect of finding the culmination of our life’s quest in such a state is disturbing, if not downright terrifying.
Undeterred, Cavafy assures readers that, “Wise as you will have become, so full of experience / you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.”
In Cavafy’s telling, the solace is in the journey—which makes it tempting to conclude with a few theories as to what Ithaka might be. Perhaps it is the wind in our sails: the abstract values, passions, and rare excitements that spur us onward. Perhaps it is the hope that more magical nights (wine-induced or otherwise) and pleasant mornings in new harbors await. Perhaps it is none, or all of these things.